You're only as good as your last write,
kinda like a fighter down for the count
or standing with their arms raised in a V
& only then do they realize
who the real supporters are.

Every poet knows,
you're only as good
as you last piece
& sadly
it seems,
once it's read,
the interest can die off
rather quickly.

Unless of course,
you develop friendships
from other poets
who understand
what your trying to say
& realize
the true meaning of
what have you written
for me lately.

Those are the people
who've actually
read what you've posted.
Perhaps, we are merely ghosts
of our past lives,
interconnected
by the love of word,
full of heart,
enthusiastic,
being nice.

And the "likes" can surely suffice,
help to inspire
past life regressions
into something more readable
for the masses...

But I guess,
I'm a tad bit crazy,
having just another relapse
into deeper introspection...
a few personal confessions!

O, Does it ever end,
this spillage,
this spillage of our souls,
doe it ever end,
dear friends?

I am in love with poetry,
it speaks to me,
it knows me,
it comforts me
in my need to feel,
to feel real
& not alone.
Thank you
poets.

Who made them valedictorian,
those keepers of the word-banks,
more concerned with righteousness
than with the art
we oh so love,
pointing fingers
with a million pointing back.

And we,
we keepers of the faith,
writing words,
writing lines,
writing stanzas or not,
scribbling & scrawling
bits & pieces
of our fervent-hearts,
exposing ourselves
to the masses,
truly naked
for all ages,
for an eternity of readers,
feeding our souls
for those perusers
who might want to know
or forgot
what it is like
to live (again).

Like I f'ng said.
who made them valedictorian,
them f'ing poetry police.

Jenny wanted to play her hand
in the big game,
she was a risk taker,
bought lipstick early
& wore them designer jeans to ****.
Her blouses revealed
too much of a good thing
& before long
all the boys held her aces.
Face have face called her out
& she played
her entire deck before twenty.
They say traces of her still linger,
but most of her suitors
have gone back
to gin rummy
or gone fishing.

How can one describe
these hot-pheromones
flowing wildly in space?

Without the genetic code,
the scent-nature of animal attraction,
can these electrical-keyboard
love-lust-connections really work?

Word-whisperings flow like an avalanche,
such heated-moments visualized
through the placement of the alphabet.

The ooooohhhhhh's & aaaaahhhhh's,
do me's & give it to me's,
building of fiery sentence-structures,
creates raptures beyond our wildest dreams.

Then the aftermath.
No hugs, no kisses.
A virtual wham bam, thank you mam
& a good day to you too sir,
I'll write you next time!

;;), :), ^^, --, 3:), :D, ;P, :-P, :)..., 0:), :x, B-),:-*, 69,=), >:)<.

O, I'm sure I missed a few!
O Darling, please please let me know...I'll text you...:-?

Splashed milk coated the pitched skies,
millions of galaxies arrayed
in glorious splendor
spun above our campfire.

We watched glowing embers
swirling up into infinity
& we spoke about the universe,
joked about aliens & such.

And with the viewing
of ancient-lines the following day,
we realized some things
may be real
& no laughing matter.

It's amazing the things
we can discuss under
the sacred heavens,
full of life,
some perhaps,
even extra-terrestrial.

We get ****** and we fume.
questioning the very
creation of the universe
wondering why our hearts
are forever broken.
And we blame it on them.
Oh yes, them!
Those wretched *******,
such users.
Them ******* *******,
huge takers.
And when we look,
when we look at that joker
in the mirror,
we never say,
"I love you."

Every likker batch was his last,
including the carbon monoxide.

You should be
unsettled.
We've harnessed the light,
they've caged the sun,
put a lid on the split atom.

And yet,
they continue to fight.
It ain't right.
Be the people,
not mindless.
Spread some of it.
Poppa Cap.

I was unborn
when the psychodelic bus
left the station,
but I was told about the trip,
the wild flowers
& mystic smoke,
the electric music
that blew minds
& glass tubes.
I heard it was groovy,
that it moved hippie-souls
into a positive-karmic state,
a place I wished
we had stayed.

