we make shake n bake
to magnify the whole thing
make it better and higher and more
wow
I went along
that's when I got hooked on
the feeling
the majesty the bangs
now I am down in a hole
looking up and
she is gone and the
thrill too
what the **** is it all
doing
to my brain my libido my life
I give up

by myself like existentialism is
this absurd world calls me
an existentialist
I am authentic, absurdly so
at times,
Atheism and rejection of
mores and philosophies,
might be me,
for I have found no fit,
no defining thing
that calls out to my
significance
like a poem
written coyly
or a woman's cry
in the night
sexually.
I am defined by lust and
the moment.

and efflorescence can write a poem by herself
tang and beer and swallows singing
songs outside your window
can
too
it makes no difference the words she sings
bang and hollow they may seem
when the rhythm sings and things
come
along
like they were  meant to be in all
time like hymns things sent from heaven

trying to make a difference
I write psalms
and poems
applicable
to the common man
I am a carpenter
I labor with muscles
and effort
I speak of peace and love
try to at least
my hands are hardened
my outlook
so calm
I have taken beatings
beaten myself to pieces
trying to find this
this where I can take my
skills at building
and make a thing lasting
a thing to touch you
a feeling
I can build walls so well
cover them make beautiful homes
I want to touch
touch hearts
I need no hammer for this
no level

it makes a diamond a bauble
gold a metal  heavy
silver a shiny insignificance
pearls a nice sea thing
mountains climbable
the deepest valley
shallow
it makes temples another house
symbols unreadable
tomorrow livable
today ethereal
yesterday memorable
others invisible
her touch her kiss
the import
like salt used to be
more valuable than all the jewels
all the oil
all the wisdom of any three
she is my fountain
of youth
eternally

hair all Prell and Aqua Net
mine all Brylcreem
gives away our ages
but not our amour
I asked her out to dinner
she said why don't I cook something
in
I showed up at her door
with gathered wild flowers
and a bottle of Chardonnay
she cooked my favorite dinner
Spaghetti and garlic bread
and we watched
Breakfast at Tiffany's
until I fell asleep next to her on the couch
snoring
I thought it sweet she covered me up
and left a wildflower
from her bouquet on my pillow
we may  be old and the vigor dimmed
but we are still romantics
deep down
within.

is being human, in all our weaknesses,
virtuous a sea
noble a tulip
all dutiful
a ****
frugal a tree
all truthful to their
self and beautiful
I have seen bums be virtuous
the poor generous
the ignorant wise
a seed grow taller than
his father and mother
moldy bread be a miracle
a working girl be a lady
a dog love his master
virtue is in
the eye of
the beholder

hopetimistic
or pissamesstic?
my moods are usually
graded on a bell curve
and seldom are in the middle, they
tend to gratiate to either
end the  high and low parts
of the slurve
depending on if my Dr.s'
subcription is working or
how hungovers I am.
The one time I graded out
in the middle, it seemed too crowded.

out of head when
I get out of pocket
hard times make
me crazier
than i am

might as well
be speaking Japenese
to me
when hard times
rule

now, that I am
with dollar bills
ain't no
one around,
Ain't
that a *****

******* are cool

deceptive, for real,
take a rainbow , for instance,
the colors sensate
sure
the aura
is right there
the bow and
draw to our eyes
like a concrete
highway
right there before our
eyes
in the sky
with a prism's
splitting
colors reality
to grades shades
seeing is proof right
seeing justifies
and when I ride down the highway
searching for
the rainbows end,
too real is the sensation,
gold knowledge is right there,
before my eyes
like a phantasm
*******
hand on
the optic nerves
spot
beyond the next curve

can we all hunker down
under the Magnolias
in the sand of the Plantation
driveway under
a confederate flag anymore?

draw our plans like Lee
would have, with a saber
a picture of lines
scribbled in the sand-
our carbine- loaded by our side
at the ready
our heritage the old war
or states rights
or slavery

when so much time and  lives
have passed
and people oughta know more
about peoples,
about history,
about struggling

which all races do.
It wasn't pretty then.
Not the least bit.
And cotton , high or otherwise,
needs no slavery,
and bigotry is
ancient as
sorghum and
horse meat.

And man is man, proven to depend on a
falsity or hate  to
defend his ancestry, his teachings,
instead of the question.

