Jester Girl

Sitting all alone
near a throne.
You are a Jester

and dance.

You wear the
bright6est colors.
You juggle balls
like thoughts.
You are both
feminine and masculine
You walk the walk
and talk the talk.

Standing nearby
Royalty
you want to snag
the cane.
But it trips you,
instead;
throwing off your game.

Jester Girl,
you jingle.
Alone, aghast,
you grin.
It hurts a little
just like that,
the edges soaked
in sin.



Ah, funny giant jester
with the big man hardy hands.
With the stubbly bits
and streaky bits
you walk in foreign lands.

You talk and will the crowd
without speaking quite as loud.
without uttering even
a fraction of sound.

You are a jovial creature,
built on color and rage.
Created from flesh
(It’s a marvelous mesh!)
and strings that seem to fray.
Jester Girl, you seem to be.
Always alone with your heart on display.

Moon Journey

Within the cycle of moons
it sloshes in,
changing white into wine
red.
Blood red.
It sticks to everything in sight,
frothy and heavy.
Flush away
that egg, bleed me
bitter.
My body is a temple
that gets stiff
and grows bigger.
Bloated, it seems,
miles wide.
like an ocean of blood, pulsing
beneath my panties.
Rebirthing my
moon journey
rebirthing me
when disaster strikes,
when the whole world attacks and I

cry.

Tears, salt, sweet, sweat, silt, it stains;
like pockets of moon dust
deep inside my pelvis,
throbbing in tune
to the moon
and all my sisters.
Joining in chorus
a sweet, low sound emerges
like a groan or a moan
and slips
to the ground.
My moon journey takes me far.
Across the desert,
to quenches my thirst
to belong to something greater.

The Nature of Desire

(Found Postcard Poetry)

“Our lives are just one

moment, a breathe imagined by

the senses.

And that moment

is a great thought.

And that moment

is a desire,

The urge to being

and to be love.

all at once,

altogether,

the same.”


-Unknown

Goldline—

Gold is divine,
though it never lasts.
Just peels away
like never-ending glass.

Gold is the heart
when you’re in love.
Coal is the heart
after it burns,
crumbling apart,
as the earth turns.

Gold is world’s end,
all shimmered delay.
So cold that it whisks
every beauty away.

Gold is all glimmer,
Gold is all dust.
Cry and you might
get closer than lust.

Gold is the conquered
after the storm.
It is metal, unsheathed;
It is copper unshorn.

Gold is the king
of paupers, so poor.
Gold is the greed,
Gold is the source.

Gold is the height
of everything good.
You listen and act
just like you should.

But gold can decay
in sugar like Coke.
Gold can lose love,
Gold can upchuck.

Minus one “L”
a third letter here
turns “Gold” into “God”
but minus the “G”
and “Gold” turns to “Old.”

Old as Gold.
Cold as Gold.

It can never replace
the wish that you stole.
Heave it away
and watch your wish go.

Gold is the line
that ends everything.
When Gold is sublime
it breaks off your wings!

Desert Winds/Ocean Storms

Here is the brittle
suck at its edges
crumble sunburnt toes
in the sand and
wait.

Here is the willowed
chirp of a seagull
mouth full of kelp
drips and is
wet.

Here is the battle
dunes swallow up shadows
casting dry and
wasted.

Here is the syrup
salt of the sea
tart and is bitter
brunch.

Here is the giant
torpedo of wind
as it brushes the
sand.

Here is the angel
pulled from deep depths
tarnished by salt
water.

Here is the howl
darkness invades
silence of rattle
snakes.
(as it digs up your grave…)

[Untitled]

I’ve never wanted writing
so much.
Throw a bag; now throw a punch.
Give it all you’ve got
before the mind goes home.
click, then shove it out
now let the body roam.
Slam the keys; now slam them well.
never bet
the winning tell.
Help is only
on the way
once the mind
has much to say.
Give it all your will
the first bite of my lunch.
I’ve never wanted fighting
so much.
Throw a pen; now throw a punch.

[Untitled]

Inside/Outside

Prideful Intact.
Lopsided swindle
Downsized Rap

Backwards/forwards

The little tykes go
So far that they
Tumble
So far that they
Roam

Outside/inside

Opposite day
Where happiness fumbles
And sickness delays.

Forwards/backwards

Stop step hop

Lay upside down
Wiggle, then plop!

Shadows on ceiling
White toes are peeling
Wet hair is screaming
While blankets just flop.

[Untitled]

Robust melodies tingle
as computer parts
dangle from
robot rust
steel blues.
Red, corrugated
metal dims under
warm sun rays.
They penetrate the music
as a favorite lullaby sparks vocal
songs, so raw
and so sweet
filling with oil
rich as olive pulp.
Robust machinery
lifts itself up
to create
a masterpiece
made of
cogs, wheels, wood.
Copper limbs
tied with parrot feathers.
Melted beads
embedded in
the surface
so yellow
they gleam.
Chaotic mind
cells burst! through
metal voices surface
thread through
an artificial mind.
Ancient hubcaps
are its face, soda cans
are its fingers.
It deals with sap
as tree rings
scoop up tunes
bellowed built guitars
strum so loud
streaming past
closed doors.
The paint peels,
but underneath
is the gem
spitting out gum
cream bits, frothy
black tar, and
one silver aged wrench.
Out of the ordinary,
it saves
the best song for last.

Dryspell

I am living
in a void
of quiet desperation.

I flit in the chasm
of morbid mediocrity.
And dabble in the
river of unkempt
possibilities.

I breathe in water
and exhale air;
the wind is my hair
and I wear it well.

