planning my funeral

my twilight is near,

stars tease my eyes.

the sparrow makes peace,

with the hawk.

the riot squads bury

their bullets.

i pass the pipe,

and pray,

behind my breath.

i am houdini,

performing my escape,

with some dignity.

vindictive spirits,

have nowhere,

but hell to call home.

i watch the blood,

they leave behind,

it never matters much.

the rolling stones,

are my words,

i crawl over.

i understand,

the tricks you do,

most of the time.

the temperature,

of the dark,

keeps my fingers loose,

to bust out another poem,

before i have to leave.

red rose

100_6405

in a language,
i understand,
the red rose,
speaks to me.
everyday,
in ordinary time.
the thorns,
pierce my tongue.
the pedals,
dry my brow.
it eases,
my breathing,
when my oxygen,
is frozen.
my heart beats,
red rose blood,
from kingdom come.
i enjoy my liberties,
my bohemian tragedies.
the stem draws,
sweetness,
through my
crooked veins,
to the flower.
i blossom,
like free art.

tuesday buddha

the bells ring,

from one ear

to the other.

signaling,

to be quiet.

i am quiet.

the pain,

will set in.

my thighs

grow tight.

my toes bend.

i breathe

ten times,

then breathe,

ten times

again.

my balls itch,

i stare,

at those,

i believe dead.

till the wooden

clapper claps.

and we walk,

in a circle.

and we walk,

in a circle again.

till the wooden

clapper claps,

again.

i crawl

to my cushion,

like a cripple.

not enlightened,

caring no less,

i am buddha,

in a glass house.

free love for a half hour

his cock

was the tower

of babel.

with a language,

i understood.

and he knew,

my tongue.

i knew his

testicles.

in my mouth,

and out.

when he spoke

to me,

my lungs

filled,

with a brown cloud.

i was born,

with a cancer,

and will parish,

from it.

but he

didn’t mind,

when he took

my eyes,

and buried them.

crucified,

my ears.

making me,

laugh out-loud.

in broad daylight,

taking away,

my shame.

painting it,

sarcastic blue.

placing it,

in the trash.

making me,

a feast.

to eat away,

my innocence.

that kept me,

in the dark.

i was

his nourishment,

he quenched

my thirst.

and left some,

on my chin.

thirty years is,

a half hour.

and i wonder,

if i’m

doing it right.

on the cushions,

when he,

is fucking me.

like buddha

would.

he makes,

me dream,

in color.

puts air

in my lungs,

critiques my verse,

and i keep climbing,

for another

thiry minutes.

glory hole

i celebrate,

my first

blow job.

by the monogamous

mad man.

worshiping,

my virgin flesh,

my cresent cock,

at a glory hole alter.

my innocence,

was not sacrificed,

or disgraced,

while his lips,

nursed me.

or his callused hands,

spread my ass.

tattooing me queer.

giving me,

my calling,

to be the poet,

for america

the beautiful,

inner city whores.

with make believe

names,

who fondle me,

for my poems.

and fuck me,

when i’m not boring.

i will not,

betray my religion.

when they swallow me,

over a rough tongue,

that they flash my way.

i offer my poems,

my prayers,

take them.

to deep throat,

in your self-righteous

wet dream.

by a monogamous

poet,

licking his wounds,

sharing his soul,

who will infuse

with you,

at another

hole in the wall.