saguaro cactus

soldiers of sand,
you stand for love.
you are strong,
i curl at your root.
though not a virgin,
my blood will flow
if you penetrate me.
the dessert serpent
will eat me alive.
my hands will melt
in a green stream.
if you bloom in me,
your seed will travel,
inside the belly
of a dark gray hawk.
in the shade of your arms,
i hide the perfect secret.
i wipe away my sweat
from lips and legs.
god put you out
for me to crumble.
near granite rock
i dance with you.
your face is pointing,
to a wild apollo.
i can taste the heat
in your juice.
your stones are heavy,
i will cool them,
with a youthful breeze,
formed by crescent ribs.
i’m willing to paint the sky
with creosote ash.
or be the hole,
where the owl sleeps.
i salute you,
warrior of the quiet.

deviant mongrels

my dogs have an essence,
different from a human soul.
they’re connected to something,
a liberated spirit, scared by thunder,
disproportionate to their bravery.
the benevolent good samaritan,
they’re each different,
but each connected to the other.
they’re inclined to be hungry dogs,
at the same time, every day.
i do not expect any vindication,
or apologize for the trespasses,
of these deviant mongrels.
they heal the wounds,
of absence, sorrow and pleasure.
they join in my commission,
an essence of frenzied infatuations.
am i the one that is ignorant?
i know the extent of my brutality.
in comparison with my biography,
the literal is not exact litigation.
my dogs understand my complexity,
and the danger of my sincerity.
their names are a lame attempt,
to consummate their communion.
discourse is settled by apostasy.
is it better to be empty or hungry?
we are blessed with uncertainty.
their minds are not satisfied,
i expect that to be true always.
we chant the same vulgar prayers,
i find that peculiar for goodness sake.

waiting for brian to come home

my fingers
are white,
from
stroking,
your hairy
belly.
every muscle
is limp.
i love
your ears.
i see
you peeking
through
dark eyes.
your tongue,
searching to
lick
my flesh.
your nails
are sharp,
leaving
road maps
on my
dry skin.
your mouth
is friendly.
your bites
are play.
i see
you
happy, to
make me
happy.
i can’t
hide,
you will
find me.
you’re
aware of
my motions.
you look
back,
struggling,
to stay,
or to go.
you bark,
and run
from the
room.
i curl up
to his
pillow,
and try
to sleep.

hippies

it is
prophecy,
like worn out
old shoes.
hippies are
dying,
by the thousands.
everyday
filling the sky,
with ash.
real hippies,
that never cut
their hair.
only to
loose half
of it,
to the bourgeois.

i never
liked war,
even when,
it was patriotic.
i recall
the flag,
on fire,
for love
and peace,
and sleeping
naked,
not to eat
our own.

my dogs
run free,
in and out,
all day,
and all
night,
caged,
inside
a concrete
fort.
they live,
the good
old days.
pitbulls pray
in churches,
and are
never free.
i’m entertained,
by their
dogma.

tomorrow,
i will eat
leftovers,
and be
the enemy
out of
respect,
for the dead.
it’s the
least
i can do.

inside out

i am
the pony,
put away
wet.
a god damned
poet,
that can
raise
the dead.
a trigger happy
madman,
masturbating
with words.
i take
the night,
turn it,
inside out.
i can
burn
bridges,
or be
the smoke.
i can
crawl
between
legs,
and drain
the sea.
i am
the jew,
the blackman
the queer,
the pregnant
thought.
i am
the poet,
the perverted,
wet dream.
i dance
on nails,
and sing
with dogs.
today
i am a
poet,
tomorrow,
i will be,
a poet.