link stain 12

 

elusive and evasive, i want to crawl underneath the blanket of my pleaching unconsciousness. my harem boats and river tales are adrift. aloft on clouds of a powdery petal work. staining patterns of honey rings on blood velvet. exchange promises to the sub-terrain of promise and guilt and lust and resolve. a folding pitch of closure, enclosed within a year of days and seconds. parroted and cretinized. revised and rehearsed. broken into pieces of water crystals. when you say, in the year anew, there is a new resolve. you fool yourself. you imagine a transcendence of your identity without a transcendence. an illusion of time and a watercress dam. ringing bells and fractures of plangent celluloids. those ignitions of sprint, those sparkles of whim, those glints of the stochastic mutability of your evolving identity will remain the same. an excuse to revel, indeed. who need not exhilarate at the stroke of a dozen quarters, weeping behind the passage of mechanical flumes? in a transitional rhetoric, there is faith and confidence. there is dividend to the effort conscience preciousness of self-worth. the humanizing is a dainty awning of the mind parody. a synaptic chemistry of the dopamines, the catecholamines, the arduous pleats of time and effort and favoritism of the in-house. what is in this house of self-evolution is a remonstrance from the microcosm of the convention web-lock. the moment of a dozen is not your hour. your proceedings bleach every second of every minute of every milli-hour. for the pessimism of my self, it is not a gray muffle-band of an indigent whisperer. it is a retort to the entrepreneur. of catechism, lust and truth.

the monopoly of sentiments at the turn of a night. renew. rebuild. you say of the crass perspective of your immaturity. an inchoate framework. you look back at an empty trail. you want to build the brick continuum. a spectral fantasy of rainbows and the real. the tangible and the bizarre. you figurine of bronze -my honey ring. the interface of change is a linger. 

poppy monroe #0

poppy bean. it's christmas time. the red and ash. and green and mist. and truffle bake and merry mix are laced and curled in whirls of swirls. the fairy tales of snow and gin. on table tops and mistletoes. you kiss the ice. uncurl your smell. a delicate aroma wafts through the rooms of bleeding alabaster. you loosen your grip of the conscious hegemony of mind chronicles. engaged in piercings, chelates and stars of brandings. your modified body: a missing breast, a missing flood of bouncing testicles. i want you to come over and sit by me. and tell me your motivations for eating hair, combing your brows, and painting elevators. tell me why you add red pepper flakes to your cappuccino cups. why you photograph yourself, pissing on art and old vinyl records. and wear a pendant of blades and a strip of brown varnished leather. why you sit by the stairwell and count your tear drops. your normalcy and muse on existentialism horrify my bones. they make me cringe and cry and scratch my nipples with long sticks of wax crayons. i want to talk to you about the gossip aunt on the alleyway, who died last week of pneumonia. and her paintings of Eros, she dedicated to the birds.

you should consider the anarchist, poppy bean. the rebel new yorker. who fought to strive and play, with delicacy a home-building phenomenon. to migrate and stall. move a few feet, and pause. and then you learn to whisper first. and then to alphabetize and then to fetishize and then to revolt. to vociferate and explicate to the highest authority your value and worth. your bastard roots mean nothing in this whirlwind of the cut throat. no one cares your handicap or the slanders of your oddities. no one believes in the circuitry of your pleas and intentions if you cannot weigh your worth, in value and assets and paper seals. if you say, ballacave, i am a happy soul... they will question your happiness. what have you done to display this happiness? why will i believe, you are at peace. why will i believe you are happy. at which juncture of this living spiral do you intersect a satiety with happiness? is it the seed of vitality, your continuum of genomic integrity that brings you partial joy? or a make-believe philanthropy; this is what i should? on your emotionality compass, you tell yourself, baby pea, others are happy...come on be happy yourself...come on. and yet, what makes you think the others are happy, i do not know. what makes you contend is an allegory you will answer yourself. but the answer each time, will be a different one. you know why? here's the simple premise. time is a variable. not a constant. if life depends on time, can you deduce that life is variable? and if life is variable, can you go back and find the same answer each time? happiness differs, baby pea. for the second, tell yourself, the firmness of my anatomy is real. the mind is a dot, a flicker.

the kiss avenue

 

derrida.

remember the sleazy sassy kiss by the window mall last saturday afternoon? felt perky. and cheery. and fluttery. and feeble. and windowed. and so so sexual. that moisture on your elegance, your double lips and drummer goods. the touch of saliva flare. my tongue. your tongue. speaking gibberish in sonnets. in song and rhythm. a violent outburst of your falsetto strings. your squirm. your almond pear eyes. and your dizzying melody of jungle tunes. the wild preachers of the parish caves. and your hands. so firm and confident. butter soft. the odor of honey margarine oozing from your sweat spectacle. a crystallinity to your brow play and choral jingle. the bells of your pivoting dailies. they strike in chord. accord. like blueberry blossoms and cherry flowers. a photographic smile that drives me wild. folding refolding stroking in hormones. layer on layer. biting the hair frame of a tender anatomy. the water songs and moon enclaves. grouching and slouching in the girth of saccharin blue pupils. dilate and contract in the clutch of a serpentine slenderness. you blow off the candles on the bronze candle stands. and lick the scales off the molten wax puppets, creaming in layers of affinity and incongruity. and back to the kiss. in my face and through my eyes. my paraffin front melts in the abyss of a wild romantic pallor. so wild and ferocious. your aggression, you solder on the hinge of your bones. unseen by day, exposed by dusk. i love this plenitude of varnish on the stave-art atheist relic of your ossified identity. beyond mold, derrida. beyond mold. what did i say by the river? beware of water. in the fluid and atoms of thirst frenzy orgasm. what quenches. and pleases. and teases. and wets. can kill the bob of your transient living. what frills. and evokes and darts and swings. this water bed of water cress and lotus leaves. crenulate and pacific. i dwell on your tongue. before it rains and sieves a cacophony of pleasure-pain continuum. rapidly mystifying. and rising and humming. and pacing in cycles of androgen steroids. an acquiescence of the bawdy flavor of adrenaline topography. derrida. we kissed. and screamed. and cremated the tempest of swirl novels and pepper. and rented a pledge of foe pivots in flesh. and pander to the servitude of unlearned instincts. this need. this desire. this deed. derrida, you made me burst.

cloud #27

let's talk about the time it hurt. playing mandolins in a wine bar. i am the esoteric. but i want you. i don't even know who you are. come to me. please. please. i'm begging of you. come to me and hold my finger tops and sing a rhyme of confidence. into this empty soul of dispense. this shoebox matchbox cradle of failure. only loving son of cherish desire. of the trinkets of your tears. frozen on the canvas of the water sketch life you and i were supposed to live.

we have hallucinated the beauty of your soul. taken into the awkwardness of lust. i am a whore catcher whore picker, writing stories of sex on my skin. one by one. to belong. to believe. to lust. to escape the oppression of a tendril frailty. to ascertain the beauty of the physical mold. that's all you ask. and that's all you give. a whore in disguise, this pearl of mine. and from this discrepancy of the personalities of man. you look at me from a far. and kick me aside. and talk about the urgency of your deliberation and penetrative wonder kind. for here and now, then evaporate to the back door alleyway. in pretense of the unknown knowledge. of this multiple utility of sexual decor. it's all about the physicality of fracture. the physicality of the appeal and appearance. hey there handsome...you looking? blank. maybe? what for? to fuck. want to come? the ascent. alright. walk away. the display was enough. this momentary praise of the woolcotts. the cotton of your lubrication. so light. so feverishly light and warm and moist. strip your shame. your embarrassment. and say, i am the wall street-er. i am the accountant of the fund frolic finance tycoon. but who cares? your subversive banality. your dispensable trove of lies and annoyances, we have learned to accept.

warhol. your floating clouds. and silver spoon. and soup, babe. what were you thinking? could your imagination come floating lies. hold my hand. and whisper to the soap bubbles by the mandolins?

