There's a ripple in the system,
things may appear normal,
but they're not.
I saw yellow at the edges,
that was the telltale sign.

They let the steel drones inside,
they are amongst us,
they have the power
to read weak-minds
& work for Mother,
she runs the show.

Nobody knows anything
about the symbols they use,
the clues they leave behind.
But there's something
Mother doesn't know.
There is one working
the fringes in here,
an infiltrator
who knows the score.

And once he's in,
has slipped security,
then close the door,
it's lights out,
'cause the party's over.

I bowed down
to the neon-goddess
& looking up,
I spied her delicious flower,
felt her power
come down
******* me
& I knew she was real,
by the flavor of her soul.

I only hear the chain clinking
under the endlessly spinning fan
& this continuous buzzing in my head.

I only see the light of my screen,
surrounded by the pitch of my room
& the veil of my solitude that covers me.

I only smell your memory in my mind,
of what once was really incredible
& what could have been so much greater.

I only touch myself privately,
the way you always did tenderly
& it's not nearly as good as you always did.

I only taste the abundant saline-drops
that carve deep lines down my sad face
& I know the flavor of loneliness,
remain starved for your affections.

Like lightning it hit me,
those true colors
so revealing.
The next
flavor of the month
ain't ice cream,
it's real flesh & blood,
sensitive-skin &
brittle-bones
you're tasting.

I escaped from her
shut right eye,
rolled & tumbled
over her rosy cheek,
fell mercilessly
in between their feet,
as they sadly
held each other
for the last time.

The silence of
the early morning forest
was broken by her,
leaning au naturel
over the balcony railing
counting the dew drops
& him standing
behind her,
gripping her pulsing-hips
& whispering sweet nothings.

La tee da!
Oh yeah,
that was our spirit,
the eyes captured
real reflections of puffy clouds,
kisses existed to mean something,
weren't just part of
the 'do-me-now' process.

The rain exploded alright,
we jet-streamed,
smack dab,
right into the sun,
yep, it was fun,
those lip locks
& tender caresses.
I still remember
the fragrance you gave off,
it was fabulous,
those nights with you.

He found it difficult to find a mate
& hid most of the time inside,
wearing his scars out in the open.
Yes, he had trouble vocalizing
his true inner feelings.
Usually, all he could do was just grunt
& run away from the people
who could feel his electricity.
Yet, they still stayed away.

O Dear Miss Molly,
can you meet me?
Can you meet meet me
in the upper hallway
after supper,
and begin
a lil' sin?

And O Molly,
can you please wear,
can you please wear
your cute
French outfit
without your
******* on?

O Sweet Miss Molly,
I'll unscrew the bulb,
sweep you
off you feet,
playing deeply
in the shadows,
be your loving butler.

I'm not sure if blowing **** up
was a fringe benefit or not.
I mean,
you can't do that kind of stuff
out here,
in this crazy
uncivilized world.
Homeland Security
would have a field day
if I started playing
around like that.
Then again,
why not live on the fringe,
it is a benefit
of the byproduct freedom...
I almost forgot.
Shhhhh...

I love the way peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth,
it's so yummy
& it's not very funny
how exasperating,
how something that tastes so good,
can drive you so wild,
especially when the jar is empty
& you have a craving for
a jelly sandwich,
the strawberry jam kind.

O Darling,
I try
& I try
& I try
& I cry
& I cry.

O Sugar,
I can't kiss you with just words,
I can't stroke you with my pen
or make real love to you
with my passionate-verse.

O Sweet Baby,
the best I can ever do
will never be good enough
& sadly,
eventually,
leave both of us
crying
alone.

O sweet baby,
it's so magical,
this technoligical-realm
of fantasy!

My apparent want of you
is fiery, so astronomical.
I succumb to your
desirous-advances,
make love to you
in the shadows.

I can taste your
"Y" in space,
rinse
the screen-dust
off my tongue & face,
but then what darling?

