Poems
By the Power vested in me [poem]
No matter what outrageous kind of kismet will befall you
with its bristles, in the seeming random lottery of days
{the blows of which can crush you bleeding to the ground
by creeping up behind and wielding wildsome weaponry
in dextrous ways, discharged and fired without a sound};
however lowly you may sink into the bottomless abyss
or treacled treadmill of despair, I hereby now declare
with all the power vested in me as a minister of life & love
ordained by juicefilled frequencies which freely emanate
from panoplies above in flawless worlds foreverly uncursed:
that always and in truly every little lovely nuanced way
your last state will be limitlessly better than your first.
Broken Anchor Chains [poem]
When wild untameable feelingthought impulses
wash their pheromonal tide against your temple walls,
you know your anchor’s chain has broken welcomely
and any ‘where’ becomes your tattered destination.
Old itineraries (now defunct) contain no information
while you flounder in the drowning dreely foam.
Mons Veneris [poem]
[A Valentine’s Day poem for the mystery
lover who will one day kiss my world]
There is a place where particles
of any kind of mine can flow
explode unload implode feel
free to fulminate ferociously
upon and under over through
vermillion skies + cobalt blue
between the skin of me and
any yearning she who innerly
belongs with all her positrons
between my silken sheets.
A Flood of Dark Unrhyme [poem]
Within our little bubbles we create a cozy world
of safety first — our unlived dreams suspended
on a thread of fisher’s line, outside, untouchable
yet visible through blurred astringent visioncy.
Those bubbles never burst unless, with fluentish
alacrity, we wonder what it would be like to float
out there & cut the dreamly cords with bright new
hands, delighting in the way their fingers work.
Only Music [poem]
Only music makes me breathe more so than
any body-weaving skinsome love or
other form of nature pain relief.
Without the frequency of sound abounding
round the chambers of my aural sensitivity
I wilt and lose my verdant leaves —
my fronds turn dirty brown,
my shoots for quavers grieve,
my sap no more will bleed,
my roots will no more feed down
through the beauty-bounty broken ground
to home themselves in cleansing earth and clay.
Only music makes my blues and multibruises go away.
Who Pulls your Strings? [poem]
Who pulls your strings?
I’ll pause a moment while you work it out…
You might think that it’s you;
although the way you fawned before your boss
(ass-licked him, no matter what the cost)
and let some leechlike humans trample on you —
took that nasty slap upon your face
from that abuser dossing at your place,
brings into question “who’s the puppeteer?” Read the rest of this entry »
This Icy Mystery [poem]
You heard the call but didn’t (wouldn’t) go.
Your stupid worn-out used-up rancid fear
[“stupid” in the tragic sense of being in
a stupor like a drunken oaf would be,
right after partying hard on Saturday till 3]
has stopped the flow to join your fading
dancing twin to fly to distant galaxies.
There’s Something Missing [poem]
There something missing from the picture
that’s imprinted on the scissors of my soul:
A c(h)ord that should have anchored me;
a featherbed (that’s heart-shaped) or a hole.
Nostalgia for the time before all time —
Before I was a twinkle in an angel’s eyes.
Before the fire was made into our star.
Before the light beamed from creation’s whys.
Before there was that visit from afar.
Chemistry Set [poem]
When I was ten years old, a treasure trovely
gift was sent my way — a chemistry set —
a cornucopia of crazy risks for me to play.
In those days, health and safety cushioning
had not yet been invented. So a little lad
(for that was who, in those times, it was for)
could diligently blow himself to smithereens
or light a high-explosive bonfire on the floor!
Deadend [poem]
Hands before me feeling round the
two-faced smoothly paint and bare
faced walls ensconced in frozen dark
ened broken bell-like gloom
Ceiling pushing down and deep and
doomsomely (it drudgely creeps).
I feel the flatness painted matt
ness maze of white in blackness
The Naked Troubadour 