.

miss jane and the dover petals. tell me why, you lather your groin with hysteria and magnesium. scrub and scrub. till your flesh bleeds a spasm of bees. a swarm of the festive crawls beneath the fundamental xylophone menage. you despise god. you were right. tell me more. from where do you milk the ketchup? this is a prologue to the third layer anatomy of principles and music. lace-lover and the sexism, hand in hand. give me three and a half gallons of blood.

black fingers butter

mary jo. at a table top. peer over the black of your coupling coffee cups. floral and ripe. the aroma of incest. nauseating on the crevice fringe. the ripple of your reflection. on the pitch of vacuum. makes my mind magenta. 

foto: cris l-a

gossip

tall and high. the hair and smell and sweat of the virgin. alias pregnant man-woman. the tire and joy of this spectrum of drums. beating bass. live liana creme menage. this gossip of breasts.

muel

salt

let's go barbarine. dive into a cool, violent pool. and cry into the ocean. as if it mattered. water boats. spirit dust. this is a carousel of twilights.

symbolism of the pink-head

the magnolia freemasons. baking heads. faking identities. of the transvestite super-human. the travesty of the magnificent. drunk and horny. you twiddle your blood thumb. smoking gin. disintegrating into the music of the behemoth. hands and palms. open to grasp the lace of the genital hide-and-seek. the gay husband cries to the whores of crystalline sandcastles. the buzz of the violin nipples whirring and caressing silk doves of the narrow catechism mythology. your shaven hair fringe buzzing and swirling in the applications of the promiscuous. like prometheus? oh god of greeks and the psychedelic surrealists. pause and scream and howl. in the orgasm of the inebriate methadone pearl-jiggle. this cipher of the spread. the thighs of fig. the symbolism of the pink-head. you hold the head of those paper lions. a thermodynamic. a melancholy role-play of the sexual. the flower duet of the lakme. you opera film. you nurse the wax paper canvas of the falling dali-scape. the picasso surreal. the vanishing vapor of the real and unreal and co-real. the corporal and the carnal of the matrimony, you desire. man on sleep. woman on drugs. the para-film cross-boundary chasm. sing and hold and slip and slide. undress like the passion fairy principle. un-role and disappear on the identity trove of your fakeness, baldness and nuisance of careening emotionality. rip out the slave-dove cover hue. pitch and hit and slam and drill into your brain-cover emotion. what the hell did you do again?  

cherry top sassy

the surreal of the cherry top. hand on waist. bedazzled eyes. we slept on stone. throwing willow whips and catholic rouge. the snarl of the sinus lip. my tongue lash and the psychedelic. slam and break in violent sex. and against the door. erotic lay. we push and push and push and smile. all normal tomorrow.

nine

 

one. two. three. four scream. five squat. six fuck. seven ouch. eight wait. nine win. 

fotografo muel.

thanksgiving

at the grey lady. we sing fractal hymns. formulas and voice. snap the tips of the cold fondling finger tops. a delicate smell of the festive forks. a clink of glass. and melting wood. a beating mob. of cheer and quip. let it foam and flush. and swell and squeeze. the voice of thanks. the prize of grace. the still of leaves of thunder brains. white with paint. mold with fear of mourning sands. rockaways, the penumbra colts. the jagged frills of the cold, elegant decorative. tonight we ring. the bells and tolls of highway frocks. of gods and sheep. of strings and pus. disguise your love. hide your lights. the neon eyes. and carpet stamps. mulberry plum. let me hold. your hands in shame and love.

caress the moon. tonight, like he. and him and his. sweet saturday love. spread your eyes. in a momentous pinnacle of the whirring aphrodisiacs. the lesbian herd. instrumental to the realization of a mosaic identity. a pattern work of half truths. a floating base of multiple me. of multiple i. you will never know. the cigarette smoke. why does it twirl. where does it mix. and match and vibe. vaporize in space. hovering in leaps. and snaking in toes. the lips outstretched. incipience of a category class of the vapored and the vapid and the intrepid love-lace lullaby. section-less identity. why do you hyperbolize the strength of your character? to impress. who? the world of corn. the world of ears. the world of this classist look-ist tentacle auditorium of judgmental beauties. the beasts, they suffer. they repent. evading the interconversion. let us be mannered. let us be the conservative ideal of the morality wisdom etiquette. let us display the ethicality of the text book prints. for our conscience -the laughable body-mongers. the pristine humanity of interaction. yet, the beastiality you hide. bores fangs on the simplicity of your lattice-lust. to come back and say, this is my identity alone. is a faux interlude of your inner eccentricities, complexities and desires. you are not the one and only by-product of a sinewy character building. i certainly am not. never will be. the subtracted product of condition and situation. to present a trope. you say, you lie. lie, yes. you may not know the truth of my core. this is my collage-identity. this is what we call the tailor-made. the tailor, the self. making makes and goods. the hypotenuse parallel of identity songs. to one, you are the pauper dust. the proverbial failed. the spice of doom. every lie. every death. identity kill. stabbed with the spade of matador kings. the truck fantasies of a dying mechanic political hegemony. one word string song. you meaningless mindless spurt fountain devil! you flirt with lies. and the ninety seven cloud stains of gibberish.

mulberry plum. i give thanks to the pontificate of the heart-wringing emotionality of the cold, dying spectrum. take a breath. hold your smile. unfurl your soul and fly. 

kodaline and the songbirds

kodaline. let us sing. a song of joy. a song of grace. passion fruit and violent gin. and press your lips. your finger tips. and cherry tops. broken frocks of plastic slime. your spots and dots. string in song. and fashion whores. barbarians of the winter love. they fuck and scream. and howl in song. and milk their eyes. and wax their shells. of fashion moons. and lunar tunes. fall and spring. the apple rings and naked ferns. aroused in chills. wake from dreams. sweet kodaline. let us sing. a song of joy and love.

