Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Up I Conjure Learning Inner Whole

Up I conjure gift rapt down
Full of sour sweetened void.
In not lying you walk out
On me, giving getting off.
Now sew future summer past,
Here a humble stumble gone:
Live-in maid made furnace die
Black the grey, doom-bloom, bleached white.
Hush the instant droning sound!
Start to measure leisure's end.
Back when battles had no front
Sky cried coddled, cobbled ground.

Learning inner whole,
Creating game's transitional
Room doorway, talking.
Riding French questions,
Twilight columned writing
(Cross-nailed language):
Endless experience vehicle.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Atoms Moving in the Carpet

Alcoholic sink table vision
of teeth in Popeye's mouth
toweled bookshelf isolation
while watching atoms
moving in the carpet
and daddy's angry fists
on mommy and my
disillusioned tears
childhood hula hoop invaded
toothbrush drop drills
coerced sirens'
rabbit eared chair pillow
molestation promising death
after life in Davy Jones' Locker
while freedom found hope in ideas.

The Hill of Desire

I knew a man
who liked to say
"He's so full of shit
his eyes are brown"
I think it's the opposite
when you're full of shit
all the melanin
is sucked out
of your skin
and your hair
it drains into your feces

I used to masquerade
as white
but the pay wasn't good enough

now I'm not for sale

I'm not a high
dollar hooker you know
I give my poems away
to everyone who wants one
freely baby
for free
guess that makes me
a common street whore

Parents teach their kids lies
about the birds and the bees

Flowers never say no
they don't share
their sex directly
flowers make love
in a ménage à troi
they need a third
to inseminate for them

See the roamin' Roman kat
combin' his cat
in the catacombs

I'll let Will
take me until
I surmount the hill
of desire

Always, Never Again

but not for good
only never
again always
never again

amid blue skies
and warm winds
you returned
and my smile
came with you

this time for good
I know never
again always
never again

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Without a Lighthouse

Grinning innocence
broadly disarms
the recalcitrant; while distant,

bright, wide eyes
capture the periphery
nakedly unaware.

Pastorally pristine
property pockets
pantomime, partially
premiering play's
partitioned preference.

Unrewarded redemption's
fog bank snares
without a lighthouse.

Among Faceless Immortals

Your soul runs, aimless
and frantic,
a yet nomadic melody,
through starless nights
among faceless immortals.

You are the daughter
of a fathomless pool:
eternity's treasure.

What key fits your lock?

Whisper to me,
kiss the breath of life
into me, shadow
me with your embrace.

Aspen leaves quake in your
wake, like sound fragments
drifting on a high tide
without a current.

Impress upon me a knowledge
of every curved indentation
in your fingerprints.

Let me count your freckles!

A rocky cave cliff-dwelling
stands sentry over eons,
even as thunderous waves
splash their salty, foamy
essence into a luminescent
halo, a planetary tribute
celebrating tomorrow's birth
simply because you sparkle
among faceless immortals.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


Overwhelmed by the scent
Strawberries named Paula
The salty Venice Beach
Taffy air wizzed by
An August sunset
That 1971
Blurred lights led
Up the walkway
To my hippie beach pad

In the later moonless depths
We all shed our clothing
And ran to the dark
Red tide phosphorescence
Stars glittered
The night reflected on the sea
As she hummed
In candlelight shadows
We swam naked and alive
Together with Hershey kisses
Stolen from masculine jaws
By delicately feminine tongues

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

A Poetry Exercise and Prompt: From "Meeting the Mountain" to "Amniotic Steps"

This prompt was offered to me today by my poetry professor, Steven Salmoni. Select a poem written by someone else. Write it on a page, but leave an empty line between each line of the poem. In the spaces, write lines between the lines. Now, write only your originally created lines. Polish and edit as necessary. Dr. Salmoni also suggested I try the exercise by using the poem "Meeting the Mountains" by Gary Snyder. Below, the exercise.

First, Gary Snyder (with spaces)

Meeting the Mountains

He crawls to the edge of the foaming creek

He backs up the slab ledge

He puts a finger in the water

He turns to a trapped pool

Puts both hands in the water

Puts one foot in the pool

Drops pebbles in the pool

He slaps the water surface with both hands

He cries out, rises up and stands

Facing toward the torrent and the mountain

Raises up both hands and shouts three times!

Now, the mix: me in the spaces.

He crawls to the edge of the foaming creek
The mouth of the river open
He backs up the slab ledge
Only in distant rills do brooks dare to babble
He puts a finger in the water
He assays the value of the sashaying current
He turns to a trapped pool
Lapping interest at penniless banks
Puts both hands in the water
Reaching for midnight
Puts one foot in the pool
Takes an amniotic step
Drops pebbles in the pool
Rippling the moment
He slaps the water surface with both hands
Before folding in despair
He cries out, rises up and stands
In the black-beamed spotlight of an empty moon
Facing toward the torrent and the mountain
Daring a clock-faced wrist watch to tick off a second
Raises up both hands and shouts three times!
Ollie, Ollie, oxen free

Now, just my poem, with a little polishing, but not too much. I want it to retain its spontaneous feel.

Amniotic Steps

The mouth of the river
Straining distant fingers
Dare to brook babble
Assay current's sashay
Lapping lacking interest
On penniless banks
Reaching for midnight
On amniotic steps
Rippling rings
Cross the glassy night
Before folding in despair
The black-beamed spotlight
Of an ancient, empty moon
Dares his clock-faced
Wrist watch to
Tick off
Even one more


A blood-red, viscous sangria
paints a background wash, scattering
its thoughtless, liquid sedation.

Calloused durability wades through shallows,
curing freshly poured cement sidewalks
which exhibit no pathology: a hollow skull.

Hand holding reassurance slithers
beyond the edge of the world, smearing
sangria droplets across the cords of a snare.

Lines in the linoleum soundlessly
impersonated grout-filled spaces
between ceramic tile squares.

Convenience trips on any light beam, stuttering
incoherent aphorisms' dominating supplication,
driven along a straight-lined highway, swerving.

The blood-red, viscous sangria
impersonated grout-filled spaces
between the pithy beats of jazzed-up syncopation.