Ripples of effulgent colors
Reaching out from waters disturbed
Waves bothering no one
Except silent moods
And heavy sighs

Leaves falling like the fire from the skies
Sitting at the river bed alone
Hearing the blazing trumpets of angels
In the air for all of the world to hear
Definite, gazing and profound

The streets echoing the screams
Of thousands
Maybe millions burning
The people melting
turning to ash

And

Visions so pristine, with pools of clear waters
Where the universe dances with shooting stars
Nights so serene, with comets and saucers
Where multi-verse poets tell fables from mars

Mirrors orbiting realms of light and sound
Along ghost ships, serpents and mango worlds
Wormholes overwhelms clouds that surround
Near women’s hips and flowing hair swirls

The earths below like a burning molten orb of muck
Where Rephaite giants wrestle behemoths in vile seas
The dreams glow here like a harem where angels ****
And centaurs play Gato Barbieri tunes full of gleam

And

That sad moment where I wake up in an ***** pit
Below the Broadway theater
And a little Chinese lady scoots me out for new customers
And I stumble out into the streets
And buy a paper
Reading of a stock market crash
and the end of my job

as I fend for life in the jungles of Vietnam
I see friends of mine get their faces shot to pieces
And their brains fall to my lap
And I scream as the Vietcong rush me
Hack my limbs off and leave me for dead
And I wake up in a hospital bed
A quadruple amputee
Falling in love with a nurse I might never see
Again, so I ask her to hold me and let me
Cry into her shoulder
Then I pay a homeless man
to push me off a bridge with him

We fall and hit the water hard and—
He sinks
I don’t
I float up to the surface
And when I emerge I see
myself at the edge of a river
Tossing rocks into the water
I call out to help
But He doesn’t hear me

He stands up and leaves
I crawl up from the river with new arms and legs
Crying with an emotion I cannot describe
For what dreams and past-lives have been here
And there
On this Day of Wrath?

On this beach of trash and rocks?

Where I can see my grand-kids playing
In the southern California dusk

And my wife reminds me of the first time we met
In that hospital
Next to the ***** den
At the end of the world.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5860#sthash.AZ9GFLye.dpuf

Honestly, nobody really cares about the faded pink hash marks which track their course up your forearms and thighs
Honestly, they will feel bad for you then forget
Honestly, it's an effort of futility
Honestly, this is not a world for cowards
Honestly, that's probably what you are
Honestly, drinking and smoking is just another form of razor
Honestly, you need *****. Women and Men.
Honestly, whatever you are is perfectly okay and that is just perfect
Honestly, the majority of people you meet will try to tear you down
Honestly, these monsters are mortal
Honestly, I made a lot of mistakes along the way
Honestly, I don't care
Honestly, they make me who I am
Honestly, this poem will end soon
Honestly, no matter where who what when how, you will be better than fine
Honestly.

The Sorceress, Jacob's Most Beloved

she had eyes for me
I knew it
she knew it
man among boys
stare beguiling no accident
entrancement, entrapment,
of course, her eyes hid,
but knew it anyway, for
her warmth dripped into my body,
resting happily within my centre.

why not?

her sorcery, profound,
when she cast the words,
she cast them instantly
without human fore thought,
thus pleasing and being pleasing,
when her branded magi magic
home in other people's minds
did come to rest.

the spells cast
in and on me
own me as much
as I now am possessed,
and in possession of them,
though which is more powerful
is indeterminate,
for I am stained
either way.

in a quiet hamlet,
in an ancient thorp,
the lambs, white and happy
prance on the commons,
the El god's angel disguised,
fresh and unbroken,
I observe the only one,
spotted, stained, like me,
open hid on this earth.
bleating,
I am my beloved's,
and my beloved is mine,
mine very own sorceress.