you hide behind the lace of strings. your curtains curl. your blinds a-fold. your bushel rice. and drops of gore. it's time tonight. this month of love. the cancer fix. the story sings. one by one. the glow of skin. wrapped in wine. and off the shrine. your naked art. astonished and forlorn. you bite your skin. and bleed in joy. the hungry tides of november bliss. the sweat of smoke. gallop past your cheerful face. you man of filth. you finger pube. disdainful jazz. your famished art and hopeless kiss. they mean nothing. they speak nothing. a paper wrap, on your lips. you catch your breath. you hold your tongue. and pull the life off this caricature wall. if you were true. to displace my grace. to spit my face and say...anomalous brown. get off my frown. i cry in pain. i would slide my self in acid cans. in sunday fumes. and chicory lint. and shard my soul. orange organics. precipitate on a refusal of our audacity. of our poverty of minds. because, you do not tire. because you cannot decide. because you cannot please the sonnets of your own. frigid soul. because you play this game of blame. with pride and lust. and this staged hankering of attend. always, to your needs. to your whims. to this dielectric chiffon-mask of our triangulated incongruity.

kodaline. sweet love of mine. let us draw the line. 

the gertrude songs

dear gertrude and olive-stein. we met that night. at carnegie rains. in the midst of a cold manhattan evening. your lashes pale. you reverie of chariots. a wheel mockery of music. a trollop of sorts. your letter of dimes. you whispered to the moon. honeydew saccharin. take your tears. roll the edge. and bead a tale. of pepper-dust and sand. of the frivolity of play. the theater elite. the flautist behind. caressing your womb. the sweet vagina smell. you dizzy in the midst of the november rhymes. the poetic musk. the winds of death. you smile as you walk. and protrude your breasts. sequined and hemmed. you wink at me. and exit.

in my mind. i sang to you. the lullaby tales of the greek civil. the dome of trills. the whisk. and lust. and a poly-maze of the hebrews. on walls and walls of berliner tales. the mustard days of reign and reich. the gold of blood. tragedy of the beast. the identity wheel. a race of sorts. climb the shrine. of a fake divine. of a decorative. of a fake nurture of promise. the semblance of a blind sonnet. an empty verse that rhymes to cry. that swells and lisps. a saturday joy. a virgin whore. a spectacle of the polyandry foreplay. the gamut of the insensitive. i rage. and cringe. the gertrude songs. on parapet skins. who milked your soul? and fanned your lust? feral and coarse. with this balm of self-delusion. you sing to say. let us forget? the history of days? this self-deceit. this lie to please. to please the who? you sate your lies. and bite your lips. pretend the category of sensibility. but i have known your truths.

check

i follow humans of new york. this photograph is dear to me.

story.

"Are you volunteering today?"
"Something like that. I'm the Chief of Personnel for the New York Fire Department. I'm making sure everyone is where they need to be, and has what they need."
"Oh wow. Do you mind if I take your photo?"
"Sure. Can my son be in the picture?"

r

in your turtle shells. and monet purse. etiquette brows are flooded with the finger-play of sunshine. the fall that fell. smoking cigarettes and sweat. and a nation proud. of our queer and lost. of our nipples and rust. of the moon flake curtains. of the wind of the blacks. and catechism blues. the jazz of coal. the white of slate. the new republic crawls. the gods asleep. the demons dead. our times of cheer. at the empire state. we celebrated love. the love of blues. and carousel cheers. dancing hums of the fragile birds. flightless yet. senseless yet. loveless yet. they were barred from loving men. they were scarred for nipples love. for the breast caress. the narrowed, oppressed and the vagina squeal. it is one. the salt and flake. the memory lanes of governance. fold the rug. in half. quarter. eigth. and more. going lilt. put away the sound of steel. the revolver bruise. the right to die. the right to froth. the right to choose between. god and soul. soul and love. love and abomination of a power-hungry aphrodisiac. this taint of man and melody of peace. unite in an epithet of the accepted. the acceptance. of preach and teach. the children of tomorrow. their mothers milk and fathers pen. the right to destroy. despite your god. despite your soul. despite the passion of the one-only. the in and out of blood and life, is mine and mine alone. 

i do.

let us say. in cold mountain blues. you wed your child. your spouse of sorts. your effigy of love. of lust. of soul trilling whirls. and the swirl of pink. and blue wind dolls. hollow in red. this pedophile, you scream. this child is love. your coeval muse. you call it child. your babe you say? the fur of maze. waffling songs. over and over. a chandelier yolk. this is sport and love. i do. we do. we did. it all.

but. in the the theater space of life and death. the ocean garb and navy blue. your fastened mask. your netted socks. so disposable. the sterility. this barrier wall of now and there. this is clean. do not touch. we sprayed and fumed. this room of blood. this cave of steel. we painted walls. and built a smile. panic not. you mother-child. hold your breath. think of god. sing a hymn. or paint a boat. in your mind of minds. sleep your pain. this theater of dimes begin.

the actors stand. outside the door of this mannequin pool. a stream of pines. oh water drop blues. come cleanse my hand. wash away the touch of lust. the touch of sex from saturday rhymes. and scrub your palm away. and scrub and scrub. this co-evolution of garb. the nomenclature. scrubs. before you scrubbed your myth and jazz. you took it off. the band of love. displaced the sweat. displaced the tension. of the sacrament of love. the visualization of the matrimony paradox. you took it off. and placed in the midst of pockets. clinging to your chest. your nipple roars. you touched in silence. i do. you say. and take a pause. i take this ring. off my soul. to save a death. this is norm. this is convention. this is the forcefulness of the blue-code professional. did you guilt? did you cry? did you swing amidst the century brides and say. you let me go. come back to me. off and on. and off and on. a cycle of spells. i do. i don't. i do. i don't. a pattern fork pitch. the band of sounds. that played that night. are mute.

take the band. and hold your voice. what marriage means? what social sweat has led to bleed. to believe. to pry an institution of sights and sounds. and lights and cheer. save this day. we declare the faith. built on what foundation? when did you learn to trust. or earn belief. when did you carve a destiny. for you and me. or speak the officialdom of the expected grace. when did you decide, this was time. to bend your knees. to propose to man or lady-love knits? holding together. this cohesive soul of band on band. when and why. a building brew. peril of love. saccharin man. your face of bass. the hippie flair of your inner poet. smells composition on a careening sonnet. survive. survive. surreal blooms. a network void of fading emotionality. you shy and fear. the dangerous revolt. of rejection and smiles. of the dubiosness of a power fling. the urgency of a wandering love. i do not have. we didn't have. we never knew. we never told. we set aside the crease of cold. we never spoke of the tenderness. ashamed. unprepared. you didn't know, when to say. this is time. this is love. what if i didn't feel. i don't. i do. i don't.i do. i don't.

comb

bella rouge. promise me. your purple bells. and melon scarf. yellow and gold. in a chromosphere. in a shadow stilt. in a ribbon swing. and a paradise maze. i slap my lips. and comb my hair. parallel logs. of identity whores. we steal. each other pulse. stencil tongue. of maps and globes. you trotter of dimes. your wind chant dance. bella rouge. give me your hand. for yours is the tongue i love.

