city of tin

you hear a whisper in the wind next to you. the taxi driver. snorting honey and milk. he speaks of a child. with broken spine and failing heart. this land is ours. this rain on my tongue. and wind on my walls. the lady is ill. this hopeless disability has lesion-ed her womb. the fertility of manhattan lights. the fecundity of water boats. asleep. so parochial in the tide of disability.

this is home. the city of tin. the wires of grass and pregnant aluminum. entangled and enmeshed. like a racist mannequin. sprayed charcoal smoke along the curve of a flailing vagina-scape. the breasts. like silken creme. sand grains of brittle pearl. polka dots on mannequin skin. the interface of historic indigence and emerald stains. this is home. like a montage. of hearts and drugs. of squealing suicide from the racks at the guggenheim. the flashlights make me dizzy. so dizzy. i sit. and smell the paint. lick the wax from the suicide notes. tattooed onto her horizontale. her vagina. unshaven. and her model of ridicule. charlie on the mirror. there is a femininity. francesca. taped and bitten on her thighs. little shards of glass. and saliva mirrors. a woman. a mirror. a woman is mirror for a man. i ran so close to a portrait of angels #1. a self-portraiture. head in a pool of blood. so fake. so real. i want to scream. and bite my thighs. and scratch my eyes. hold my eyes. and rub them till they bleed. you girl of 1978. the polka dots on your nipples. are on display to a million art lovers. with the like of picasso and cezanne. could you ever imagine? your hair braided. ribboned in telephone wires electrocuting your burning scalp? and a spoon. in the city of tin.

also. at the coffee shop. the man beside. gorgeous, so volatile. crying. and i say. the passing of spring -the birds weep and in the eyes of fish there are tears. a haiku from the east. tears on fish eyes? what of the river? the permanence. the impermanence of ink and alchemy of the plutocrat. he holds my hand. and roils a cup of cold stale coffee. asleep in a paper cup for seventy seven hours. this is all i had. a cup of drugs. and rotten piss. i haven't gone home in three days. what do i tell my pregnant wife? my miscarried son? my pregnant daughter? what do i tell the world of rage?

you city of tin. never sleep. the birds are weeping and in the eyes of fish there are tears.

varsity dialogues

it's like the old lady with the lamp. feeding margarine to the sun. brushing hair on moonless nights. she had a desire once. to melt her gold. to end her love. to play with bodies. of apothecaries and the rain man. the pantaloon of hurricanes she bought from the mountains. are buried in a mold of virgin platinum. that was the end of her moon cycles. her blood had dried. swapping bodies and candles. of arthritis. and politics of the vulva. her vulva is the food for volcanoes. and the fish of genetic produce. the organic revolution plays flautist malleability with her sexual identity. like sodium drops ripping through the church of ice. it is cold and warm. molten and crusted. she is he. the new he is she. swapping nails. dribbling saliva like a mannequin dog. the new cult of mannequins. in a circle of civilized anxiety. this new cult is a start. the swap and skin. she molted life. she molted dreams. and her violent menopause. her flashes of crystal urine and carnal palpitations. ring serenades to the tempest. she is he. the shadows are green. welcome to the pasture of halogen lamps.

at the end of winds. the sunday of next. i will wear a gown. tradition of academics. the somber garments. the ornaments of metaphors. this cult of chains. there is a slowed gait. look at me. as i shake my head. and pose for the film. look at me. oh what a display of citizenry. hand in hand. families and little hair pins. strewn across the ball rooms. there is an end. and this is the end. to varsity monologues. this is the end to varsity. step two. the reality of choruses. on manhattan streets. and the display of dizzy fruit sellers. selling poison and drugs to the new born in the river. the river that floats. who floats on earth? and sways in the river? the chords from fifty seven tides.

the play of bodies in manhattan streets. is a spectacle of fulfilled lust. lust for a viola lip. and toe limbs and harlequin melodies. the romance of fools and book shelves. the tyranny of the philosopher's sheltered testicles. he left the birth of the virgin in the shack across the rainbow tongues. fooling himself; this is the kingdom of rhinestones.

the night lamp

i will call you bernadine and the night lamp. the german apostrophe from brooklyn heights. your punctuation marks. and alphabetic consonants. and loving doves. have frisked a charm of fevered alchemy. you stripped my clothes by the shallow banks. every motion of your finger tips made my nipples tremble. oh what resistance there was. playing hide and seek on the shallow lakes where we bathed in moon clouds and rain. that smell. of soil and seeds. and carousels. still makes me dizzy.