Nothing So Sensuous


Last night, I went back in time and met Alice Liddell in 1862.  
Alice Pleasance Liddell, known for most of her adult life by her married name, Alice Hargreaves, inspired the children's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, whose protagonist Alice is said to be named after her.  See her, greet her, in my banner photo, and all will clear.
~~~~~~~~~

nothing so sensuous
as to watch a woman,
nay, a woman child,
brush her hair
in the mirror.

sensuous,
more than sensual,
all my senses
affected.

luxuriating in a gift that
cannot be
bought,
her head titled,
then thrown
from her chest as far back,
your eyes see waves
of chestnut in
slow motion,
the smile on her face
for the knowing that
she has
sorcerer succeeded
in capturing
all of you.

mesmerizer,
she languidly strokes
her hair,
though it needs it not.
no, she brushes you
to your
knees,
your eyes,
see her eyes,
in the mirror,
the woman's sensuality
maddening.

every sense alerted,
you body fired,
far beyond
merely stirred,
she has you,
and then she asks...

would you brush my hair?
have you ever been in love?
have you ever had to tell someone
you no longer loved them
though you still did?

you answer:

Oh yes, Oh may I?

yes, with you totally, at this very instant.

yes, for I
must leave you
and return to
my time, my age,
150 years from now

the only way
I can do that
is to lie to myself,
no, I do not love you
that much,
not that way,
pretense,
for the agony of this

impermissible desire

is such ecstasy,
that I can
only dare to
write of it,
in my time,
lest I fulfill
it in ours.

She brings me morning coffee and tissues
(Tissues, ostensibly a coaster)
for she knowing.

Poetry,
I am writing,
needing then,
to wipe up
the spilling
tears.


PostScript:
Which of the mysteries within this poem
need answers?
All or None.

The seat, 15C,
it calls itself,
screams at me,
let me out!
can't breathe,
with you in it.

pretty sure
sir seat,
it ain't me
that got wider,
but that you
are slimmer.

your momma cut you
3/4 inch, on a metallic line,
on either side, each wrist,
read it in the Journal,
their motto, no fooling!

yup,
even at 10,000 feet,
the ****
cutting word
gotta put in a
guest appearance.

in the exit row
we swore an oath,
administered with
great solemnity to a
no-nonsense stewardess.

bowed we did,
to the AAlmighty,
in the event ,
we needed to operate
the emergency exit,
we would a good job.

**** right,
all cheerfully replied.
nat, women and children first,
which was perhaps
why my fingers
were crossed
under my iPad.

sweetly, they offered me
juice, soda or water,
hard crust of bread,
cost 6.99 if you could
squeeze your hand
in between
your **** and the seat,
your wallet to retrieve.
(credit cards only)

plenty turbulence on board,
the east coast weathering,
you may well have heard,
inclement weather
up and down its entirety.
at least,
I read that in Miami,
the rain is warmer.
(no charge for the
RRR, real rock n' roll)

because I am feeling
the holiday spirit,
signed up for the
up-in-the-air Internet,
the price paid,
I won't reveal,
lest you call me Midas.

somewhere over Tennessee,
I thought I would drop you
this note, pretending it was a
for-real, certified, sorta of a
poem, disguised as a
Genuine Thanksgiving Prayer.

in a way you will never understand,
that lovely thunderbolt lit up yellow,
just a click, a finger tip flick,
kind words in accompaniment,
make feel better about myself.

much do I have,
for it is given unto me,
to be thankful for.

you cannot be thankful for
having,
only for giving and receiving.

this is my first thanksgiving here,
and though jocular do I prose,
with earnest almighty I promise myself,
I will share my corn, feed you pieces
of me that I don't speak of to others.

my feast of words, more glorious,
because of your attentions,
the warmth of of your fires of
appreciation are recorded,
each in its own unique neuron,
cherished, cared for,
and as promised,

I will shake your hands,
then your body
and your soul,
as long as
I have breath,
an Internet connection,
eyes to weep
at mine own foibles,
fingers to record,
and something
worth sharing,

I am sending you a thunderbolt,
and a notification official,
that you have given me much
thanksgiving in the year
two thousand and thirteen.

thank you.

I don't dedicate poems

nope.

the dedication is in the
composition.

In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire

the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting

the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion

the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before

when it is done
I don't dedicate to you

I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.

someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.