Here, with a stick
I scribble, while
down hunkering,
the least threatening position,
to ask of myself,
have I done what
I could. And the answer
of course,
the black man and the Mexican,
the Redman, the sensible ,
might answer, is
it will take time.
Do we have enough?

The day I come home with hands
raw as Sushi
where the tips of my fingers
if I touched
silken sheets
would send pain through
every nerve ending
my woman gets
frisky
and i cannot
even fiddle
my dee
so I replaced
the batteries in her
midnight rider.

so another day much like all the others
where I trip and fall through
my ******* and break my neck

you are like diamond colored
I look in your vision things
eyes
I guess they are
but to me are
aquamarine windows
touches of eternity
sparkles of life's fire
the way I see your you
in them
not like any other girl
they sparkle are alive
are my life now
my dreams I see them in
I talk to them while
driving
i see them on every bare wall
on trees
on billboards
on television
in my wafting cigarette smoke
in the shiny beer can surfaces
in my plate
clean
I see your eyes on every
sunrise
they gleam
sparkle
shine
forever

lying on my back on the porch under a fairy tale night sky
a three-quarter moon peaked and wove
through a filigree lace of lingering white
lighting the backdrop canvas of dark infinity
with a daylight blue
I started counting the stars
like my hopes they were
and got to infinity and
lost count of
the ones I counted twice
and it did not matter anymore

For years, I lived thinking no one knew
of the secrets I had, oh a fool,
to hide from myself for so long,
when they knew
And now, looking back I am amazed
of the people who stayed with me, loved even
though
they saw me advertise all my demons
on Main street like
a billboard flashing.
I wish I could be like them
the few  who stood by me through
it all. I am learning
though.

only one thing is certainly true
the sky  is gonna be sometimes blue
and it's going to be dark
what that makes me wonder
is the sky half full
or half empty
the optimist in me says
on the other side of the dark clouds
the sky is always blue
so it is always full, now I have
to think about the  moon

a novel about a poem
a poem about a novel
a novel about a poem about a novel

there is  a room in Chicago
below the Willis Tower
now alone
empty
I went there
once in a dream
saw Wrigley Field-
rode a boat tour-
but my view was limited
by her descriptions.
Not that she didn't tell
the story well.
It's just ,
things didn't work out.
The room is on Randolph Street.
I try not to
think about it.

show me how to be humble
at least hold my weight up.
I could better spend my hours
more positively
and charitable-
than recalling and blaming.
I guess it all begins,
progress,
with a light bulb
going off ,
and it's your last one,
and the store is closed.

I've massacred the facts, torn truth into tiny shards
of a dandelion seed floating away into the cloud.
Where it floats as if it were vapor up and away.
Then this becomes a misty truth, a white cloud
so real to me I would like to float with it,
into the blue, into a sunset, into  the night.
And , truth be told, I am that cloud.
I am what I imagine.
The half-truths and full lies.
The blustering wind blows me farther,
so far from where I intended.
I am at it's mercy.

who begins writing with those words nowadays?
Old men and lonely spinsters?
Fairy tale mobsters, who steal from
the Brother's Grimm?
Ans so it began, begat is on the horizon.
It began , however well meaning, as a poem
and turned into this.
**** and I apologize.

even with misspeelings and quotational **** ups and missed
opportunities like our hearts are on fire
and burning with the spirit of Byron
or Browning, we write and I want to bow to all you ,
who like me have something to say,
whether you are reincarnated Bard,
or a hard working slob, like me,
at the end of the day,
if someone sees and relates that is all it means.
I would enjoy being Whitman,
but then, that would mean I was dead.
I am not Chilean, so I could not be Neruda.
I am not female but Sylvia relates to me.
And so, we write, on and on.
It may be a gift or a sickness.
We just have to.
I take a lack of talent
and make it useful.
It is to me.

about the path out back, in the corn field ,
four hundred acres of tall golden silk,
adorned  in green sheaths,
immature product, where does it go?
This beaten down path?
And, who made it?
Was it two or four legged, or a field of dreams kind of thing?
It could not be more intriguing,
on this hot summer day to wander, could
it be?  Just leave all this behind and
possibly find the King
of the maize or a small rabbit friend?
Or a homeless person with a shack
of corn silk and golden stories,
nestled way back with a fire
and several ears roasting.
Or a band of Elvish women,
supernatural beauties,
chanting Norse songs
dancing in circles. I may have
to bring my dancing shoes.
Or butter.

with every time I look
at the clock
face,
I miss yours , more.