who you are. and what you dream. and seek. and walk. and talk and crawl. no one knows. no one will. this cloak of sweat. of tears and salt. bespeak the melody of a thousand years. knock below. who talks? who hears? your unsung wish. your dream catcher moves. your ambition. dissolves, at times. creates, at times. when you lost god. and faith. and the religiosity of your childhood tentacles. forced on your imagery of logic. you cannot think. you cannot move. your reasons lie. bundled in breaks. you have failed. will fail again. will break again. will cry again. this cycle of songs. like your lunar blues. learn to nod. redeem the arm. and let's hug again. square zero, this time. building one. and two. and a million bricks. bella rouge. your fallen domes. will wake and smile. it won't be late. i swear.

heart rhyme trilogy

lily vine. smile at me.

and this is how we spoke. pageant school. in the theater again. the ocean garb and fragile frills. a white over-awning on your nipple tops. stand behind the line. and put to sleep. inject. infuse. away from the topography of poison venules. in the space behind the pinch. inject the rose. and put to sleep. wait. your clicking tips. your ticking clicks. a minute and seven quarters around. you tap and pinch. what was your name, hazy plume? the silence of sleep. and mechanic buzz. this the time for the artifice.
you lift the lid. the life of life. and snip the tip. to perfuse. to make a beat. one too many. and once they broke, the rhyme of chimes. i made it stop. the beating dove. the tomb of love. there was the end. the ocean garb, patterned with blood. for humanity, we said. the frozen dead. will save a song. will save a life. lily vine. which plumes are mine? which feathers i dipped in honeydew milk? coated in rust, and carved in breeze. the heart rhyme trilogy of the dead and peace. for this is the love i broke.

you said in paint. let us love your gait. let us thread the shoes. command to life the element of whip. in love we sang. and bent our eyes. it was gone. you are not. the one i thought. the one i would. the one i did. you lily vine. come realize this time, that mine is the allegory of break. that mine is a cage. of empty escape. an unheld place. an upheld fix. with the drift each day, let us love again. like the weekend of songs, a month ago. erotic in lights. the scent of flesh and the feel of skin. long and lost. we have loved for seconds above. in sleep and day, in the monstrosity. i upheld your hand. lily vine. i write this trilogy. the heart rhyme trilogy. on the sand castle matinee.

petallion

sweet mustard rain. i smell your heel. you trill and frill. on saturday frocks. and the coquette dance of petals.

the dresser of heads. your finger prick. and garlic breath. picket and deal. the song to heal. the lioness of maladies.

reaper dove. unfurl your curl. and swing your arms. riot or dance. riot and dance. to the cause of cross.

cross of wombs. cross of shells. cross of the lust of taper vapor. twiddling thumbs on matisse. epoch and knock. hey beer beard. your belly swell. you died of death.

lover on the troll. park your car. and glaze the globe. with methadone drug. drug of poison. you said, right? the honey of apartheid befell.

periwinkle crown. fashion your breast. with the local gin. with poetry of sand. and verses of ice. fragile in crumbs. molten in wax. your temporariness remains.

chaser queen. do you not wear? or cry of disappointment. of an esoteric dream. humanity and man-ity. what man came? and whipped your ass. whipped your flesh. realize. there are wild takers.

party man. you read the times. check the clock. tick tick pock. and stop when you bloom. release the wings. of butterfly stains. nimble soft.

learn to cry. release the pain. in front of man. in front of front. behind they lay. on your bed and on your palm. drop of drops. flood the floor. stain the world. your loss is pain. express your hurt. your fear of lone. alone and drink. power of the brittle stars. finger lust. on dandelions. on battle grounds of dream machines. churn the sole of scarlet boombox playing wind songs from the ocean. ocean blues and bluegrass lemon. sour and caustic. the life we dive. vortex pricks. climb the wall of rings.

colorbook II

 

i am. the disoriented wire boat. the crumple of a mannequin boot. with a styro-foam heart. a paper tongue. a gelatin limb. floppy and prosaic. a neon carousel that spins and spins. like charcoal waves on wax. and pastel smoke from skin. i can see the tone. the hue of yellow sweat. let us begin with the description of the bizarre necrophiles. for when they war-ed and swore to guns. this is for you, waterland. this is for you, belly pearl of gin. this is for you, mademoiselle lust. you took the cloth. anchored your soul. and charged at a pedestal of recycling marble. re-cycle. cycle, re? again? how many times is enough? how many times does re-peat, jingle a chance? not one, not two, not a million dew stave notes. harmonizing in the orchestrated boiler tops. think of the harmony. a vegan avenue of the chaste notability. and vocal fallibility stringing in the name of pleasure giving puppetry. the time you pause and resonate the chip of the vaudeville rush. the adrenaline whore. the lay, dismembered barber who snips a dime. and labyrinthine, in the canvas of the painter, burns a kiss. a town house kiss. the outline of velvet machination. the dynamics of musculature. if god or time, created man. what need we say, the lips needed symmetry. a shape of thin and thick and pink and blush. a creative v on the soldered face. if god created man. in its form and shape. what created god in shape of the sapiens? a star of loom, let us spake? dear god, you must be human. you must look like the epitome of normalcy and have the breast? why the manhood ascribed? why the subordination of the thermal vagina? what chosen one, led manhood supremacy from the start. a strange occurrence or coincidence of this religious tale, or plethora of tales. why did the she. not rise to the temple of the lesbian canopy of the matriarch? and tell you. spray on your nails with a sparkle of gimmick. this means nothing of the power differential. the directionality has been set by a vacuum of maybes. the philosophy of the homosexual has thus risen to the space filler choreography of the hipster travesty. one and alone. born naked in permanence. we have chosen to civilize. nudism then, the law of life, becomes pulverized by law. berated by the classist hegemony. the aristocrat, and the patron of the design figurative. you must not, you shall not. all is thus the negative.

i want to say, self-express. when you talk and walk. this is expression you never knew. the slouch, the gait, the fidget, the smirk. they express the self. the architect of self-endeavor. ease-less and light. you slide behind the recreation of structure and matter. what matters, what does not. the fontaine of the free spirit, genetically craft. your nipple pierce. your scaffold breast. your painted sac. again, you re-create with paint, and the acceptability of bookmark expression. you plaster doll. so beautifully molded in the cast of haggard artificiality. one by one. the book of norms. the book of the archetype. the sonnet of the acceptables. perfunctory leisure. a wasted call of the naturalness that was to exist in the metamorphosis of the embryoids. differentiated and compartmentalized passivity, you are white, you are black. you are the african colored humanoid, ceaselessly surviving a rarefied expressionism. i will tell you, as the adult in the circuit, this is how you must express. and behave midst the other incongruous. we are in an institution you say. for you to survive and sustain, take on yourself a multiplicity of identities. the deep hormonal desirability, you burrow beneath the ground, in the name and case of expectant professionalism. in the name of self-expression, there is the sacrifice of the self. an irrational anachronism of events of adulthood and irreversibility. every minute of self-expression. lost to a pit of the denial vagaries. time and again, let me choose the particular that builds the ice castle anatomy.

