You want to play war,
you think you’re so tough,
go ahead then,
I’ve got something
for your belligerence.
That’s right,
put up your dukes,
let’s fight!

O yeah soldier,
sniff some of my vapor,
inhale it deep,
get a good whiff.

At first you’ll get a runny nose,
probably try to rip off your clothes,
you’ll have trouble breathing
with a constricted chest,
as your pupils dilate,
you’ll make a confessional,
get blistered.

Then you’ll *****,
urinate & defecate,
soil your pants,
do the funky-monkey
spin spastic
& keel over
with a closed-throat,
stone cold dead.

You see,
I am the result
of diabolical science,
I’m manufactured specifically
to ruin your day
& I will.

Back in the day,
which seem like
not very long ago,
I was out living my life
& I didn't write much poetry.

Now, I stay inside a lot
& write stanzas all the time.
Maybe the verse-gods
are trying to tell me something.
I wonder.

Currently,
I'm stiching a whole human body suit
with a real wig attached
along with some fake mohair
& who cares if it looks good,
it gives me a rush
only a ******
would understand.

A mantis
whispered to me
from between
the creaking shoots,
telling me of heartbreak
& what can I do,
when I say goodbye,
my eyes fill with
the mystery of the ages,
& what can you do,
but cry for an eternity.
(Only wise insects know these things.)

And what does one do
with heartbreak,
write
sad poetry.

It's the first day of the
proverbial rest of my life,
I'm a year older,
a year wiser,
I have my list of resolutions,
hopes still tucked away.

But how sad,
I don't feel any wiser,
I still feel the same.
And yet, why can't I
get these things done?

How real, I let
the drive of the gravy train
cause more broken dreams,
create even more pain.

Oh weell, I'm not one to wallow in the
proverbial mire,
but it does seem,
I waste alot of my precious-time
looking at these wise-proverbs
for my answers.
Why does feel like
I always look for wisdom
in someone else's life
of mess-ups & gaffes?

The reasons seem elusive, but
I guess I can't waste any more time
lying here alone thinking about it.
guess I can't take life too seriously.
I have to just laugh,
puck myself up, seize the
proverbial one less day &
use whatever time I got left
to live whatever dreams I got left.

You say you like it rough,
you're a tough city girl,
grew up on the mean streets.

But what if I smacked your ***,
left hand marks on your lily white skin.
And what if I thrashed you from
every angle for sixteen hours.
And what if I twisted you in knots,
And what if I tied you up
and took you by force.

Now, I'm not sayin'
I'd do those things,
I'm just sayin'
what if
tough girl.

I was told today
that none of this was real,
that it was all a sacred set-up,
a game to make us think.

It was a homeless guy
who told me this.
He was kissing a pigeon
as he sifted through the bin,
picking up nickels
& empty cheese wrappers.

And I thought,
what if he was right,
what if we weren't here,
what if this piece
was not really being written,
what if,
what if?

I dreamt I was in a fight
and woke up
from a deep sleep
stitchless,
in an excruciating fire,
tortured by a burning,
a hellacious tingling.

And when I went to
soothe this itch,
I reached down & found
half of me wasn't there.
It took my breath away.

And as I lay there,
I wondered
if anyone really cared
about such pain,
such sacrifice,
this price I had to pay
for politics.

The only sound I heard
was my heart beating
in my throat
and some burnt guy
lying in a bed
right next to me
without
his face
crying.

Probably
like me,
he wanted to die.

Loneliness slithers,
constricts like boa,
restricting breath,
Heartbreaking,
near death.

I have walked with devils,
held their hands
in the darkest corners
of the material world, but
they've shown me nothing of value,
only drained me of my sanity,
my assets & my faith.

And when
I prayed to Jesus
for assistance,
I found out
he was big business too.
For a small donation,
they said they'd say a prayer
for my salvation.

Hell, what kind of Jesus
takes money
from destitute people
in trouble
& asking for help?
Tell me, Jesus!

She lived inside my head,
I inside of hers.
We swam, immersed
in each other's soul,
tasting spirit.

We bled our dreams,
shared our loving-hearts,
ached for a tomorrow
that died.

Facing west now,
I watch the sun fade
into dark shadows,
crying to create new stars
& wondering,
what’ll I do without her……

You lay supine,
bent luscious-legs,
a genuine beauty,
a pearl,
twirling your hair
with sweet intent.

O, you must be Heaven sent,
perhaps, I am your gent!

I've spent a lifetime
for this moment,
the moment
you captured mine,
lent me your heart.

Her saucy
delicate words
put sweet
******* visions
in my mind.

When she puts things
the way she does,
the Lord and her knows
I'm going to react.

And how can I not
feel the same way.....
I mean,
like me,
she knows
just what she's doing
& it's hot.

Whew!

I could never figure it out,
how all them pretty ladies
balanced themselves
on those stilettos.
I mean,
it definitely makes them look hot.
But, their feet are positioned
at a perfect
45-degree angle
with their ankles bent
so un-human-like.
O please tell me
Dear Ladies,
what's the secret
to walking
on those
****-spikes?

