Thursday, August 3, 2017


Days linked in succession, life- moving.
Shelving on the interior grows taut, strong, transformed
In becoming, I find roots that entangle endlessly
Into the cornucopia of all I have amassed.
In volume, there is no need for containment.

I seek to blow out rigid outcroppings that have overstayed their welcome
Long before I knew they would attempt to become- permanent fixtures.
Elbow grease and the unlimited syrup from unspent tension
Lubricates the engine in continuous grace- by default, and with that comes
The indelible belief that the construction of credibility and character
Can often build-on when reserves feel dried, withered, wrecked.

The boom of strength sought, brings too, hope beyond measure
For a life better lived in light of understanding.
Elusive logic had robbed enough of me,
Bruised into thinking that without preparation
Countless tides of unwelcome envoys could board without pass
And with ease...destruct more in the wake of apathy, ignorance, indecision.

The nonsense too has a purpose.
I'm leaking with reasons for why the cattle-call need blaring
Potency lingers everywhere, round tufts of sweaty curls and lips gone mute
Mute from the swell of what love creates, caters to, and, cavorts with
Is it enough to say enough on this day?

From one to the next I am still holding my own hand
Touching lightly over pores that ran amok from their last leaking...
For it was so fucking long ago when clouds cloaked moons 'round Jupiter.
When freckled limbs took what was owed from olive-toned lilies,
Moaning before dawn.

Back to this, this need, this glaring wound
This hole both within and without..
This metaphor, parading itself as a half-filled glass opponent.

Drink and be free of toxicity that blisters and scorches the anterior dome.
Set free the bicuspids of love to prowl and wait
Wait for the tearing and crushing of  antiquity lost
Swapped for a new breed of satisfied momentum
Robbing legs of their loneliness and pits filled with steam.

Absorption of senses that wound themselves senseless
Their binary needs- fulfilled.

The mania slams into me sideways tonight,
As gestures in kindness reveal deeper meaning
And in that revelation, silence .
Words lack evidence of proper conveyance
As a General is backed by his history
So too is the silent, brooding integrity-
Of admiration from afar.

Monday, July 31, 2017


Confiscated, the peace I rely on, to rest the weary being that I am
Tossed to racing pulses of the non-attractive variety
Robbed of the song of night and her trusted lullaby
Stolen by hidden mood swings, burrowed deeply in
Craving the stillness of peace to wreak the maximum dose
Over wreckage that ricochets painfully, purposefully, prominently.

That wide stretch of unknown, luring me into its grandiose niche
Cumulonimbus fingers jabbing me in the neck,
Taunting me in my jackdaw-like deliberation
"...soon, soon," I tell it, "...soon will be the time to inquire within."
But too many years have slipped away since the last promise passed on
Into the motion of winds long rustled and removed

This road I find myself on has splayed open aged dreams;
I have been long away from desert dust and emotive antiquities
That inhabited the cage inside me.
A bony rack of resolute indifference;
Astute to only the practice of existence.

Whose riddles match my own,
Compliant to restraint and responsibility?
And why do I beg the question be asked at this juncture?
Inquisitive weeds have choked enough of my momentum; my mood, my mania.

T'is a torturous web to stick to and rot away on
Inhaling the beefy energies of limbs too far to travel to.
Shifted sleeves of processed countenance, shared in good faith
Stamped in the dutiful fashion of what society has agreed upon
And whisked away to the Eastern side of all I continue to ruminate over.

There are too many dead-ends I have crafted in sincerity
Flushing the blackened carriage to no avail, to  serve to polish the bleak
That has, for far too long- eaten away at my ragged edges.

I wither, I stumble, I absorb the soaking, painful, belligerent truth
I need to bend elbows back this way, into and around my own sense of self-worth
Looking for ways of penetrating that stout and honest willingness to earn,
Into buckets of 'owed'.
Owed to self.
To love,

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Let Us Out.

He breathes and
I want
That freshly pushed sound
To enter into-

Smashed up against
Darkness, and,
With eyes closed
Slit the wrists of restraint
Sucking in the muse-
Hip first.