French kiss you in email,
whisper sweet nothings
into my cell,
finger your text,
do you with symbols,
*** you up good in jpeg,
explode together on Skype,
hammer you on Twitter,
free flow into you with a fax,
seed you with a nice
warm stream of pixels?

O my dear lady,
I miss the feel of real flesh,
the sensation of your
feminine flower-grip,
that sultry look
in your pretty-eyes,
the wanton shuddering,
nailed-fingers streaking on my back,
your hypnotizing unrecorded-vocals
& the alluring fragrance
of your raw hot-skin.

And O I feel lonelier now,
more than ever
before this modern age of science
& hi-tech communication.

How 'bout you,
do you feel the same???
Just sext me &
let me know!
:-P...

I never realized the Gambinos
loved classical music so much.
They were always seen carrying
violin & cello cases
in & out of the tenements.

I'm not sure if they were actually playing
or just practicing,
but whatever the case,
some died to listen.

Remember when honey,
remember when
we used to play
the game of doctor.
I always wanted
to take your temperature,
and you let me.
And afterwards,
when I was done,
you would lay,
you would lay
your head
on my heaving chest
with your stethoscope.
You told me
you loved the sound,
the sound
of my beating heart.
Whew
lady-doctor,
we sure
had some
clinical fun!

It falls like slow tears
Cleanses the whole creation
with her gentle sound

We lived,
we breathed our childhood
like runaway trains,
hid our pains in frivolous antics,
created fantastic fantasy worlds.

Some of us were kings
others queens,
still others princes & princesses.
And we did not know excess,
pushing the limits of our existence,
insisting we were real
humans with real feelings,
only trampled on
by those we loved,
the ones we trusted the most.

And now
writing,
we are haunted by those ghosts
who ****** us.

I love honey,
it's natural sweetness,
primal colors,
it's viscosity
so thick
and dreamy,
the gift of busy bees.

The fog of chaos
limits your ability
to make rash decisions,
to feel the love.
And anybody
not wearing
the same uniform
in the zone
is a combatant,
verified or not,
where does the gift go
in the fog of chaos.
Pray tell.

I heard the trees crying this morning,
some whispered,
here comes the sun,
Dear Lord,
it's been too hot.

When it was time to reflect,
I'd always fill up the igloo,
fuel the jeep,
buy some bacon & eggs
& tumble out
into the wilderness.
And it was there,
under God's
little
twinkling lanterns,
hanging solo
around the campfire,
usually dancing in a naked haze
of true grit & whiskey,
I'd find balance.

I watched
the attack,
the ****, then
the splitting
of the spoils.

With precision
& in good order,
they dissected
the carcass
like skilled pros.

I watched them
dismantle the legs
with great speed,
just like the wings
& antennae
taken away
quickly
in a caravan.

Such action
takes place 24/7
on mounds
everywhere,
on the killing fields
of the insect world.

O desperate lovers,
hold onto
your tarnished lockets
& keep your broken clover
hidden deep
in your pockets.

For the grass
is never greener
& chasing it
will only
make you meaner.

Trust me.

She dripped her wildflower-honey
all over my body parts,
even on my stinger
& I'm buzzing
with happiness.
You should hear my wings,
they sing of the mountains.

You have real joy deep in your heart,
love spills from your fingertips,
everything that has ever,
ever surrounded you
is a marvel
in one way or another
they,
they will find a while to rob you of such happiness.
They will kiss you
with their deadly lips
& **** the life right out of you,
because they,
they never had a life
of their own
& for that you will
pay penance
for the rest of your days,
for the sickness
of their missing hearts,
black as night.

And when you,
you find yourself
alone
in the throes
of your
self-induced
scintillating
intoxication,
do you find peace there
gasping?

I could care less about the value
of pork bellies & platinum.
And I don't give a rat's ***
how much they make.

If the Earth wants to hiccup,
it can spit them right out,
ruin their day
& take their trillions with it.

I am the original renegade,
was crazy before I was born.
I never play the status quo game,
it was I who invented
the tune of a different drummer,
even the Marlboro Man
took cues from me.

