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.