in your wealth and shaven matrimony, there is no redemption of the who from the you. surreal chic and laundered man. give life to your soul.

crown country II

sit across. you hold a nail. you rock back. and forth. the purple air. swooshes. you are dis-abled. un-abled. cross tabled. cabled to a vestige of the village crown country. you are held. with sticks and bones. your manhood intact. essayed into a booklet of the disabled country. i want to know. crown country. how you feel. when you see a man skittle across the hallway. at a ballet ball. when you sit and foam. and the elegant twirls. in pink champagne. beseeching flesh. your eyelids droop. and dribble stones. juggle bubble. imagine, if you could juggle a parody of bullets. how sentimental. i cringe in a shadow forbearance. the uterus ring that gave you whims. that killed your nails. phony air. scooped and pressed on a mere particular. you disabled man. crown country vogue. let us pull your lips. and braid your toes. carve a babe from your biblical robe. for on the pedestal. of blood baptists. you lost patience. i want to ask. if you envy me. the totality of the human body. my generous limbs. and rubicund pinch. the motion of trills on instrument and lust. do you lust? maybe you do. do you blink? maybe you do. yet. what is this totality of the human body. what is the complete? who is to say. this is the epitome of creation. without flaw. or mistake. in evolution streaks. what is the meaning of the compounded differential. of the human man. of the human woe-man. who is to say. i am the un-disabled perfectness of the creation gods. or evolve? if every seam has its set of flaws. and flawless flaw is a continuum of jargon. this pageant then is a tattoo of who is less and who is more. who, in this continuum of denomination and trend, is less of the un-abled man. but. in your mind, i want to know. do you still feel an envy?

let's look at lust. and trickery of the flesh. vile resemblance of the animal tombs. leaping over the rational. it drives you mad. stiffens your blood. makes it flow to the cove of your puppet genitals. reason flings. the rational dips. you are now a strange animal. lust so strong. you cannot breathe. you want the touch. you want the breath. you want the saliva streaming down your mane. your neck line wet. your ravenous lust. like the vascularity of the play store demons. dilated lips. and dangerous tips. perched on bone. expressionless fruit. your pounding heart. racing at lust. those hormones swell. dart through the precipice of ruby red walls. you tremble at the flip of incoherent dreams. you want the violence then. who denies. the intensity of sex. an incongruous blandness, volatile at best. an unexpected preparedness. who teaches sex? this game of love? is it a game, you practice at best? get better with time? when on the time. curiosity piques. a vortex of imagery. and deviance. when does your thought. decide on time. this orifice of blood is for a carnal lust. a blood borne pleasure ball. rolling. and shrieking. and howling in pain. laced with a hint of love? when does your clock. bedded in your eyes. invisible yet real, to the chronicity of body-works. tell you the poem of the syncopic sex. it is time. you country man. you pepper dove. shed the gown of your abstinent saints. how biology did bend over is a misery of the vacuum. but you are free. with the release of the floods. orgasm of the dizzy cones. jarring and pounding. the beam balance caress from the monologue tales. yesterday, they cried in pleasure.

theater I

the tense of love. of the love borne scalpel. is unnerving. i get it. maybe. you sat by my side. and prayed. in the damp of the friday afternoon. i was in scrubs. munching a bone. and polished flesh. slow down. you said. or you will choke. i smiled at you. i need to return to surgery. my patient has no conscious. his chest spread. rolled up in drapes. tubing through his nose. hisses and puffs break the silence of the room. his lungs collapsed. machinery kings. the universal man. his chest exposed. i should go back. but you ask me to wait. you compliment my smile. and touch my hand. you wouldn't leave. will you be there tomorrow?

i don't know yet. my schedule. so volatile. you lower your head. and stare at my fork. speckled with brie. you pause again and say. my son will be there. his third time. i am scared. will you be there. and say a little prayer. for me? he fears his death. but smiles and laughs. at a dyslexic mother. a father that vanished. but i still wear my band. i never forgave. but i couldn't resist. a war hero. a warrior. he lost an arm. looking for home. he fled. and returned. and fled again. may be he is alive. i couldn't leave. i swore that day. i took an oath. i meant every word. in front of god. i held his hand and i made a promise. i cannot break. i cannot kiss another man. the taste, i cannot forget. nervous peppermint breath. so endearing. forty years ago.

you have a heart. pouring love. and honey and saccharine sentimentality. you carve another. every day. tremulous eyes and nervous lips. you wear your scrubs. a uniform. a calling. come, protect my dream. you don your cap. and seal your breath. a cloth mask strapped across your face. you cover your shoes. look at the mirror. you are ready. before you walk. in through the door. you freeze your world. up at the ceiling. you say a prayer. let them heal. i want to fight. till the last ounce of my capability. so that they live. this is more than a job. this evolution of life. you kill and live. and kill and live. a cyclic normalcy.

a theater district. of mannequin bones and analgesics. organ love. organic. the theater got its name. from the garbed actors. so sterile. you may not breathe. you may not touch. in dilemma of the arts. in this theater. the cast of flesh. in its monumental primacy. is before your own. you swivel not. in a cold january morning. when your diamond of nine. miscarried your paternity. you delivered then. this paradox. you live. and cry in the storm. or behind the doors. where no one sees. no one hears. taped in silence. the life of scrubs. in a dream theater. yours is a calling of life.

playbook

little playbook doll. you cursive curl. your honeydew salt. and fragrance of the night flesh. lingers on my tongue. a guzzling spray of melting saliva. dripping in a cave of the erotic checker. a finger tattoo of cruddy nail polish. and imitation rose. the lady at the bar. nestled in white. pregnant. and swollen. under the whir of a ceiling fan. rotating. in a magical symphony of electricity. and air. a stale green air from the coffee flames. a pube in pink. a probable italian. their fingers clasped. their lips caressed. her nipples raised. through the chiffon patisserie. the mustard on her hair. and sapphire eye balls. stare at the wall. it reads. patience. faith. les apiritifs et la mauresque. gitane in the jane. overlooking the waves of the twin city tinkle. the dangling lights nod in shame. at the hiss of a thousand silhouettes. of ballet leaves. semi-perched on cobbled walks. and artificial lash. dolled with tar and pastel pepper. black and gray and maniacal. frayed at the edges of a generous crochet. of golden pints and silver shoes. an etiquette of grains. we clink and toast. and smoothly tan. a silken crust of explicit overhaul. of berry charm and harmonica. a candle flick. a charming grope. and the swivel pops across the dark. dank. silhouette. of two collapsing bodies. in perfect harmony. wine and plastic. iron on a boat. in a trilogy of spiral dignity. man to man. man to woman. woman to woman. man-woman.