There's no reason for me
to write with any encryption,
'cause I have no superstitions,
I just wanna tell it,
give to you straight,
harden your resolve.

Some might call that ego,
but whenever I've fallen,
I've gotten back up.
Once I ran with the bulls
& they have bigger ***** than me,
I won the race.

Like you 'lil darling,
I'm the dangerous type,
you can ask Cleo,
she sings the words.

The highway
is my girlfriend,
I love the black ribbons
she wears
in her endless hair,
flowing
we have
so much clean
fast-fun.

I tune into FM,
her radar love
& cruising in my Hemi,
a Barracuda swimming
at supersonic speeds,
I lean on the accelerator,
hitting hyperspace.

I find myself there
& loving
the transmission lines
on her worn face,
I fly alone
in the darkness,
on Route 41
driving
under stars.

Browns & tans dot
the beautiful rocky landscape
& interspersed are patches of brilliant green,
manicured so nicely,
like the white house lawn
& now I know why,
why there's
a water shortage
& the planet
is drying up
for the home show.

Right there doll,
hold that position,
wait one minute.
Ohhhhh that's right.
Maybe two.
Let me get the lighting
on your precious skin
just right.
Fight it.
Strike it.
I want to shoot you
deep in that pose.
curl your toes.

We wore torn jeans
& the holiest of shirts,
our footwear hung loosely
on our swollen feet
as we hung out on the sidewalks
humming simple tunes
to the beat of our own drums.
The people out in the streets
could not read our bright tattoos
or even understand
our far-out hairdos,
but in the scheme of things,
like that really mattered,
we'll never see any
of their faces again.

Everybody
should carry
their own business card
someday.
They are definitely icebreakers
& can certainly give a person
a sense of pride.
And what a great way
to spread personal information
about one's true worth.

Perhaps, they should all
read something like this:

(Front of Card)

Jonny Angel,
A Human Being

(Back of Card)

Wannabe Poet
Lover of People
Idealist

Now, if we could find a way to spread them globally...

I don't seem myself lately.
I hear these crickets constantly
chirping in my head,
it sounds like interstellar-static,
a form of alien communication.

They grind their legs
in unison & play
just under the surface.
It seems,
whenever
I'm in a crowd,
no one else hears it,
does anybody,
do you?

An elegant finesse
& O what love they share,
it's so very complex
like a fine wine.
And with the grittiness
of rotgut whiskey
& his wanton demeanor,
he loves tender-moment kisses
swallowing her petals
& absolutely
craves her
beautiful simplicity
she exudes.

There ain't nothing backwoods
about this place,
I just heard Sublime blaring
at the local BBQ eatery.
Love is all they got
& that placing was jamming.

The pretty lass
moved fawn-like
behind the counter,
her thin flowered sun dress
grasped her sleek-form
so delicately,
grinning behind glasses,
she mesmerized me
completely.

A bit sassy,
with an
air of confidence,
her craft spoke volumes.
She had
a keen eye for detail,
her quality
was impeccable,
burnished ancient coins,
Apollo & Diana the huntress
hung near iridescent colors,
Macaws & Amazons
blazed their vibrant hues.

She sold me Roman glass
wrapped in Sterling,
handcrafted by
her beautiful hands.
If she only knew
how much
it truly touched me.

I wonder about those guys
sometimes,
Ted & Jeff,
Adolf & Genghis,
Vlad & Idi,
such monsters it seems,
where they suckled too much
or maybe not enough?

And what about that guy down the street,
pushing his wife & kids around
like human fodder,
suffering from the same syndrome
I guess?

What a jumbled mess....
I confess,
I could **** him!

Swirling serpentine
Hypnotizing hood uncoiled
A deadly striker

Master Samurai
grimaces palefaced
& rows
toward me
over the blue *****,
bringing
his thunder.

Mister Tiger
grins toothy
& saunters
toward me
down the rocks
wearing his
pin-striped-camo.