If I could be a psychologist
I would have to lay down on my couch
myself, and delve too deep.

Listen, Donald Trump is not a total idjut.
He has beautiful children and prolly not as
much money as he says, and won the Republican
Nomination. But, I kinda think "the say what you want
at anytime" is kinda ingratiating. Hell, I wouldn't vote for him,
and hope nobody would . I guess, what I am trying to
say is, he has,  *****, nuts , bigguns,
and no sense. I have seen too many of them.
It's like a tribute to our society,
tongue in cheek, that someone can put their foot in their mouth,
so many times and be running for President.
You should check out Mayors and Governors and Senators,
The government is full of them.
But most of them I don't trust as far I can throw their mama.
Trump , I trust to be a fool.
I know he will!

but I have thoughts of Arianna grand
and Carly Rea just in my mind
Taylor swift with her legs
wrapped , well ,
I leave that to my imagination,
is it bad
an  old dude thinks like that?
I guess for the young things
with my drool on em
it might

magical or lyrical or really unique,
you just like me  ,
just a love song for the working classes

accents laden with  southern tradition
Y'all  don't get the true verse of the verb
we'll be fine without anyone,
specially that Uncle Sam
interfering ya' knows.
It's all Northern *******
to think a black man can be equal,
and, to this day it pervades the culture,
the dialect
behind backs said is the ******
behind always  but said proud
and I as a Cherokee have to hear it
they thinking I am of them.
It is not the black man or the Indian
I worry for.
It is for all of us.
I question, how , in
all these years
the  ten thousand million
we do not see,
us as all colors and religions-
One.

to really see me
i get the follicles
of beard in the mirror
needing trimmed
but fail to see the
whole me
big pictured
I get the we part of me
but never got that worked
out quite particularly
the how I have to say sorry
when I don't think I am
wrong
is a big wrong
a big roadblock on this
path covering a canvas
a big x
on a Monet
or Picasso
I am
very poetic
just not romantic enough
and she and her sees
after the new wears off
how much I am not
her Romeo
or muse or me
or a dream

what happened to my diarama
of Boy Scout life disappeared  to
among the badges and the Girl Scouts
like  a lake in the woods
silver ripples
and sun shines
make  memories calmer

I hate when I am static,
I get lazy and a muffin top
the dishes pile up
and words froth up like suds
take over my chores
with hope
legs become  swollen
and seize up
until I hit them
with a trip to
the bathroom
and the hard tile and quarried stone
surfaces
resonate with thoughts
laughing at human
conditions
knowing they are in their places
for a good  long time
no nutrition
or feelings  needed
and the commode
his round shining face a
perfect display of innocence
****** on
seems to smile

t'was many a year ago I had eyes for these twins
named teensy and weensy,
I had problems telling 'em apart;
really, i liked both them equally

they were eyefuls, like bucket fulls of buttermilk skin
both teensy and weensy,
sang and danced akin to
the buttermilk dough boy in drag

They , teensy and weensy were like night and day
though, for once I put my arms,
mistakenly, around weensy
and got my face slapped.

I think I did it on purpose,
you know how we men are

so they came and put a lock on the door
but I have me, my  and I walking with what I can carry
not like it's the first time it happened
I think as i walk slow
of the ghettos of Sighet
and those peoples
destiny
or of the wandering tribes throughout
history
hell I had running water and internet
I had  it so good for a while
I had girlfriends, as the net allows
posts to read and posts to post, nothing
as important as Anne did, her diary and all.
But I wonder as I wander down the road,
when is  this world going to be what we pray for?