on your neck. he wore a lace bead. and dangling shoes. and a key. made of orange feather. you said. irene died in a pool. you ripped a plume. and glued to your flesh. the misery of death skidding on your chest. you couldn't bear. and so you went to the lake. and with your soul. you lit a flame. canopied shut. ladled with milk. you came in the wave. sperms afloat. it feels my cells. this proximity of fluid love. you could never feel on the pedestal of the intangible. little playbook doll. your color of rouge. the mascaraed breast. the pierced vagina. fold like paper. in a category of death you can never fill. a track of tunes. on your hair line. tattooed. you would say, music in my hair. my narcissism drapes. this is the symbol of injury.

you village girl. so sassy in sweat. the crimson gerbera atop your ear. so beautiful in the sunday breeze. by the piano-man and the swan lake. your gait, like soap. you bubble your love. and smile at the grass. where a saxophone sits. the brass. the rasp. the wooden deck. converge on the wrist of your violent corset. it is peach. and ribbed. and through the frame, i see your heart. dancing in the breeze. smiling at your eye. so light, like smoke. in a brilliant mosaic. a wild menagerie of beats and swirls. it twirls and twirls. and swings like pearls. and beats and breathes. and lives and sings. songs of life and songs of love. free from your breath. free from the strings of beating synchrony. free from the rivet of the jugular moons. the perpetual rhyme. the chime of the lisps. the lips of the garb. the cloak of physics. and dances in the wind. again and repeat. i love your mane. your childless womb. my strings are dead. the odor of liberty binds your tale. you libertine tongue. you rogue of peace. i am free. i am free. like cotton in space. in perfect vacuum. spotless. immobile. silent.

the married man. holds his hands. knotted bands. he married his self. in mind and soul. he is his. and his alone. winged man of the piers. little playbook doll. let me sketch your nails. and paint them white. for yours is the peace i seek.

quirk I

some day in the breeze. i will build a pillar with swans. pleats. with carousel horse. and silver strings. twirled in fours. a ball of sophistication will roll down this charming delight. of the west village syncope. the candle flame. a-front my mug. tickles and giggles. chuckles and rhymes. dances in the smoke of coffee beans. the lights are dim. and horny men are walking around. looking. beseeching. craving a breast. or asinine hair. nestling. or other men. or candle flames. or spoons and knives. to cut and carve. or carve and cut. or drink wine on the illuminated faucets. that overhang a nimble vagina-rush. the mettle. the kettle. what's with the rhyme of illuminated faucets? and fixtures of overhanging candles. in the dusk. and sound of bodies jingling in a swoosh. you see through curtains. half-wanton. semi-sexed. an aroma of amour. clamor of wine bodies. the promiscuity. you say. those whores on the boulevard are promiscuous as fuck. diseased. and battered. left without morals. but did you know. you married womb. that your lover of sorts. is caressing a boy. a sexual hunt. hush hush. let's slow down. and whisper. i am married. but i want your flesh. she will never know. in booths. and alleyways. in the toilette combs. this is morals. i was told. them republicans. makes me laugh. right? where was the bible? no wait. it was temporary. there wasn't love. there was sex. she would never know.

in the village. i observe. the trees are swinging. talisman man. and bejeweled lady recline in a love seat. wax automobiles singing hymns. in chimes and grunts. here a thud. there a love. winks. the leaves. gyrate and land on the wooden flask. automotive stretch of fumes. spraying green sweat on hugs and bones. slender legs. lagged with hair. and twinged with lust. that estrogen. that fat. the memory making fumes. i don't know why. i am in love with the carousel on wine bar. like a midget that entangles. and disentangles. like a polemic olympian. holding a torch of iodine vapors. so volatile it makes me smile. what has happened to my mind? what has happened to my fingers of purity? the sweet smelling honey that used to trickle down my eye lids? the chastity of a little boy. growing up. not grown up yet. when does one say. i wonder. i am grown up. this is it. this is the maxima of my growth. this is my allure. no more. from here. there's only the downhill. the re-caving. disintegration. when does one say. i am mature enough. there shall be no more maturation to my uppity process. i dictate to the children. in the drapery of neverland. more or less maturation? so subjective. subjunctive. creative at best.

obsession with pulsation goes a long way. the paradigm rhythm of a heart sound. of stretch and squeeze. of what we say pulsatile. is alive.

lady

lady at the park. is legless. without motion. she yells. and screeches the name of a pagan jesus. and licks graffiti off her breasts. eating pebbles and wood. her eyes are white. so dead at night. so yellow in the sun. i want to make a shirt. with the honey from her eye balls. and a curtain from pustules of jasmine. beaded to her military stockings.

she is eighty three. of cucumber flesh. and banana peels. slippery from a tan. so silky. so milky. i want to play with her left nostril. and draw daffodils on her palm. give her a jar of coffee beans. and say. this drug will kill. you ruddy minx. you ruby whore. on sunflower fumes. you paradise gay. leverage your sanity against a mothy frothy tabernacle.

this is poetry from piss. a hetero- altruism. what meaning? a semi-colon sex. a disjointed rotundity from your diplomat tribunals. like salted cookies. plaguing honeydew scent. and vanilla molds. spifflicated on a city trail. this manhattan plague. this burning dream. this hyper-morphic alchemy. the problem is. little lady dove. you are the dove that broke. in a crash of literature. and handsome hair balls. there is none of that left on a technical pageantry. there is the story of the triple couple. they love each flesh. walk in threes and cough in twos. but cry in fours. or a curious eighth. what does this mean? more is more? less is diffuse? parallel chests without breasts. this is like the classic homophily of invented socio-crafts. and sociopaths and art lovers. they huddle across hudson. in bands of wool. green and ocher. eating neurotic pills. this civilization has come.

a new evolution. 

stabbed

he pushed the door aside. the black man. bleeding eyes. he wipes the blood with his long curious dreads. it bleeds. he wipes again. his hands jitter. and tremble. he was stabbed. on an october evening. going back home from work. i am blind. and i bleed. all day all night. give me dimes. and pebbles. scraps of geranium. i haven't eaten in four. a history of metaphor. i used to see my face. i used to see. the ripples on the lake. i used to see. the beauty of a tongue. the frame of cezanne. and the diamond on a dead wife. but i do not see. yet i do see. a darkness. i see? but i hear. the subway. rumble every minute. i hear a chatter when i pass. a sympathy. that sickens me. i abhor that clicking of your ruby rose bracelet. your breath of peppermint. whispering a psalm. i love the lord. and the lord gave me blood? the power of drugs. and a beer can epiphany. this was a life. this is a life. tangled in a dream. of a little home. of a little love. of a little kiss. of a little touch. of a beautiful smile. of a broken moon.

