and the beat goes on . . .

butt naked and knee deep
in the little brokenstraw. my
heated bones are cooling, my
blood no longer boiling, my
ballocks twisted by this rambling
ebb. i have plummeted into its
aroma and surrendered to a
bouquet of the splendid rill. my
empty senses are born again,
singing loud with the leaves and
dancing with leeches around my
feet. this is my sanctuary from
the wise, my escape from the
masters of logic. their curse has
been taken away to a deeper
sea. my tranquility hides in the
narrow leaf cattails. the chorus
of the peepers soothes any
hallucinations of castles in the
sky. here i write the testimony of
my temperament and
indifference, of country roads
and fast lanes. my eyes imitate
the twilight of the night. each
breath i take is a star rising in the
east and setting in the west. i
feel my imperfections as i feel
the beat of the heart sutra.


road trip

some say they will go to the gates
of hell to earn your love. sell their
soul to sleep between your legs. i
might drive to omaha or phoenix. i
can’t help but wonder if i would care
to love you if i had no soul. if i didn’t
love you, whom would i care to love?
would i abandon my sensual nature?
forget that the pleasures of lust are
the nature of my purity. would god
still dwell in my flesh? he is the fire
of my youth that still burns in my bones.
the nocturnal emissions of my dreams
have been his gifts of wisdom. my
journey is to touch the sky and if i meet
you there continue our intercourse. an
audience will invade our intimacy, and
to our delight applaud our manifestation.
it is a two day drive to omaha, four days
to phoenix.


Authors Books & Music Open Read, Warren PA. 08/04/2015


listening to a sunset

i should’ve known i would end up
like this. some days i wished i was
somewhere else, somebody else,
prettier so when you jacked off you
would think about my ass. maybe
a second look my way when i’m
walking down liberty avenue. now
i sit here with a dog in my lap and a
crow on my shoulder. my life is spent
waiting on a woodchuck to come out
of the woodpile to steal apples i leave
for a mama bear. i will catch charlie
one of these days. i’m still wearing
the “bob dylan in concert with
special quest merle haggard” t-shirt i
bought in 05. i don’t remember
haggard but i’m sure he was good. is
dylan ever not good? my knees don’t
bend like they used to, my ears only
hear half of what they use to. 40
years of smoking has left me a little
short of breath. sometimes i need a
little more fluffing. about 40% of men
over 40 in the united states know
what i’m talking about. i learned to
read lips when you call me your
“little dirty whore.” i liked that the
first time i heard it forty-five years
ago. i got secrets. i know when things
are good and when things aren’t
right. how simple can i be? i
appreciate the black and white
of winter, lemonade and weed. i
like bukowski and leonard cohen.
so many years i searched outside
my heart. it just left me bitter.
some things never change.


my empty pages

i reminisce of my empty pages.
i sat in rooms of second
hand smoke and watched
people being what people are.
scarlet letter misfits, pathetic
pit bulls, sacrilegious believers,
quick-witted queers, and
tattooed executioners. for them
i was king of kings, a ruler of back
alley poetry. a messiah of
masturbating rhymers searching
for visions in swollen cleavage.

i was a bone-dry transient escaping
torrential rain. i crawled deep
into the darkness of desolate wells
and rested there in the lap of elijah.
he commanded ravens to feed me
organic flesh. when my belly was full
i was given back to those bound in
self slaughter. one by one they sang,
it is ok to be no more
it is ok to be no more
it is ok to be no more.

we floated high on sacramental
wine and healed ourselves with
euphoric verse. the season
changed our masquerade for
festive occasions. we rode on the
wings of cyclones and crawled down
gravel roads. our consequences
left some dead or dying. my
ears would hear their harmony,
it is ok to be no more,
it is ok to be no more.

the name of the game tumbled in my
brain. i dressed myself in lemon grass,
and saluted my comrades before we
crippled our critics for being critics.
they boast of knowing the most noble
cortesan whores. did they ask if i was
adonis resurrected by aphrodite?
was i the choice harlot of the archangel?
we defeated the dragon. i wore fur of the
cadavers on the appian way. i shouted:
“more! please, master”
when he fingered me in the anus. diablo
left me at the altar. buddha fucked me.
my favorite dog has died many times.
i watched butterflies living outside
the law. they taught me how to kiss
before i had lips. i drank water from
the cherith brook. i have been easily
distracted, disgraced by past pathetic
lovers. they offered me gold and silver,
pearls and turquoise. i desired an empty
hour glass. i have survived the revolution
of my spirit and the desolation of my soul.
when i melt into ash, read my empty pages,
it is ok to be no more,
it is ok to be no more,
it is ok to be no more.


inside my spasm

i tasted his heartbeat. my mouth

filled with thunder echoing an

anarchy of passion. my belly was

full. my pompous appetite abated.

my robustness depleted. complacent

of the binds mangling the meat

of my bones. the aroma of our venom

filled the air. our lips were immersed

by it. our muscles depleted from it. our

emulation calmed by it. past the window

we were mindful of the crows. voyeurs

by our invitation. uncelebrated guests.

designated strangers.  we listen to

their generous harmony. they sing

to the lewdness of the sparrow. to

the boyhood of winter and to the

youthfulness of spring. they chant

out the intercourse of the day and

the night. we will drift apart down

a sweet grass path, and meet again

to replenish the lexicon of any neglect.


OPEN READ at Authors Books and Music, Warren PA. 07/07/2015

I have only written two poems over this past month. I read a poem by Lou Reed, “Dragon.” I have wrapped myself up in this poem and it has left an impact on me.


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