I fell in love
once we fell I felt
owned
I left then
cause
she had
a hook  
in me
I don't breathe
under water

ten consecutive *******'s for all those love  poems and ballads
**** a tree in it's roots and friends, another popular tome
written, are like leaves in fall from those ******* things,
I wanna take my anger out out on ****, on sorry sad *****,
on everyone who thinks they are accomplishing
a god ****** thing here.

by letting it out, smashing dishes all along the waterfall,
by taking punches at the tall oaks  right in their barks,
I've learned to kick dirt like a pro,
Billy Martin would be proud,
bless his soul,

I have begun to see life as a hard cruel duel
and want to feel something crunch under my heel,
until I look  in eyes again.
The toad I was gonna scrunch looked
like my ex,
and i thought,

something that ugly and *****, I have to
have compassion or empathy for, for I ain't really
no better.

posy and ***** under the canopy of cherry blossoms
in spring along the walk we walked , the one we did
that night and sang, and watched chip and monk go
scurrying out of our sight like two
children caught with  their pants down,
it was silver maple and the wise weeping willow
we decided to lay down under,
remember, that night,
I do.
It was the sly sliver of moon eye
we fell asleep together under
holding onto each other like the clover
to the meadow,
the bright sun we woke to,
harsh shadows we strode back to our
places, me with a posy
you with a *****,
in our hair.

my muse, who used to sing to me every time
I needed her, her needs were mine, we intertwined
like the corner of a room forgotten,
darker then a web inscribed with our initials;
then one of us , or both realized, the
borders were not boundaries,
but were needs seen at the time,
space and perceptual limits, keeping us safe.
I or her or both grew out of the darkness.
Or one grew farther into.

how angry and totally alone I felt and
I wanted to write poetry and talk to her
and the seed of total despair had grew
into a demon a dragon a mountain
I saw no way to conquer
or climb
I wish I had a bud
a bud to take a **** of
to calm me like it usually does
but all I had was
hopelessness  like a whole field of
them in my dream
and I am paralyzed
reaching for my pipe
and it disappearing
so I reached in the fridge
drew out a too ripe
banana
and tried to smoke it
take my word, don't try it
and I saw
in the back corner
the farthest reaches , of my fridge, almost forgotten,
that mushroom growing on last week's salad-
I am tripping, now

just feel all alone
amidst all  this world has
riches never
come
to me
sad
yet pity doesn't
even imagine
the hunger

drinks and cusses like a sailor
holds her own with
spiders in the shower
makes her own breakfast
cleans the dishes she uses
spends her money at Dollar General
likes cats and dogs
drinks whiskey and smokes ***
so my beer and ******* are all mine
has a trimmed  heart above her *****
and only one tattoo
a heart on her left breast
no metal in her thing
a dad and mom that she still
talks to
an ex who pays child support
children who are almost
perfect little saints
who is not afraid to
put me in my place at times
likes Baseball
and once wrote a dissertation
for her PHD about the differences
between Socialism and liberalism
and drives a Vette.
A 1988 Chevette!
I knew her a
long time ago.

and again and like last time once more
once more through the same routine
like a mouse in the machine
running faster this time
have to maximize
profit no cent
left unearned
run run rat through the maze
get your *******
reward
better than ***
better than  the rest
I push and snort
to the limits
again and again for
what?

everything seems thought and tried
wore out
nothing new to find
the same arranging
the flowers stolen
from
an old cemetery
chords
and words
all recycled
leftover
from an
old refrain
the rest is
just
cliche
and repetition
what
hope have
we
to make
a new
anything?

what's an apostrophe
but a high comma,
a dash- might be
equal missing  a part.
A :) can be a smile
so anything is possible
in good old
USA

return the sun's rays catch a bucket of rain
be the sky for one minute
a cloud fleeting
be a squirrel in an oak tree
or a rose in some  garden
or  the  beach as the sea laps at me
be a star or the moon
be something
truer
more causal
more a part
of everything
take that bucket of rain and fly
above the desert
and cry forever
happy then

rarely if ever sings anymore
just clutches the limb like
its her last thing
turns her head now and then
and the cats have lost interest
the ***** will avow
the cats never even
look her way
they have Mockingbirds and Jays
to chase
and she just sits there
nary a caw or tweet
or a turn of her beak at
a worm
and
I used to love to hear her sing
Come on my dearest, she chirped.
Since he flew off that day
and never returned,
I have not heard a word.

I've heard that when people  go mad
they  cry and scream and tear **** up
I 've been wondering
if maybe I am too mad to do all that
I just sit staring burning my fingers
on butts
at the flies on my ceiling
even they
are scared of me