this palette of glass. take a drop of blood. on the lip of a brush. and swirl in spheres. one. two..three...four....and you create a wheel. of blood. patterns. a geometry of desire. a spiral spine. the backbone of an elegant loss. the loss of home. the loss of a smile. embroidered in a hymn. they saved your man. the manhood of piece. and peace of calm. of the boiling menagerie. of petal work wisps. of a continuous belch. this man of manners. where did he swim? in the bath house of shrill tendril men? on a vestibule. on a god. he swore. and now he bleeds. the blood on his finger tip. like glycerine sweat. and ruby rose. the blood on his eye ball. he licks the juice. to feed his soul. if nothing in this world. this blood is mine. this taste is mine. i eat my soul.

when the poet in the bar. sits and writes. and smiles. and drinks espresso in the corner. and eats macarons dipped in honey. and stares at the window. there is a working machinery. a mind that calms. a quiescent lust wrapped in a word of rhyme. and poetry. and an imagery of wounds. how it feels. how it may feel. how it could feel. feel? feel. feel what? an orgasm? a machinery of the poor? and smoke a paper can. they used to make those on the rooftops of the chinese doors. they are dead. their sons have forgotten. they had fathers and mothers. once.

untucked

in a metro stop. pull out a kaleidoscope. and look through the tint of skin and bones. freckles of margarine. and golden chains. and an untucked shirt. so perverse. it makes me smile. epiphany of the minds. so seductive.

i cringe. and i smile. and i fan my flesh. i lick my skin. the salt of sweat. so soothing in the sun. the green of pearls. on my delicate saliva. i love it. it should rain on my neck. and twirl down my spine. a mezzanine concourse of river and flood. of a viral battle of ear drum and eye lid. this biology of intercourse. and divorce. and hermitage. this psychology of glamor. a glint of trapezoids. so many lakes and ponds. they intersect in virulence. and matrimony. for what is this union of souls? where is the soul? point it to the world. point it to your god. is god a soul? a soul of a soul?

what is within theater is worth pondering. an act. many acts. hurricane winds. and anonymity. masks. so many masks he wears. and cosmetics. and the cosmos. churning around. his lips are pale. body frail. and there is a quiver of manhood rave. motion pictures move in the city of winds. coffee cups of pearl. and a bronze menagerie. the bangle seller paradox. they turn to soot. and ash of ravens. so ravenous. it twists and tumbles in love. the love of legends. the love of man to love a soul. to hope. to goal. to decorate. to favor. a favorite. to shade the rain. from sun and moon. from the century of heavens. putting the dog to sleep. a melody of drums. beat. stick. a carryover project from the sand boats. they break on vapor. and nicotine. addiction. my love. how does the maniac explain. this wasn't me. this wasn't me. i swear. this was my body. my mother's sperm. my father's egg. the technology of semen. in plastic. so fake. you make a soul. if this were real, man made soul. where was god? an ancillary vase of whispers? and to also say. memory men. where are the sea shells? where are the brains of those halogen lamps?

the question. in philosophy. how informal is belief. and the ethic of ethics. time will spray. a sapphire tale.

sigh

i wanted to go up to you. and say. your eyes are beautiful. so green. against the pale of your skin. rosy and ripe. to look into your eyes. they look like mirrors. like pieces of green glass. through which you can see the world. the love. the desire of fairy tales. a treble in your eyes when you look at me. wondering. who is this awkward stranger. staring at my eyes?

i am at a loss for words tonight. i keep thinking about your eyes. it makes me want to cry. to tell you how beautiful they are. but i shall be appropriate. we have rules. i guess. 

doors

often times. in the city of green electricity. there is a pulse. an earthquake. a wave. that ballets and pivots on water blades. rolling stones and skipping bases. lamp posts wrapped. in petals of caramel ash. in the tunes of idle tales. door after door. wood after wood. and what goes behind. is a question for our children.

telling the child. behind those doors. behind the wood. the foundation of your lips. slipped into asinine existence. for sex and categorical sexuality. honeydew and molten wax. merged in sweat. in erotic violence. in a monochrome of desire. in a cardigan of love. so smooth. so soft. like cotton pearls and dandelions. afloat on clouds. clouds of ink. streaks of smoke. building pyramids. killing men. with ivory skin. you are man. you are greed. you are power of the thrones. you are the truce of dimes. and diamond coquetry. you are the opium of a non-admitting category of volatile experimentalism. women, they say. born as you may be. your womanhood is acquired. the window of exchange is narrow. there is the trans-identity. there is the volatile pivot. hurling sweat. and chewing rust. and behind closed doors. what power you wield. little child. what power. what is it about the maleness? what is it about femininity? Why the feminine needles. shaped like a telephone. shaped like a violin. or a muslin boat. little drummer girls. defeatist in their vibe. they careen behind doors. voluptuous philanderers. he asked. is man meant to be the idealist monogamist? on Darwin's toes? did the union of souls exist. before the coupling of questionable catechism? no, they said. i quietened. this was cancer. what kind of anomaly? so waxy.

behind those doors. men sharpen souls. woodcutters smother saliva on bottles of wine. and whine for hours. sometimes they joy. laugh and smirk. make chandeliers with milk. and in the photo shop. they dissolve a humility behind closed corridors. faculty clubs. faculty of an estranged dissonance. raise your child. and bite your clocks. behind closed doors. they sing songs of love.

pause

for all i see. microphone lips on daffodils.

a time that came. you know. when the thought of the other set a trill. a beautiful flutter in your heart. you don't know how to explain it. what it is. this attraction. the latent feeling of i want you. but i'm not ready to tell you yet. what if. what if you don't love me back? what if the first time we held hands. grew out of politeness. while you waited under your skin to say. never come back. i don't want you back. what if at the pier by the river. while drinking eight glasses of white wine sangria. you laughed and joked. and looked at me. only to tell yourself. this is not the one. he is not the one. you said. i want to go to the bar. with you. i swallow a gulp. no, i'm not comfortable right now. why not, you ask? i want to touch the moon instead. and what if you decide. this is it. but you cannot tell me anything. cannot tell me to leave, because your politeness. your temporary niceties forbid you from doing so. and then the dagger came with your cold shrewd ignorance. you feigned business. the secondariness of my existence, so obvious in the wake of the day. evenings spent. waiting for a text. a phone call. no response. no reply. that gentleness on your lips. that i touched in the bedroom. says today. dude, i don't have time right now. this makes me gulp a second time. there is this hankering. this lingering from the moment i met you. i told you that evening. i will support your decisions. all, other than the one to smoke weed. and you say. at the avery fisher. you hear xylophone melodies in your blood. a harmony so intense. it makes you cry. like the white water hymnals. it makes you want to spring in the air. and latch on to the treble notes waving to the lilt of crystal chandeliers. and the musicians. you are one.

but you make me cry. you make me stop my life and think about you. this beseeching in a city where sex is free. where amour is a ternary conceptualization. which is not to say that love is lost. not to say that when i held your hand, that lonely evening, i didn't feel anything. this armor around my discreet emotionality has destroyed a dozen souls. i told you that. and you smiled. and shook your head. laughed at the moon. at the fresco of the glimmering night sky. and then you kissed me. rolled over, and kissed me again. and i kissed you back. 1901. the beginning of an odd train of rumbling awfulness. they used to say Madison men don't know how to love. or love too much. tie my knuckles and kiss my lips again. what have you done? this circle of breaks. and bleeding hearts. remember how it felt when one did that to you? 