The hurricane was
bearing down on us rapidly,
windows were being boarded,
grocers were sold out,
water was being stockpiled.
The drunkards
under the burnt-out building
had stolen our goods,
had broken in
& just took all of our stuff.
Myers & pineapple
twisted my thoughts
and I lashed out,
cut one of them in the dark.
The morning after the tempest,
we found no one there,
not even a blood trail,
thought they might
had been washed
out to sea
in the storm surge.
The incident still haunts me.

O my sweet darling,
this warm flush
has taken over me,
quenched my unhappiness,
this loneliness
without you.

But if for just one moment,
it could replace
the sweet memories of you,
bring back your hot-kisses
& those times I miss with you,
I would never
get lost in the bottle,
allow it to steal my soul.

So pour me another....friend.

I've gained ten pounds
in the past thirty minutes
just watching the tube.
Pizza Hut, Taco Bell,
Denny's, Burger King,
Wendy's, Chick-Fil-A
& Coca Cola have
fattened me up
clairvoyantly.
My appetite is raging,
gonna hit the 'fridge
and eat all my leftovers,
consume 2000 more
calories than I need too.
Geez, the power of media!

I'm a volcano,
can spew molten lava,
play with me Darling
& you're definitely
going to get burnt.

And still,
you want
some of my heat,
get knocked off
your sweet
pretty feet?

Then go ahead
Miss Reverence,
pray to the Kona-Gods,
I'm starting to smolder,
gonna blow my top off,
just for you!

I am blown away
by your pretty face.
Your full lips remind me
of how kisses should be,
delicious.

Your lovely eyes glow,
they speak of magic,
throwing off sparks.

Heavy-hearted,
I dream of you
& pray for your spell,
one that brings love
my way.

I wait for something beautiful...

It's all so very electric,
this modern, hi-tech
technology moving thoughts,
our feelings at lightspeeds,
continent-to-continent
through cyberspace.

I ponder what people did
without E-mail,
Facebook,
Twitter,
I-Phones & Droids,
X-Boxes,
laptop computers
and all the other
cool plastic-devices
manufactured
to make
our lives easier,
worth living?

I think they probably
talked face-to-face with each other,
wrote letters using real handwriting, not buttons.
They kissed each other on the lips in person,
held hands, breathed on each others necks.
And I am sure there were other things they did with one another best kept private.
It's no secret.....
wow, real intimate-contact!

Things must have been much harder then....

O, how I pray for simplicity,
to feel human touch again!

I'm in her clutches,
she scratches and she claws me
into sweet submission

She painted her toenails fuscia
& O,
the things she could do
with her pretty feet.

Icicles crack
& the sound is carried
like zephyrs
over granular snow
whispering good tidings.

They taper off
to the green sprouts
crying out,
infected by
the warmth
of the horizon-sun,
rising in reverence
to greet
the barren day.

Many a noggin
had been saved
by wearing
layers
of woven
carbon fiber.
"Put your helmet on son,"
he was told,
but he didn't listen.
His nickname
was Silly Rabbit.
Go figure.
Peaking from his hole,
he lost the whole top of his head
when a single round
grazed it.

He was always
such a smart ***,
but when he exploded
into a hundred pieces,
got mystified in a pink cloud,
we all still missed him.
His mother got his purple heart.

Laying here
in the midst of pitch
& this glow light,
I imagine you
dressed in black,
lying
on your back
in dreamy need.

And I do
fight the pangs,
a hardness created
by wild desires,
hormonal in nature,
brought on by
my gyrations
& I succumb,
lay breathless
in the dark,
covered by my seed.

But O Sweet Darling,
I pledge,
make a solemn oath
& do promise
to get up
for you again.

For if you knew,
how hard I keep them,
you'd smile,
licking your lips,
in the darkness, too.

You always loved me
on your own terms,
rolling them dice,
slamming down those cards
& picking up sticks.
Rock on Sweetness.
You go Honey Pie.
And while you at it,
playing those silly little games,
do a couple of magic tricks for me.
Make one a vanishing act.
'Cause when you reappear,
I promise,
you'll think about me,
you'll wish I was there.
But you can kiss my *** goodbye,
I promise,
you won't find me
in a ******* Jack box,
not this time.
Sorry Dollface,
you'll have to find
another gamer
to make promises.

