Paul Masson.
Hot sauce.
Colgate - old and stale
as puke.
Grease.
Newports.
Former head.
Recovery.
Country dirt.
Pecans.
Cotton.
A black fist held high.
Hope that one day
he'll be able to fit his ex-wives
into a nice,
cordial sentence.
Love.
Real love.
Man love.
Type love that kicks *** when it has to.
Sears cologne,
OG ****.
Some Christianity,
but not a lot,
not nauseating
and obnoxious,
more like
quiet
and
almost not there.
More Masson.
More Newports.
Gold fillings;
the Midas Touch
on his tongue;
the ability
to blind you
in the glow of his breath.
Rotten *****.
Real rotten.
Rotted to viral nostalgia
because it tastes
like ****
and makes him lick the roof
of his mouth
to get that smell
out,
just to make
room
for it
again.
Chitlins.
Obama's saliva.
Collard greens
with all the vinegar
and red pepper
in Satan's *******.
Herman Cain's armpits.
Fear
for
me.
Love
for
me.
Power.
Former riverboat
porter.
The smell of rich white men
that talked about
*******
while he stood
stoically.
Strength
like
you've never
smelled before.
Human.

She started out some years ago

the wife of a friend of mine.

The lady’s name was Lisa,

and she was a Florentine.

Through all of my commissions

She followed me through time.

Lisa Gherardini

had a shy and secret grin.

I remember when she sat for me,

the light was perfect then,

But something less than perfect

Was the aspect of her eyes.

She had a stigmatism

That my art could not disguise.

Last night, lying there with Salai

my apprentice and my love.

I looked into his eyes

and was inspired from above..



I hurried to my studio

And burned the midnight oil

This time Salai sat for me

in the same pose as the girl.

.

The result I deem perfection,

I will keep her till I die..

I’ll never sell this mystery girl

That has my lovers’ eyes.

I’ll sleep within these woods tonight,
That much, at least, is plain.
I’d hiked for several hours
And not much day remained.
The shadows on the ground grow long
As it’s that time of year
when leaves on branches are few or none
and shadows sinister appear.
There is a clearing up ahead;
A friendly glow is seen
A solitary camper sits
beneath an Evergreen..
His smile is warm and friendly
He bades me to remain
with gestures warm and welcoming
Speech lyrical and strange..
I share with him a simple meal
Of pan fried fish and beer.
The meal seems like a miracle
As I know of no lake near.
Dark night has come and both are glad
To spread our bedrolls down
I sleep the night like one who’s dead.
I wake, and no one’s near.
No sign of my host or his tent
No sign that he was here.
I shake my head in wonder
And pack my roll to go.
What the Evergreen has witnessed
is not for me to know.

Help me
the drugs don't work
my father touches me
I am too fat
powerless
I incise my anorexic hunger
with a martyr's red razor
rewarding myself
with a dopamine high
mixed with pity and disgust
so I can hide in the up and down
never know my real reasons
project my sadness onto others
and take pills
from psychiatrists
who themselves
believe the shallow island of chemicals
is the solution
and who work only
to keep you sick
when the sun is shining
but you cannot see it
because your frontal cortex says
the sun is not shining
when in fact
it is.

One day when you are turning gray
Like I am now
You will look at a list you wrote
Through all those years
And all your different lovers.

You will think of them
One by one
And in the silent pictures of your mind
You will know which ones truly loved you
And which did not.

You will see their faces
One by one
And know the true lovers had the boy’s hearts
The gentle sweet fellows
Who came with sincere flowers
Their heads bowed down
Eyes fixed to the ground at your feet
Transfixed by your beauty.

They worshipped you
Trusting their beloved's animistic heart
Innocent and devoted like to mother,
They were pure beyond lust
And helpless but to adore innocently
For there is something in the simple heart of love
Tenderness in the heart of a boy-man who truly loves
And when he does
He cannot go halfway.

Who is this keen lover?
Closer than my own flesh,
Sweeter than the naive wishes of my youth.
She who loved me before time
And will go with me
When it is time to dance with the angels.

She is more than the women of lustful ecstasy
Whose moods swung with the days.
She is nearer even than my own mother
Who never truly was anything but a DNA match.

She is the silent witness
To my life’s trivial dramas.
She may not always approve when I flail,
But I know she loves my soul.

She is the intimacy of silence,
The radical profound love I feel
When I am out of my mind in solitude and yearning
For just one more kiss,
Joyous for no earthly reason I can name.

From noticing comes attraction
from attraction comes desire
from desire comes touching and tasting
from touching and tasting comes craving
from craving comes attachment
from attachment comes expectation
from expectation comes disappointment
from disappointment comes resentment
from resentment comes pain
from pain comes anger
from anger comes frustration
from frustration comes unhappiness
from unhappiness comes isolation
from isolation comes loneliness
from loneliness comes despair
from despair comes boredom
from boredom comes  silence
from silence comes acceptance
from acceptance comes healing
from healing comes a new life
and then from that new life comes noticing
and from noticing comes attraction
and from attraction comes desire
and if you are lucky
you recognize the game.

found at the heart of
true: it's you dear, who gets me
through the days, yes you.