cold medicine

holy days pass,

i’m spinning by.

in desert sands,

on gentle winds.

through your hair,

and in your tears.

i’ll have no grave,

for you to clean.

throw your coins,

in empty wells.

make no prayers

for my honest sins.

i apologize now,

for any disrespect.

look for nothing,

where nothing is.

my sparrow floats,

in crowded skies.

fear not tomorrow,

or my times hence.

my days are dark,

my nights are bright.

i release my words,

on abandon canvas.

i have no secrets,

or a hidden space.

i drool my thoughts,

in careless fashion.

i share these gifts,

that i’ve been blessed.

please be my witness,

of these simple things.

my water is warm,

for i have no thirst.

my love is satisfied,

with no second guess.

 

 

 

this is the day the lord has made . . .

my thoughts are thick,

 

the lines in my hands,

canyons of deceit.

 

in a voodoo drag,

my spirit revolts.

 

i recite the rosary,

of a  blue virgin buddha.

 

my limited skills type,

sarcasm of the gut.

 

my bullet proof brain,

swells in my skull.

 

i swim the ocean,

to drown my fears.

 

i feed on the caveats,

of disproportionate greed.

 

tomorrow will deliver,

the same old thing.

 

i will ask forgiveness,

after the populated war.

 

i am the aftermath,

of unprotected lust.

 

i listen to the ghosts,

in my ravaged ears.

 

the rat race spins,

in a barbed wire sun.

 

my veins runneth over

with a genius delight.

 

i rush to the guillotine,

to sever my tongue.

 

it is once again time,

to pray.

time for a nap

i sneak by the mirror,

 

my watermelon belly

is bigger than my butt.

 

i’ll crawl into the tub,

where my knees won’t bend,

and the water ain’t hot,

and the maid will come in,

scrub my stiff back

and abandon my boner.

 

who’ll dry my toes?

 

and splash on aqua velva

where i like to be kissed.

 

i’ll pop one or two or three,

wash it down with a cold one,

hit a few more tokes,

and fuck something,

pay ‘em with a poem,

and put their name in the title

so they think they’re special.

 

i can change the words

after i forget their face.

 

nothings good on tv,

 

i’m going for a burger,

 

cause i don’t dance anymore.

 

my buddha prayer

the clouds are dead.

jesus is sleeping.

my kisses miss
the lips of buddha.

the exploited garden,
grows superstitions,
a bloodless grace.

the well is bitter
in bethlehem,

my sympathy
for the lamb
is bloated in ink.
i goose step
to prayers
in my breath.

i am saved,
by twisting incense,
inside my lungs.

main street beckons
inspirations.

be still my gypsy soul.

my desire to bleed,
is my holy sacrament
for unturned dirt.
i am a farmer
of every filthy word.

the sinner is happy.

the scars are art,
and a wellborn melody,
to the deaf and the blind.

amen, amen.

Alabama Shakes – You Ain’t Alone

Lucinda Williams – Copenhagen

i’m not amish

my gypsy

heart beats,

dirty dreams

in color,

conceived,

in the juice,

from

my radical

tube.

my celebrated

religion,

spits out

smoke rings,

at the end

of my pipe,

that my

fat lips

sucks on,

in religious

surrender.

my twisted

tongue eats,

at the

community

trough.

i’m a

mennonite

player,

trespassing,

the globe.

my cravings

reappear,

like a

roadside

bum.

i pocket

my change,

and move

to the apples,

for my

sourpuss

dessert.

i stand

upside down,

infiltrated

with lust,

intrigued

by the smell,

i will empty

myself

again,

less than

before.

my lungs,

cry

for mercy,

for grace,

and belief.

i pace

my granite

muscle,

beyond

the intercourse,

upon

savory sheets.

once again,

i am

confused

as a poet,

with

a lazy

eye.

i reminisce

I did my first open mic at the Phoenix Center For The Arts tonight. This is the poem I did.

 

i always wanted to be a poet,

a washed up wanna be,

with whore friends,

i would be paid to read my poems,

to them and their boyfriends,

i would confess to their murder,

of the filthy spirit in their pants,

then swallow some scotch,

and puke more words on them,

they would laugh out loud,

point their finger at the door,

say get the fuck out buddha,

then they would leave,

and i would count my tips.

chased in a dream

we crawled creosote rafters,

the elements on our skin,

escaping the gravity,
that lurked beneath chins,

we slept with the pigeons,

and danced with the crows,

our medicine was smoked,
that rose from our toes.

our tongues were not cut,

fingers twirled on our hands,

slow motion burdened anger,
that floated in sands.

missing our supper,

our teeth sank in blood,

no moon meant more wars,
long before floods.

our vision stayed simple,

concrete knees didn’t bend,

we looked not for whispers,
in rumblings of wind.

our temptation had beckoned,

the father wasn’t sought,

the flavor for oxygen,
beyond torture we fought.

we followed the birds,

broken glass on our wing,

hunted by misfits,
what would this dream bring?