We spend countless hours spewing endless emotions,
regurgitating common thoughts & common
stories of angst & love,
sheer loneliness,
dire frustrations & such things that chip away at any silver lining
of hope and yet,
it never ceases to amaze me how we re-work all these similar things
into beauty,
wonderment,
amazing spiraling
personal manifestos
of our existence,
proof that we do exist
& did.

Bounce-back emails,
unanswered texts
& you've closed
your account
& it hurts,
claiming
you
know pain.

Yeah, right.

I was a rebel once,
fought the law
more than enough,
had my scrapes
and always lost.
If the system wants you,
it will gobble you up
and spit you out for sport.
And I'm told by an ancient proverb
to get back up eight times
after being knocked down seven.
But what if Heaven does exist?

There are some days
when I just want to pull the pin,
try to get your attention.
Of course,
it's only a dark fantasy.
I don't really want to roll a live grenade
next to your location.

Once they were words
contrived
in love
& now
I scroll
& punch 'delete'
& feel the relief,
a rush,
this release,
the freedom
from
the rejection,
no trace.

I wish you were here now.
I would whisper
sweet nothings in your ear
& you would smile.

I would give anything
to trace your parted lips with
my fingertips,
inhale your breath,
listen to your
heightend-state,
notice your blood
get heated,
go hot.

And to feel you trembling
with my magic-touch
would make my own face
crack a smile.

Our eyes would meet
& we would be silent
in our own thoughts.
That's purity in
every sense of the word.

I'm in a serious rush,
so this poem,
few words.

The monkey was a smooth operator,
it would sit for hours above the busy street eating green bananas,
then every now & then,
would slide down the drain pipe
to make the exchange.
Nobody suspected a capuchin
dressed in leathers,
trading tar for dollars.
Ingenious.

Ever get that feeling,
you just can't stop the words from flowing,
your mind races trying to capture
so many moments at once.

That's how it is most of the times with me,
my brain feels like a marathon runner,
pushing through the wall
& bleeding ink
like dripping sweat.

Imagine getting on
a big jetliner
for a holiday
& your flight
strays near Russia
with Putin at the helm.
Not a comforting thought,
huh?

O Sweetness,
harken Dear Angel...
have a seat,
lower yourself
onto your throne,
your sacred place
above me.
O how nice
your Royal Highness!
Let me view
your full majesty,
let me glisten
with your royalty,
come inside
your splendor.
O my delicious Queen,
you are supreme!

In black and white,
she's rather cute,
just right.

But in color,
she's much more alive,
she is out of this world,
the Queen of the Universe,
she's that striking,
such a delightful smile,
her dimples rock!

She has a keen eye,
understands the use of color,
the configurations of Asian furniture,
how candles & art look in a room.

She decorates wearing holey-leggings
& loose fitting embroidered blouses
‘cause she knows
what they do to me.

And she’s constantly
moving things around,
is visiting me in my study,
the place where the futon lies,
where we lay together
& I playfully
remove her loose-fitting attire
to quench my
own decorating ya-ya’s,
this burning heart.

And how can
one go mad
Buttercup,
when one is already
crazier than a loon?

Does one get madder
through self-indulgence?
Pray tell me please,
put my mind at ease,
Buttercup.
Should I drink
a whole bottle of mezcal,
burn an ounce of herb or
snort a mountain of flake?

Oh, I do ache, Buttercup!
But should I
buy a Hummer,
spend my money
on frivolous things,
like endless raindrops?

Oh Buttercup,
how do you
keep your pain
in check?

Through
these
restless situations?

I think
methinks
not.

Do you love me you ask
& me,
me lacking wisdom,
doth not have the right answer
to this perpetual question
of the ages.

And I ask do you love me
& you,
you say yes
& I know better
as you prepare to go out
to enjoy the nightly festivities.

Love is in the air
& I'm flying
home
thinking
'bout her.