Magical Red Dragon
grits his fangs
& floats
toward me
through
the grey clouds,
clutching vengeance.

Sweet Miss Butterfly,
with her brilliant blue
winged-coat,
*****
her iridescence
in a stream,
all over
my sweaty face.

I am surrounded by power,
I have no worries here,
I am the king of down dog.

I knew there was something about her
the first time I saw her.
There she was,
standing at the keg
pouring beers
for a long line of guys.
Her ample chest
was falling out of her blouse,
she had the deepest cleavage,
was passing out kisses
to all the boys.
And as I got closer,
I could hear
she was slurring her words
& taking verbal ****
from the ******* around me.
They were laughing
worse than sick clowns,
calling her all sorts of
disrespectful names.
And sadly,
I stood there thinking
"Hey dudes, none of this is her fault."
She was telling them
her daddy said she was a great kisser...
and asking them,
"Would you like to find out?"

O Lord,
this hand-pressed wine water
has given me a buzz,
so very natural,
it's as if I can taste
every single fox grape,
minus the fuzz.

And my fridge is going to be packed
with peach & blackberry & pecan jam
& three pounds of mild
pork biscuit-sausage,
one hundred times
better than spam.

Hand-picked,
pesticide-free,
green beans and squash,
leaf lettuce & radishes,
green onions and spuds,
geez, nothing I bought fresh
is even close
to being a dud.

This sacred ground I now do leave
& what a shame 'tis me,
but just the same,
without a sound,
I have stocked my coffers full
with items of great worth,
these things are created
by human hands,
the best in all the land.

With six bars of the
finest handmade soaps,
from mint to patchouli to lavender,
I'm gonna be the cleanest guy around
& none is on a rope.

And the sweet hand-mixed honeys,
Galleyberry & Sourwood so golden,
are surely going to hit the spot,
keep my allergies at bay,
as in the days of olden.

This hand-wrought silver
'small crazy dog' pin
will look fantastic
adorning my hiking fedora,
right next to the fused-glass,
hand-blown
copper Celtic cross pendant
made by another local artisan.

And O God,
what beauty you
have helped to make,
this pressed-wildflower
hanging pretty ornament,
constructed with creative-hands,
will bring eternal happiness
back home forever.

And when I'm
a million miles
away from such sacredness,
I'll have my hot java
in my hand-spun
earthenware
mug to comfort me,
and at night,
I'll sip tea from
handcrafted
porcelain pottery,
remembering fondly,
the kindness and care
I fond there,
in the land of sacred hands.

I remember the sad sound in your sweet voice,
you trembled when we hugged,
when you told me goodbye.
I cried my eyes out
& left tears in your hair
that enveloped me
in the wind
that day,
the last day I saw you.

I left you at the chicken bus station.
I stood there
saddened,
watched you turn
& saunter
slowly away
into the early morning
jungle mist.

You asked for it
& I gave it to you,
all that I had
& much more.
Then you left,
high-tailed it
straight out the door.
You left me with a huge mess!
What was I supposed to do darling,
clean up after,
all by myself?

She is the deepest mystery,
dropping subtle clues
in her wake, she shakes
the ground around her,
leaves the lesser
trembling in derision.

Her aura is as radiant as
all the stars in heaven,
certainly an angel,
blinds the lesser,
leaves them
cold in their tracks.

Her touch is
like the finest silk,
the lesser melt inside
her tracing,
heartbroken &
crying for more.

And with one look,
a gaze given
by the sacred,
the lesser
explode like super nova,
forever bewitched,
never,
no never,
the same.

He was certainly whipped,
a passion like none other,
and sadly broken,
they departed,
heirless,
but never forgetting
their passionate-feelings,
their internal fires,
for one another,
burning eternally.

This morning gray skies prevailed,
an icy wind bit my face,
cold tears streamed down
as I pedaled along the deserted streets.

The few drivers who did pass
had no faces.
Perhaps they
were chilled,
crying,
felt a bit empty too.