RolePlaying

a large 4′ x4′ acrylic painting – thank you

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madness, you see

I am quite capable of driving myself to madness
I do not require any help, most especially not yours
I do not need your over-involved directions
I can find the place blindfolded
You see, I have my map right here–
Tattooed on my palm with invisible inks
I have chosen the most expeditious travel plan–zigs and jags
I will not listen to your bullshit–straight lines and direct routes
You see, I am desperate to get there
I am sorry if I appear rude, but I cannot stand you anymore
I will not watch your tempting lips mouth what I do not want to hear
My friend, there is no time left for me–
for us

I really must reach madness
You see, it was long ago when I drove Him there
He is the only one who can tell me how to get back–
to the place I felt safest–
before I lost my mind
Trapped

cup the calm

time to relax the mind, heighten the senses
take the fingers for a stroll
haven’t let them loose in the Egyptian sheets lately
are we getting too closed in, devolving perhaps
like caged beasts and fishermen lost at sea
remap the stars
navigate to him–to her, across bombarding waves
intoxicate the glands, harden the resolve to coexist peacefully
the way temporary humans should on a temporary planet
back to whispering a sweet name in a fit of honest passion
a return to thanking the nakedness of the night
where muscles unhinge from scabbards
and time levels no orders
cup the calm, drink its sanity, inhale slowly and with much purpose
walk into the fray and remain unchanged
purple-wild-hair-edits

my silly secret

like a blazing stogie dangling from determined lips
all other luminous pricks lured away by post-holiday sales
my eyes navigate the smudged thermal pane
a lone gleaming star outside the milky glass
I must get closer
I’ve got no answers for anyone this year
and more questions for myself with less time to respond
the kitchen slider is an obstinate fucking portal
I remember falling on scabby knees
praying beneath the Northern Star
for wisdom and ‘wiseness’
crying for everything I couldn’t find
and God knows I still look for
the star
storybook glitter brilliant enough to sustain my disbelief another year
pulling at the door handle, dropping f-bombs with each yank to the right
gotta fix the damn slider in 2017
I must get closer
to this sparkling beacon of Christmas birth and glowing yuletide renewal
this year, this year it’s more important than ever
shit, you know I declared the same thing last year
shivering in the dark, I’m standing on my splintered deck
finally nearer to the star
I whisper to her pointing ears, ‘guide us somewhere safe’
we must believe in something more than ourselves
or we will implode upon our self righteousness
I’d pat myself on the back too, if I didn’t hurt my shoulder opening the fucking slider
the pulsing star
limitless hymns composed for her singular brilliance
orbiting existential principles
liquid onyx landscapes and oceanic skies
I lift my watery eyes
my lips smiling with their silly secret
this isn’t the prominent Christmas Star shining brightly 19 degrees above the horizon
it is Venus
she’s the one who lured me to heavenly hopes all those years ago
when I was a child and didn’t know which way was North

wood nymph

 

piano bellies

there was this kid
long ago
she liked playin’ piano bellies
from beneath their wooden hulls
didn’t follow
couldn’t follow
pointing fingers
her little brain
had its own direction
above her eyes
the strings
pianos and buttermilk
churned in glass jars
along the highway of years
loaded with orange cones
white lines
not creating
but moving
just the same
just the same
she was no different

peace wish

peace wish

 

little low, high heeled dude for halloween

be who or what you dream
but just for today;)
top-headthis little guy makes a black and white appearance in my illustrated book of love verse
love of the monster available 12.15.16, maybe sooner:)

Happy Birthday to my beautiful mother, 81 years young today

she likes curves as much as the next guy

she likes curves as much as the next guy
your supple lips create a secret shadow
she dreams of hiding in
those amazing shoulders of yours
burst into perfect half-moons
she adores the curve of your back
how your lats run down into a sinewy v
on your well-formed biceps
she imagines suns rising and setting
on those glutes
ah, yes those magnificent rounded caps
leading to the sweeping arcs of your sculpted tendons
she visualizes your body thrusting into forward motion
with all those powerful curves
yes, my friends
the ladies like curves too

Ra

Ra

 

this fellow sketched last year at a wrestling match

heightened hubris

no one grinning over my shoulder
down here

watching me etch letters into mold
my sensitive nose, a poor man’s vision replacement
vague air under-pacing
the fast fuzzy spider spinning by the lamp
shut off
sun blazing passed the cheap plastic slats
diagonal down so the mower men stop looking in
though one dude is always smiling, he’s so happy riding his bitchin’ machine
Goddamn, I swore no more potty mouth musing
hope naughty interpretations blossom into prescient ponderings
I read Bukowski
depending on my mood
the man scares the shit out of me with his fast forward funk
or he shatters my drunken heart
clearly his was crushed long ago maybe before he knew himself
his manmind discovered a bolder way to tap that
love
I imagine Charles Bukowski
not a Charlie, never a Chuck, that would agitate
I know a Robert who is not a Bob
only very Robert, Robert most in his complicated blue eyes
like me, never an Ann even in pixie haired days
definitely not an Annie, though most women confident enough for the “ie” are quite spectacular
bubbly and honest
I am neither
at this particular moment
I’m not writing from my head
I fear

you might not come back
and I would be forced to dig lower than Hell’s hole (she laughs)
I do not sleep very well
the brain

she can be such an ass
I promised her not to become one of those
with heightened hubris
speaking in tongues about only mine
(hers)

when this wicked whacked world is shaking
shaking
shaking
shaking

God, please don’t let the world shatter, shatter, shatter deep
like Charles Bukowski’s heart when it’s breaking

snakestress

snakestress

I made her, if I spoke with her she might tell me she is sad, she wouldn’t have chosen hair to hang in her eyes though she does appreciate inner peace tucked beneath snake scales