Strange days Jonny.
I wonder if
that's what Yoko said.

If the balloon ever did go up,
there's a lot of people
who aren't gonna make it,
I can read it between their lines.
I would suggest stocking up
on some survival skills,
'cause when anarchy comes for you,
it ain't gonna be pretty.
Ask Mr T from Texas,
he's seen the elephant,
better lock & load.

She looks beautiful
from behind.
Her satin-hair spills
over her delicate shoulders,
the ****-curve of her back
is so seductive, she
has a delicious bottom.

When I drape myself
over her,
she inhales with
satisfaction,
we fit tight,
like a glove.

I love that position.

And so does she,
that's why she
lies like that,
whenever
I'm around.

It can be a good thing
when lightning,
when lightning
strikes
in two places
at the same time...
it's rather electric...
mutual...
quite titillating
I think.

There were dogwood blossoms
here once,
near the old court house
& out here,
out here
on the run,
the supplies never came,
that's when
the blooming stopped,
we're told.

I see my room littered
with another day's worth of clothing
& there are more dishes piled in the sink,
everything seems different,
so out of whack.
In fact,
the grass has gotten much higher
& it's getting harder
to get my lazy ***
out of this messed-up bed.
Lately I wished I were dead,
but how fun would that be
& who doesn't need real touch?

The hot sun does cast
a tarnished light
over a pale,
washed-out forest,
full of obnoxious sound.

And the distant stars
do grow dim,
filling a sky
that is only black,
found often to be
an intoxicating elixir
for the simple-romantic,
who believes
in such wild-fantasy.

And any whim
was exactly that,
only a whim
& never true.

And who knew silence,
O that lovely lonely sound,
was so sweet,
so comforting,
calling me,
calling me
with a devil's refrain,
"Love thyself sinner
& no one else,
love thyself sinner
& no one else,
to avoid
the eternal heartbreak,
to avoid
the eternal heartbreak!"

Your coffee tastes bitter
& the sun's not so bright,
you don't want to love,
you just want to fight.
There is no heart,
when the muse is over.

On the fringes in space
lurk the watchers,
with a darkness like leprosy,
disfiguring in their wake.

Once exposed
to the evil
in their hearts,
there is no cure,
but abstinence.

And that kills the poet.
And when the poet dies,
the world loses  
one more piece
of its soul.

I know now,
how they must have felt.
Those loving vintners,
who watched over
their vineyards
like a concerned father,
a momma cat,
who
caressed
& nurtured
their grapes,
made supreme varieties,
the most magnificent blends,
with hints of French-oak.
I know now,
how they must have felt,
polishing off their last glass
of their finest vintage.
Those loving vintners.

We The People
spend infinite minutes
arguing over semantics
& while they pit us
against each other,
it's business as usual
for the warmongers,
those greedy tax collectors
filling their own coffers
full of our money
& calling our losses
the cyclic effect
of the global economy.
When will we wake up?

It began with a glance,
then a gentle brush.
You gasped as my palms
met your chest,
felt your diamond tips
through cotton.
To see your eyes roll back,
your precious lips part
& your knees grow weak
was enough for me.

I could smell your musk
through you jeans,
you felt my reaction
through my own &
we both reached a
mutual explosion without
the benefits of bare skin.

That's when you know
you've got something good,
when you can satisfy
one another
fully clothed.

She was a real angel,
stars covered
her pretty face
& she read to me
my poetry.

O Where did
Violet go?

Nobody really knows....
but maybe,
just maybe,
she's back in Heaven.

That ***** was tough,
I mean,
she was picturesque,
a sweet
beautiful
f'n sight to behold.
Not too old,
but old enough
for frisky business.
She stood straight up,
with her back
to the crowd
facing the bar
grasping double-****** whiskies.
She was a freaking shooter,
rapid fire witchery,
hoisting them up
like there would
be no tomorrow.
And they didn't seem to phase
her neon azure mop
or the devil tats flipping birds
on her shoilders,
she was practiced,
certainly well-versed.
Her pendulous *******
were heaving,
both of them mightily,
covered with her sweat,
and red,
some yellow roses.
I loved her platforms,
plasticene white,
with jeans like leopards
exposing her lace
and fineness.
Jesus,
where do they make 'em
like her...where?

Between the benign & the mundane,
the tyrant squashed people
like measly bugs,
trashed their human rights,
citizens disappeared in
the middle of the night,
pigs & neon flashes,
dreams destroyed,
scattering the saviors.

The heroic,
those ****** coups,
& the pink tide
won’t matter,
we’re all going
to where Hugo went
anyways,
imperialists with those
Zamora-phytes.

There was a time
when folks listened,
read the profession,
it was a respectable position.

Nowadays
the hustle & bustle
of the drones
leaves us
feeling like
we’re ******

Do we even know any poets,
are there any left,
does anybody know
how it feels to be real anymore?