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.

fold

sometimes when you break. you are in so many pieces that rebuilding seems like an impossibility. it does not even seem like a hopeful endeavor. it seems pointless. it seems childish and child-like. and you lose your soul. you lose so much. the tears are only a small part, i promise. you set aside all the endeared memorabilia that you collected over the years. little pebbles you stored in a jar. thinking, one day, you and i will go back to the storm and paint a rhyme with those.

sometimes it takes a loss. sometimes, a gain. and sometimes, a rejection. many rejections. it takes a while to crawl back into the home that you called home. your sisters, brothers, cousins and uncles are so seethed in their own, that they forgot you were lost. but you never went home. you went out to the world instead. and you played the guitar in subway stops and chai bars. you wanted to cure those children who were born with hearts that would kill. take a flurry of streamers and decorate a face. saying to yourself, let me start again. one by one. let us build a bridge.

and sometimes, in life, you learn to re-believe. is that realism? you ask. is that realistic? i ask. what of the jealous bastards? those stones you wore around your waist, where are they now? you have an outlet, to scream. to cry. to vandalize a wall of hopes. you learn to re-believe. you pull out your cups and pans. your old memorabilia from the lonely dresser.

and walk to the mirror. drop a tear ball. and start from zero.

the day that came

sometime in your youth. you used to sit by the summer lake. the reflection of leaves on the curve of your lashes. so beautiful. crisp. like petals. an array of bougainvillea baskets perched. on the calcium of your shoulder blades. so shapely. poised. crudely elegant. you unfurled your veins. every time. we breathed a breath. a purple hush. it was time for the viola strings.

those viola strings were at least a dozen. or ten million. molecules and atoms in collision. at the heat of every second. and nano strings. cadenzas on the gentleman's tote bags. and women's top hats. they have learned. with the turn of the century. that two is three. and three is two. and man is a womb. let us decorate. with the pastel of lust. this chimera of love. doomed to the premises of logical logic. and philosophy of deviance. for if the he is a she, and she is a he. the binary is lost. a third equivalence. the whorehouse at the corner. is a drizzle of dew. mystified. the smoke of sugar rain. and the craftsmanship. of the homo and the hetero-. retroactive and jargon-ed. oh look, nimble pea-coat. your green of illusion. is a palette of surrealism. for what you see. what you hear. is what you wish to see. and hear.

it has pained my breast. what if there was love? one day. our tongues collapsed. into an illusion of stars. fire drops on a broach, you wore on the cemetery of vaginas. so sexual. you squirm at the thought of saliva and manhood. your race. wrapped in an ice-pick of coquetry. you charmer of souls. this photograph of black. and caressing argentum. pricks like a trillion falsehoods. the falsehood of poets. of life. is deception, you ask, a limit on your will? is your God of ashes, a deceiver of smiles? then, you ask, give me a cello tune. and let me talk to you, Holiness of spirits. look at my brows and the symmetry of heart rings. and you, apparently. told my blood. you particle of wool. this water you breathe is music to the poor. the indolence of doves is amok on the ocean crests. this white paradox. your white is black. my black is white. what are we? who are we? show me.

the river of tulips. oh mustard wheels. this chariot of blonde violin strings is ablaze in the negritude of destiny. ablaze is man. and woman. you and i. are left with geometry.

metropolitan art

walking through the art. you can almost taste. the strokes of brush. the smell of paint. it is almost real.

pictures: Met Art

twin blind

the lady beside me. her fingers are numb. she is blind. like her son. fiddling with a spoon.

after a pause. she held my hand. and whispered in my ear. feeling my face. can you tell my little boy how the world looks? i pass a gulp. a silent twitch. okay, she says. feeling herself.

can you tell me what my son looks like? he is beautiful, i say. just like you, lady love. he looks just like you.

he left me when the child was born. who can deal with the twin blind, my boy?

she gasps. hold my hand, i say. my name is T. your love for love. is real Mrs. J. let us give purpose. to this race. one by one. the leaves. the shreds. i will give you the lens of truth. those eyes of mine. but how will i see, the beauty of your face?

them old times

the temple of love is white today. it has snowed all night all day. i am not a snow lover. by any means. but there is endearment in this home. and it makes me smile. even though i love novelty. i love walking down new streets. i love my familiar sites. the restaurant where i used to eat. the espresso bar where i cried. the book store where i thought of marriage. and sex. and vile addenda. and i love visiting them each time i visit the city. i skip a heart beat, but it is totally worth it!

take two

leaf upon love. this time. the garden of crowns is afloat on the sea. little lovers on the bay. they tear their souls. their finger nails. like poppy seeds. are painted with oil. dripping, like blood. there was a carnage. that november dusk. that broke my heart. that stabbed your smile. what tears we shed. over electricity and rhyme. the cradles on the farm were ablaze with sapphire. a cold deep whirling blue. spinning like a top. swirling and twirling. round and square. the gown of shapes. and pantaloons of scent. the whiff of dawn. a new tomorrow. those lights have dimmed. that synchrony. the lineage of time. we talked about. is frozen. re-thaw. reuse. recycle.

with the re...there is a pain. an anxiousness. like dolls in a doll house. the artifice of symmetry. resultant. superlative. where did you compare, till you took to the shrine? and shaved your womb. and ripped away the caricature of your nipple-tops. the hair on your skin. is awash in the floods. as you patiently wait. on the turn of the re. the magnificent re. chance two. the re of repeat. one. two. three. one. two. three. those tears have no meaning. dry. dead. rolled into a scoop of indolence. and disability. dis- ability. a-bility. what? you question. where did my pulse fade away that morn. that morn when we drove to the rainbow of necks. grazing past a gelatinous arch. with faces of doom. wake up. wake up. wake up my little pearl. you have lost your sheen. wake up little dove. let us fly with your wings. take two in your home. in your menagerie of lust. in your brasserie of thorns.

take two.

bean town

sometimes. you just smile. you just stand in one corner. and remember. the times you cried. you laughed. the moon you saw. every night. when you walked back home. thinking of life, and love and cold whims.

it feels like you are breathing again. it feels like home. and you embrace the walls. and breathe even more. faster each time. you want to feel this air. so smooth in your nose. you want to hold the breath. and break the vacuum that built for months. and you break down. overwhelmed with memories of home. you smile. collect your tears. and keep walking.

and the gentleman in his suit looks at you. a beautiful black neck tie greets your presence. questionable belongingness. but you shake hands. talk about life, about the footsteps in the city. the legacy of dreams and dominos. the bridge of hope and the children of fate are asleep tonight. in the city of angels. ringing. trilling. muttering like we used to before.

there is a home. this is a home. which makes you smile. and makes you believe. those lyrics are awake. it's time to play.