A Wasted, Stubborn Gaze

Glance upon the shadows cast by ficus limbs
as their growing fingers span memories' bridge,
creeping across dandelionclock faces
that mark the consistent progress of seconds'
subconscious wile; while marijuana's wasted,
stubborn gaze persists in calculating odds:
seeping seeds spend evolution underground.

Childlike drifting fascination, feathers
leaf through the creole backstreets of Mardi Gras
revelry under ash blackened foreheads, dreams
squander faintly demented marching brigades'
bound captives; coffin gagged, violence resistent
bodhisattvas' sing supine supplication -
winding a forest carpet, silent, sublime.

A baby's fingers clutch for mother's wet breasts
sucking air from imaginary nipples,
insistent TV ads intercede, "Suckle
from culture's commercial, corporate illusion."
The contemporary model of nature:
mother's too busy to care for baby's needs;
dripping seeds melt, heat seared on the rocky dust.

Gazes turn to the wind, a blowing bellows,
a roaring, raging inferno of frothing,
rabid dogs carving out the latest fashion,
erecting statues of glorification,
their gleaming eyes slobber with gluttonous glee;
just out of sight, in the seedy underground,
a wasted, stubborn gaze breeds revolution.

Passion Spent Spills

Heated flesh radiates with a red aura:
rubbing up against attraction’s golden glow
in the still midnight hush, a fragrant flush
blushes urgency to flower petulantly
as the whitewater rapids of desire ply
curiosity with a provocative pretense.

Forms embody souls’ impressions
and curve-cuddle close like the lines
of fingerprints, they shadow dance
on momentary eternity’s wall –
illuminated by united bliss-brilliance
in separation’s dark desert of illusion.

The fresh scent of passion spent spills
upon quivering petals like dewdrops’
crystallized ambrosial nectar: innocence
yields like fading stars at sunrise – multitudes
burn into one radiant luminosity and blood
flows through the heart, condensing into spirit.

Crestfallen

Scrambling up a mountainside
slippery pebbles slide under foot.

Fingers grasp, clutching emptiness
in the crestfallen starscape
where prayers wander aimlessly.

Who dares suckle the night?

An owl prowls
the moonless land,
a rodent in its talons.

Slithery scavengers
witness eons crumble into dust,
strewn across time’s sandy highway.

A cavern’s frigid bowels
fossilize ancient tales
etched on evolutionary walls.

Even created ignorance leaves
a trail: demented dementia.

Who dares nourish the suckling mother?

A Cold, Stone Edifice

A cold, stone edifice lurks at the edge
of daybreak. Soldiers’ boots crawl
across blood soaked streets in hazy
half-light. Bats screech through un-peopled
underpasses in the between-world – killers
above corpses below. The mostly asleep
undead dreamwalk through turnstiles,
depositing their productive years
into token slots as they pull the gas pump
triggers of Uzis and smart bombs.
Wealth’s stranglehold grips newborn
fantasies by the jugular, applying pressure
while insatiable appetites ooze a putrid,
envious and lusty stench. A blind moment –
no one’s eyes read the inscription, so a cold,
stone edifice shrugs deliriously, mutely aware
that technological advances erect no signposts
indicating lethal lessons latently linger learned.