Why roll another joint,
we’re already ******
by a techno-society
out of touch
with humanity.

Without the poets,
where’s the love!

Where will you be when anarchy comes
& what state of mind will rule you
when the racists hit the streets,
smashing heads,
robbing the blind,
destroying public property,
molotoving the neighborhoods,
privatizing their selfish notions.
Make no mistakes,
without a doubt,
people will become canibals,
eating each other
for their daily meal.
It will become the real deal,
blood spilling,
painting the planet
with dead innocence.
Where will you be,
when the **** really goes down,
it won't be television.
Are you gonna drown
or stay afloat?
Just remember,
there are evil forces
working behind the scenes,
so get rid of your barcode.
It's better to be the hunter,
not the hunted,
arm now.
Word up.
Rally.

I have your grainy
fragrance
still on my shaky hands.

Your sweet oaken taste
on my quivering
wanton-lips
has permeated
my soul.

You have burnt my throat
& intoxicated my heart
with your spirit.

I am drunk,
unsteady
on my feet
without you...
kiss me
in one gulp,
please.

Waste not,
want not
say the brilliant
idiom-makers
& I don't,
not a single drop.

O this drunken pleasure!

I sauntered up
to the carved mahogany
& ordered whiskey,
two shots straight up.

Outside the sun
melted tarmac,
saquaros
bore silent witness,
a million
miles from home.

I was mesmerized
by the toothless grin
of the tender,
deep ruts in his face.
his mystical eyes.

And I wondered
about the stories
he could tell,
if he ever wretched
on buttons
or traveled
the Milky Way
flying as a crow.

The blasts tasted delicious
burning my mouth
& enjoying
the cosmic
ethanol-moment,
I forgot about
such fleeting thoughts
at my sudden stop
along the lonely
stretch of highway.

Out here,
out here on the tundra,
snow whispers.

It blows along,
crawls above the ice pack
under the aurora
& pelts me
like cold tiny needles.

It speaks in silent tones,
reminding me of this fight,
then trails away
quickly
into the frozen night.

There's a special place
I go to in the Blue Ridge,
it's a smidgen west from Ranger,
part of the Hiwasse flow.
I sit there comfortably alone,
next to a babbling brook,
surrounded by laurel & dogwoods,
where busy bumble bees don't tumble,
they buzz right on by with the wasps.
The foxes think their sneaky,
but I see them peaking
from behind their den
& at night,
the cicadas sing
to the circling stars.
That's when I commune,
I whisper to the wood spirits.
It's magical
you know.

Vibrant and spunky
Traditional beverage
Calms the anxious soul

I love your black dress,
you know,
the short one
with the white polka-dots.
And when you lift it up,
I love it even more
as my jaw hits the floor,
to hear you giggling,
"More!"

Delicious-traces
still linger
on my tender-fingers.
But pace yourself darling,
I want to see that same look on your face,
again.

Whoever wrote "happy-ever-after"
lived inside a fairy tale.

They make us feel
less than human,
use us as robots
for selfish needs
& though we love
what it is they do,
we still will always wonder
who they really are.

Who counts the days,
basking in loneliness
& who calculates the days,
smiling with sadness
& who numbers the days
reveling in brokenheartness,
pray tell,
who.

We moved with
the speed of lightning,
supersonic-soldiers
sifting through
the rubble of places
people called
their home.

And we,
we the invaders,
the believers of politics,
eye for an eye,
had the power of absolution
in our hands.

And who,
who made us,
gave us
the power of gods?

And who am I,
yes,
who am I
to play God,
let alone
that fellow Cupid,
stupid me
I'm not.

The words you spew,
hurl,
feel like shards of broken glass
I walk through.
Who knew love would cut like this....
who knew?

Lightning flashes
& thunder rolls
over the mountain side,
where standing
exposed on granite slabs,
I guzzle it by the mouth-load,
become one with the creation.
Who needs sunshine,
I love the taste of
the Appalachian rain.

They flew screeching,
eagle's into the fray,
undaunted.

I am haunted by their memories,
young bloods fighting for the cause
of the power brokers.

No truth in greed,
clutching death-instruments,
forging new paths,
creating new stars,
crying in the rain
against the parapets
of their enemies.

And who remembers their flight,
tell me, who?

I lost myself this morning.
I got up to start the coffee ***
& when I returned,
I was gone.

This is going to be a really strange day.
Me not knowing where myself went
makes things a bit mystifying.

I mean,
how can I spend a whole day
not knowing where I went
& who's going to drink this java?

I always thought it was a bit weird
when people put stock into
scrambled chicken bones
& shuffled cards
to tell them their future.
And, why chicken bones?
Pictured skeleton-cards?
Why not cow or dog?
Cat or frog?
Unpictured cards?
Does it really make a difference
to the occult forces?
I mean,
who wrote the rules
on such things?
Angels?
Devils?
Indian Chiefs?
The Chinese?