I'm stuck,
****** down
thinking of you,

And I'm scared,
watching the horizon
slowly
disappear.

I am
becoming a slave
to the bowels,
to the bowels
of the Earth
you walk on.

And there is
no
trace
of
me
left
Lady.

Give me a reason to love you.

Please ease
this
sinking
feeling.

It’s always that first one that cracks the ice,
that warmth rushes over your head,
easing the pain,
it brings your guard down,
you are electrified.

By the third or fourth one,
you’re on a roll,
everybody,
everything,
every word you speak is beautiful,
then you begin the superhuman mode,
that’s the time when
the head banging music takes you away.

At this point the libido is spitting
(probably not yours),
all the prey-seekers
tend to your whims,
you are so lovely.

And this is when things get hazy,
fights break out,
property gets stolen,
money is spent (or lost)
cars crash & articles of clothing
come up missing.

Sometimes you wake up
with a complete stranger,
naked.
Other times, you lie
face-planted
kissing the Earth
smelling like ******* death
along with a jackhammer head.

When this behavior becomes habit,
you are no longer human,
you are a figment of a human.
You’re not real,
you are a harbinger
biding your time
until the next time
you **** things up
or quit to get real.
You gotta believe
something’s better than this.

So we get needled,
nickle and dimed
all of the time,
people chinking away
at our armor.

Wanting to scream
at the top of our longs
to *******,
but instead acting
prim and proper,
a residual of the Vanderbilt
school of etiquette,
******* political correctness
ruining the spirit.

Can you hear it,
see the blight,
the lack of courage
all over this land?

I was afflicted
before I was born,
carried a disease,
living in the belly of the beast.
I feasted on nails,
ate them for breakfast,
at lunch,
and for dinner.
While people were getting invisalign,
we were drawing beads on bad guys.
And when they posted on Tumbler,
my buddies & me were dismantling IEDs.
Christ, they think Facebook is cool,
drooling over what
their friends are
having for lunch.
Sadly, in the scheme of things,
none of this means ****,
the only reality is your own
& how you treat your enemies.
That's survivor of the fittest.
Ask yourself this,
how long will you make it
when the power finally goes out?
One hour, maybe two.
It won't be fun or even pretty.
Stormtrooper's coming.

Wait and see people,
when the power goes out,
it's going to be a freak show.
Ya know, it goes out for only an hour
& people get totally squirrelly,
they get really agitated,
start squawking.
Imagine a week to ten days.
It ain't going to be playin' yahtzee,
Personally, I'll be going on the offensive,
if you don't take the initiative,
the hooligans are going to come
and take all your **** by force.
I saw three headless bodies once,
hands tied behind their backs,
it was a ****** affair.
So listen up folks,
this picture of peace & calm
is only a facade,
it hides the animal
inside of all of us.
I've seen them.
Most people
are ravenous wolves
in disguise.

It's that first kiss,
that first touch
of bare skin,
the first taste
of raw honey
that seals our fate.

Once smitten,
bitten by the lust-bug,
one is never the same again.

We can cry about broken hearts,
the agony of rejection,
all the pain we've had to endure,
but we can never deny
the reality of the physicality
derived from such
pure primal pleasure,
never.

Ray got up that day &
watched the blue sunrise,
witnessed the two moons
diminish in the east.
And as he drove away
in his selenium-powered craft,
toward his profession
at the the power plant,
he dreamt,
wished for a better life,
in a galaxy
like ours.

We have
a special
connection
you and I,
the words we write
create nice reactions.

I think mine makes
yours moist,
'cause mine's
hard
to read
when I'm alone.

I lie alone,
awake,
on top of the sheets,
burning up.

The fan spins
slowing above me,
dousing me
with a cool
vent-breeze.

Here in
my controlled
environment,
I read you & still
feel out of control,
still burning up.

I'm in 5A again,
but this time
it's a bigger plane.

But,
I'm 4 hours behind,
'cause my first connection
was canceled,
they said
it was a mechanical
issue.
Now,
I'm on board &
ready for takeoff.

Thank God,
I'm leaving that
soulless lounge behind,
better safe than sorry.