and spin like the moon. the lustrous beast of harmony and quartets. my manhood, like a garland of dreaming sapphires. bending over the arch of delicate flash lights. they signal a sense of capitalist promiscuity. this is my power. the sanctity of my sexuality gives me strength to learn about the vagaries of your austere politics. you flaming misogynist. you raging bigot. your fierce tendrils of thorn and crystallized sweat. makes me so angry. makes me sad. you know. sometimes, when you want to tell yourself there are rose gardens in chelsea. and the storm came. and one by one, you tied bracelets to the macabre wind chimes. and you howled on a saturday dusk. your stomach carved with a million ribbons. candied with hope and organic desires. this valentine's night. you cut your soul, and with the red. you hemmed memories on pine cones. and those cones, now. are on the museum behind the lake. where mankind goes in shame. walks away. walks across portraits of a Dali. and a surrealism and shrouded the politics of your liberty. your hands are tied. and you bleed. convulse in a violent epilepsy. this violence is the trilogy of your interrupted birth.

on the carousel. we talked. evolution. and the fittest. you. on the throes of nature and demons. have survived a test among the millions

one night

a light breeze in the air. illuminated palm. trees and trills. there is a crisp in my hotel room. a twenty-seventh floor suite in a city hotel. the lobby smells of excitement. a sky lounge to my left overlooking the ripples at the horizon. and an enticing view. curls and furls the rhythmic caricature of my heart beats. there is a sway. a gentle lilt of leaves and sweat. the auburn paisleys on the carpets. accented with gilt shame and crimson modesty. bear a kaleidoscopic morph of patchwork art.

first night. san diego.

in opposition

how long and hard does one need to try. to reverse fate?

this life. in opposition. think of diagonals. and the quadrangle of symmetry. coned into a brick of sand. malleable and inert. like a wisp of talcum. how long does the orgasm of sweat. bead on a monograph of mustard rain? how long does this longing for love preside. and decide. this envelope of purple corn. there is a monogamy of smiles. so familiar on your skin. each in a discourse of cold winter cobblestones. by the craters, and sand dunes in the desert of chokes. you cringe at the misery of this cold compassion. this life in opposition is at the pinnacle of design.

who designed your garland. and the vocalist of your chimes? who gave you the wisdom. to enter. to penetrate. to perverse. your bastardy. your cold cruel intentionality. your physiognomy of intellect. and demeanor of midnight. black and pale. this white of wombs. this cushion of strange, caramel sexuality. take pepper and pride. burning. flags of your virgin snarl. your plastic indolence. your translucent opacity. your opacity of monologues and dialogues. inscribed in the interior of your wet, somber vagina. jiggling epiphanies from the agnostic philosopher seeded on the interior of your sobriety. you drunken bastard -you cheat me. on this balance of rust flakes and pegs. of nails and the violence of a crown. power. and shame. and the dignity of the pauper. you have stolen, in your grip. the chasm of night lust. your duty as a cyclist of dancing statuettes. rest in love. and desire. this bizarre allegory of words. lay down and dream.

in a rustle.

mind play

it keeps going back. my mind-play. city of boston.

you bring me joy. the waters. the rhymes. your cushion of tongues. glorious. even in the rain, that washed my saliva away. i felt your skin. the beauty of your breath. the warm embrace in our nudist role-playing. so sexual, you say. oh so sexual, you make me squirm. but your nipples. the shape of your navel. and the touch of your skin. so amorous, it makes me swoon. and tie my finger nails to your skin... when i leave. i feel a pain. difficult at first. harder with times. it never fades away. for the men and women, of the deeds of noble endeavor. the sweat and blood on your scalpel edge address a weakness. a disease, of sorts. man wanted to go. to wrap up in a blanket of gold and shimmer in a pastry box across from the hotel window. puppetry and doll-like. facades and brick tables. leave me alone. take me with you. you know who you are. i have loved you.

day to day

lick. smack. kiss. feel.

this world. this globe of children and feather patios. of silk pantaloons and patchwork peppermint. i want to embrace your breast.

i have missed you. and now that i'm back. i realize how deep this love is. white marble lion manes. day to day. this craving is bone-deep.