i can’t shut up

i am not lonely,

i like to be alone,

enjoying my company.

hiking down alleys,

making the cats run,

i stay one step ahead

of the junk man,

looking for copper,

and scrap metal.

to feed his family

of five children

and nasty smelling wife.

the treasures i find,

are mine now.

making a fair argument,

for finders keepers.

my compensation

for being a bum.

i stop at the rotting,

wooden fence.

to stare at the ass,

shining with oil,

in the arizona sun.

i don’t say a word

they may be there tomorrow,

or a week from today.

if this is their day off.

i know that ass well,

it pretends to hide.

enjoying my tears,

of personal joy.

if this is my last time

I shall ever see it,

i will not forget.

when i see the moon,

rising above 35th ave

i  will  stop at

the save a dime,

for pall mall menthol shorts.

then i will go home,

to my lover and dogs.

and watch the ass

making my supper,

with virgin olive oil

medium in flavor.

monday is a feast,

of sunday chicken wings,

because of football.

i debate myself,

if i’m a socialist,

or a democrat.

learning from dali . . .

why are dogs guilty,

until proven innocent?

 

what is more a miracle,

being born or dying?

it happens daily,

is  it a miracle?

 

the sun more than the moon,

the day more than the night.

 

 

does light overwhelm the dark?

joy over depraved  melancholy.

which is more beautiful,

the butterfly or the snake?

the rough or the soft?

 

is the winter validated,

by the dog days of summer?

the vision of a thought

an act of god speaking?

 

forgotten dreams exist,

to the human or the animal.

 

the unconditional flavor,

would there be love,

if hate is not known?

 

the ways of the dog

should not be challenged.

 

 

fooled again . . .

the sun

has fallen asleep,

the horizon,

is a headstone

for no more

conversation.

 

the dark,

springs outward,

from blue veins

of the heart,

bleeding stiffness

into bones.

 

the old dog

is ok staying in,

protecting

from the window,

affirming her notion,

of winter.

 

the sins

of the season,

drift as the sonoran,

handicapped

with compassion,

and nicotine love.

 

the olive skin,

with teflon wings,

a poem of chance

for the unexpecting

eye.

my theology

i crawl across the floor,

to be closer to the dark.

before god created the light,

before the sun,

and moon was sober.

before 1955.

i was asleep forever,

the same as dying.

there was no one like me,

to meet on the street.

i climbed to my knees,

in the words of my flesh,

with no meaning at all.

a man can never forget

how it is to crawl.

i was worth 50 bucks

it was wild turkey 101,

white crosses,

and the marshall tucker band,

with a good song.

that made me do it,

in my t-bird i drove.

just past midnite,

heading to alabama,

i would introduce myself.

east of des moines

i picked them up,

two hitchhikers,

going to detroit.

said i was going to alabama,

i took them to detroit.

the first night

we slept in the car,

at the airport free parking.

come morning,

we drove downtown.

stopped at one of those

quick shops for drunks.

the bird wouldn’t fly,

they ditched me.

left me there,

where the hell am i?

the man towed it away,

to fix it.

i knocked on the

catholic church door,

some old church lady

said may i help you?

i said where the hell

am i?

she said i couldn’t stay there,

said maybe i could call the cops.

i started walking

to western union.

get some money wired to me.

had to tell them back home

where i was.

the bail bondsman,

slowed in a real nice car.

i looked real good in my

blue white checkered

cowboy shirt.

asked if i needed a ride?

sure i did,

where the hell am i?

he smiled,

we drove around.

he took me

to where he worked.

that’s how i knew

he was a bail bondsman.

he was the boss,

he bought me lunch.

got my car and i

followed him.

he bought me supper.

he asked

where you sleeping?

where the hell am i?

in my car i guess.

he said you can stay

at my house.

i thought nice car,

might be a nice house,

he had a guest room.

watching tv drinking beer

he said i like you.

i said you go first.

in the chair he was

naked jacking off.

i watched him finish,

i had a hard on,

he did me.

then i

went to bed,

in the nice quest room,

with a huge bed.

i slept good that night.

late morning,

it must have been,

i woke up.

where the hell am I?

i gotta go home,

can you loan me

50 bucks?

he knew he wouldn’t

get it back.

he never asked me,

my name.

i had good intentions.

it was good wine,

going home.

i explained it

as business trip,

for my head,

when i got back

to that little town.

those people,

they never taught

me nothing.

like getting lost,

where ever the hell,

i go.

At best in the ring of stone

the bones melt into ash,

initialed by leaves of shade.

 

overwhelmed one cannot be,

gravity left the carvings here

 

the poet passes with bliss

previewing fading echoes

 

the paupers blistered carnival

drifts into the burning  fog

 

silhouettes of the broken sun

proceed to the fractured black.

 

a plea for the herbs to grow

falls on shoulder of the morn

 

rumors ripple from the rough,

the mystic has spilled wine.

 

where winter now begins

incense spreads the paradise.

 

there is a well trained spirit

and salt of tempered smile.

 

the  ease of  there forever

the center of an empty dark,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

confession

the sun doesn’t discourage me,

from temptation of the outside.

my heart takes me to the door

of places where I’ve not lied.

 

i have not risen from the ashes

my confession is not my road.

The sky is torn by rainbows,

where sins have not yet glowed.

 

if it was going to be this way

my relationships spilling over,

if  i shall not be the same alone,

i will attack my enemies sober

 

my spirit touches the heart,

the heart touches the soul

holy soul will touch myself

then can i be counted whole

 

your flesh a tattooed brand

left behind my worn lips.

what i’d mistaken for the rust,

was the highway of my trips.

 

i do rage against the funeral,

i trace the blood in my veins.

is nothing  there for mercy,

entitled to remove my pains.

 

my spirit cannot forsake.

from wanting to take the ride,

on the back of the misfit sparrow

up to the stars that still do hide

 

lessons end at the horizon,

where beauty may be broken.

swallowing up the melody,

lacking verse to be spoken.

 

experience blends my days,

i shall not skip the sea

an incomplete confession

is all one shall get of me