Darkness reigns through
cracks and rushes
On to silence's soft desire.
Magic shadows dancing in
Moon and prowling clouds
Ablaze in the open sky,
Pulling stars to earth.
Dreams fly to
Again I die,
In delicious ways.
Your smile blooms
A DEAD LOVER
Nocturnal imaginings tease
Imagine my silky wings pressing
Aged eyes looking home.
Memories packed in quiet halls.
Remembered love and childrens'
Echoed laughter gone.
tears persist in
Unnoticed beneath coffee
Empty gestures avoid appeals to
End smoked laughter.
She searched my eyes,
Taking her visions
of love blindly.
Beneath the fragrant dawn,
Curled in old gnarled
Wilderness, unfurled silence
Embrace hovering treasures,
Dancing sprightly and free.
Blood-halos chasing murmuring
Murdered eyes misted.
heads laugh at
Dead love affairs.
Female wetness, unraveling
Riddles release thoughts
Of darker visions.
In gentle pain.
Trespassed limbs uncovered.
My nakedness again.
My bone glowing,
as I enjoyed her.
Our naked thighs entangled;
Sticky juice emitted from our loins.
The scent of brine and creatures
From the deep between us.
Come again, anytime, I told her.
Don't go back into your
Sunday pleasantries and
Cold fish sandwiches.
Come again, anytime.
Let us exercise this lusty day.
The ocean demon calls us.
hold back its surging tide.
Grab the seamount by the neck and plant
A kiss there for my come.
Invite me in again.
LINCOLN PARK WINO
shoes, unglossed; wrinkled face.
Sing the joy of living with each respired
Breath and disregard tomorrow
day, old man.
Think only of the past.
Tip the bottle to your lips and contemplate the
Grass on which you lay.
Taste your wine and wink at passers-by.
Pat your swelling gut and belch
A good one for the birds. Feel the bristles
Your chin and think no more of the patches on
Your clothes. Disregard tomorrow as your day,
only of the past.
Of years gone by when youth had you in splendor.
Smell the scent of you as you have come to know
Drink your wine and feel the ache of having
Lost those years.
But for the moment, spin in jolly merriment
Smile and wink at passers-by.
Tip your hat, drink your wine,
And disregard tomorrow as your day, old man.
Think only of the past.
Eighty-eight years ago, he said he was born in a shed not fit for pigs. At the
age of twelve he rode with Villa, fought the good fight that lift fluid recollections he sometimes sees fit to change for
no better reason than to do so.
"I've had my share of women, drank and fought with the worst of them, broke my
back at labor too good for mules and survived it all."
He laughs his concise, crackling laugh and displays a set of broken, brown stained
teeth. Then adds: "Had four wives. All dead and buried. Twelve kids spread far and near. And now I sometimes wonder what it
all has meant. Sometimes I wish I were young again, and sometimes I wish I were dead."
He sits at the plaza everyday at noon when the sun is shining, and tells tales
told countless times to those who care to listen.
"If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change a thing," he says.
And if you ask him his name, he will say with a hint of defiance, "Miguel Escomia, veteran of good times and bad."
In his coat pocket he carries the only companion he truly respects.
Cuervo is a man you don't want to abuse. To do so would be to rattle the devil in hell."
Brown veined hands baked dry, rest atop a lean oak cane, crooked and steady as
the old man himself.
He likes to look at attractive women and nudge whatever friend might be with him, and comment in
a tone not totally devoid of truth: "In my day I would have had a ring on her finger in two week's time."
He can't read or write, believes in God out of tradition and walks ten miles a
day for the shear sport of it. He will tell you stories of revolutions, bank robberies, and the ungainly drudge of stooping
in the fields.
"Good work for donkeys like me who knows no better."
In the evening, after card games, he will sit in his room smoking his pipe, tossing
memories around in his mind like so much faithful debris and wonder, simply, when it will end.
Old cuckold mourns limp
Sweet tooth woman loves
The mangrove tree
"It's long," she said.
Puffer fish is poison.
Ripples hide his path.
Red rooster flying in the
And comes purring.
11 & 1/2
I'M IN REALITY
NOW. I'M NOT DEAD.
(but who knows?)
MY HEAD IS CLEAR WITH THE FRESH NIGHT AIR.
(and this is reality.)
KNOLL I'M SITTING ON IS HARD.
HARD LIKE PATTY GUMP'S FALSE TITS.
I'M SMOTHERING A COLONY OF ANTS WITH
I SIT COVERING THE OPENING OF THEIR
(i wonder what they're doing down there.)
I'M ALIVE IN REALITY
AND I'M A MURDERER
BECAUSE I'M SMOTHERING A COLONY OF ANTS.
IT'S COLD BLOODED, BUT I DON'T CARE.
(i'm going to
be marine when I grow up.)
I'M HOLDING A JOINT IN MY HAND. IT'S ROLLED
VERY NEATLY AND IT'S VERY THIN.
REALITY IS FUNNY. IT'S SO FUNNY HOW
FUNNY IT IS. REALITY IS FANTASY IN REVERSE.
(but not really: think about it.)
THE REASON I'M SITTING ON THIS KNOLL,
SMOTHERING A COLONY OF ANTS, AND HOLDING
THIS JOINT IN MY HAND, IS BECAUSE
BROTHER TOLD ME HE WANTED TO BE ALONE
WITH HIS GIRL.
HIS NAME IS JUNKIE JOHN.
HER NAME IS SALLY SLUT.
ARE COMPATIBLE WITH EACH OTHER,
MY TEACHER, MISS MERTLE, WOULD SAY.
I WISH I COULD SCRATCH MYSELF; BUT I'M
I WANT TO MURDER THE COLONY OF ANTS.
I CAN SEE JOHNNY'S CAR FROM HERE. I'M
LOOKING THROUGH THE BUSHES THAT SURROUND
THE CAR'S ROCKING A LITTLE NOW. THEY'RE
DOING IT. THEY'RE ALWAYS DOING IT.
JOHNNY'S A JOHN IN ALL
JOHN, MY BROTHER, THE ONE THAT'S ALWAYS DOING
IT, TELLS ME I'M STUPID. HE SAYS, "GET
ESE. LEARN WHAT'S HAPPENING."
THE CAR'S ROCKING PRETTY GOOD NOW. I CAN HEAR
THE SPRINGS GOING SQUEAK-SQUEAK.
I FEEL DIZZY. EVERYTHING'S STARTING TO
SPIN. THE CAR LOOKS LIKE IT'S GOING TO
I THINK I'LL BLAST THIS STICK
AND GO GET EDUCATED.