The rumble of ooze, is
Drawing on reserves
Of too much time dealt in blows
That flooded gate

Open your arms, You
That I may inhale your Masculinity-
Pheromone first. And slice you open
To let Us out.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The Vernacular of Indecision

Copious chunks of time
Blundering over contaminated beliefs
A sanctum of raw, and let us face it-
Useless candor.
This noise, swarming
Elected to hum into me
Over me,
Ten feet ahead of me.
Place the wormhole behind.
Is it so easy?

"A burning violin..."

Build instead, a new cavern
A place to play a succulent tune
To pluck moist notes until blisters form
To sing of oil soaked pine
...and sticky thighs.

Careful now, to not trip and crack
The point of four separate points
As they rush to converge upon the pedestal
Of highest regard.
Knocking jawbone and elbow
To the detriment of ego

The Ego of heart; the Ego of mind
The Ego of Erogenous Platitudes
...and the fourth, more contentious ego

The melody of organisms around me
Bleeding into my psyche
Juggling the 'due' in confounded annoyance
Passive/Aggressive mutinies
Multiplying in these closest, innermost boundaries

Fucking each to the other in deep succession.

Instantiated by memories and assumptions
Locked in post-haste anxiousness to serve that 'due' justice
Of an unrepentant, analgesic sort.
Transparencies kept thinner, tenuous, strenuous. Unfit,
...yet succeeding, if success is what you call failure.
These loquacious synonyms
Nothing more than the vernacular of indecision.

Sunday, March 26, 2017


Bubble of ice, or air.
Or lack of air- which is it?
Clouded in cluster-fucked conditions.
Windpipe cinching, motivated by the divide
Of reveries motioning just beyond reach.
That teenage reclusiveness
How the fuck did it ever climb back in?
And burden the wise limbs into submission...?

The savage plastic coating fits good.
Promoting the prognostication of rancid days yet to come.
More unfed love; more unfed limbs; more
Bleak; dismal; eradicating; cock-less nights.
The echoes of male murmuring,
Wriggling in between muscled impermanence
Controls my vacuous, disconcerted attention span.
Distracted, to the nines, the need for deep rubbing.

Saturday, February 25, 2017


The smell of incense interrupting my gaze
Black lines used to define- halt.
Austerity hunts early
Snaking the worm from unfed jaws.
A collaboration picks up
Carving idea where idea left off.
Two energies
Making love.
Ink mates naturally
Clung to his last delicate submission
While nearby...
Glass separates the morning between 43'
And a red desert bloom.
Elegy whispering into pristine quiet
Slipping succinctly into the well-oiled psyche
Of what is yet left to manage and handle.
Rough, warm hands are welcome
To ease the stiffness and solemnity
Of martyred tradition.
Coffee cooled yet candle leads on
Into the aromatic infusion
Of makeshift "attempted" release.
     His lines muscle in
     His devotion- profuse.
     In mirroring our addictions,
     I find secular divinity and sexual homage
     To a world knowing no limit
     As the mind runs wild.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Modelo and The Muse.

It might, it might... it might be over soon.
'Might', 'if', 'suppose', 'maybe'
"You are either in or out of your den, which is it?"
Ooh, that place where I find myself
When the crackling dynamite detonates.

He is as good as he ever was, no- He's better.

"Disassociate" Enough.
No other need to fill in the blanks.
"Move on..."
It's what I need to get with the 'getting on'.
Simply put, abrupt. Useful

Smoke-trails, Jameson, whiskers in the sink
It's an all-male event. He even smells masculine.
Thirty year high, like clockwork; he's an oppressive heat
It's good to know that the high standard can still be counted on
When the night stands at his attention.

Philosophy of sound, digressing lyrical brilliance
How to move blockades of 'empty' out of the way
Clipping strings to accord acoustic satisfaction
He plummets deeply, and so we both plunge;
Hand in hand.

Scruff, rubbed closely, and wandering warm hands.
Diligent, pinching fingers, direct in their appeal.
The ringing in of personal new year's has been the best yet.
He has always been close to heart and mind
And so there he will remain.