I avoid potential
like it is a disease
of the heart,
grubbing with fleas.
Nagging at the corners
of my throat
is the only thing
I do not know.

I seek answers
and yet
they do not heed
my wary call
of dread.
In fact,
will trouble
ever find me
at all?

I’ve been down
this beaten road
before,
whist everything
was still a blur.

To risk potential
is to not avoid conflict.

I am stuck as
average as a tick.

I’d rather be a dragonfly
who breathes white fire
through charred lips.

I’d rather be loved wildly
and slip—

than never love
another human again.

I’d rather be mangled
by a real-life grin
than to face my sorry feelings again.

Lungs & Strings

Well, that was clever,
ipswitch.
Don’t take this the wrong way,
gerber.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Can I thank you guys enough,
hellion.
Words can only go so far
before they explode
on impact.

A swollen heart
can only take
so much failure.

Keep it coming,
jeremiah.
Let my soul seep
into your lungs.
The moon can’t sleep
‘cause evening has
her reigns on high.
Bellow at the sky,
septure.
Local file it
three rings deep.
Spring the little strings
that make up my lungs
cry rivers deep
and then sweep

it all away

into the desert dust.
Pulp me, finny.
Let me find your
vocal chords and play
them like violin strings.

Multiple strains that
concur singing into
a straight-dead
give-away. Strings
Keep on multiplying
until they take up
the whole damn universe.

Well, that was funny,
jumica!

Being Human 2.0

Being Human
is so damn scary.
Not knowing
at all
what happens next.
Being able to remember
and forget.
Being able to make mistakes
and regret.
Being Human
is so humbling,
all that worry,
all that bumbling.
Being Human
is so unbelievable
to be able to
lie and get away with it.
to not even know how long
a lifespan truly is.
Being able to love
and forgive.
Being Human
is forging
in a jungle of hair
a bush or root
of freaky despair.
Being so flimsy
or delicate.
Being able to
rebel or fight
against anything, really.
Being Human
is so damn scary.
All those leaked
emotional ideas,
on the contrary,
being human
can be invigorating.
It can break open
new words, unspoken.
Being able to
hold everything in
like hiding deep secrets
with a smug little grin.
Being Human
is having the earth
beneath toes and feet
or having pleasure
in good food to eat.
The importance
of being able
to swallow or juggle or wallow
in unknown feelings.
Being able to think thoughts
and no one can read them.
Being Human
is deciding
who to be.
Feeding off all
the electric energy
of the bright world outside.
Being Human
is being able to
hide
and escape
from real life.
Being Human
is being able to
accept your own pride.
Being Human
is to simply be alive.

Being Human

Being human
is so damn clumsy.
Having these longish
hairy arms with strange
flat disks
attached with long or stubby
appendages
and hard little shells
atop each bony
stretch of skin.
And veins
that can be painted
a variety of colors.
Being human
is being
a slob-monster-I mean master-
It’s making white lies
for time to move faster.
Being human
is like leaking
pheromones/hormones/whatevermones
into the air.
Being human
is having too much
thick black course hair
with fat sticks for legs
to balance on all day.
Attached to these flesh-logs
are tiny weird growths attached
with the same little hard shells
at the end.
Being human
is having
wrinkly pads
at the edges.
Or stubbly bits
near the lips.
Or bulbous flesh nobs
in which
to breathe out of
or
gaping pink
swollen holes
or slits
with white bone bits
poking out.
Being human
is having an alien
pink slug monster
inside that slit
or hole
In which to taste
or twine
with another person.
Being human
is to be naked
except for various places.
Being human
is having one brain
that controls
everything.
One person
underneath this
clumsy slobby messy
horny creature
like a tiny hero
controlling
a strange heavy ship that
speaks and walks and trips.

Horn and Wings (and Meaty Things…)

Look at that
deviled angel,
see how she runs?
Tattoos on both arms
and a boatload of
burns.
See the magic flicker
of red nails painted
rust.
Half-smiling,
she squats
in the valley of dust.
Nose ring reflects
her inner Satan’s Sanctum
where all the fellow nuns
seem to smite
her with their
perfect grins.
She lets loose
in rage and bows
lets her long white hair
fly free.
Rustle up some money, honey
and the nuns might never see.
That angel’s a devil, child.
She never stood a chance.
Take a sultry sit here, darling,
and we’ll walk a devil’s dance.
angel woman’s
fierce as day,
cold as night
so much to say
the pawn’s delight.
Her words speak rebellion,
her songs sing of remorse.
That woman, raised by nuns,
has become a sinister force.
Horns and Wings
that sound she brings
will carry her
farther
than the heavenly kings.

It will carry her forth,
It will carry her forth.

Angel’s got no strike
on you,
she loves the devil

through and through.
Deals plenty with the dirt
she knew.
So come and lie
in her favorite pew.

The nuns, they speak
in whispers
about the one that got away.
Became Satan’s Sanctuary
A monster by night;
A woman by day.
When you hear
her bone bracelet’s cackle
Or anklets
smash together.
Or pink ragged wings,
with white cloud hair,

BEWARE

of the deviled angel’s wrath
for she just might corrupt your senses
from wrong to right…
Be wary…choose a path!

[Untitled]

Can you be both
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
stoic
and
heroic?
Can you be both
a killer
and
a filler?
Can you be both
persuasive
and
abrasive?
Can you be both
plastic
and
fantastic?
Can you be both
unfulfilled
and
bottle-swilled?
Can you be both
robot
and
coin-slot?
Can you be both
Botched perfection
and
soiled complexion?
Can you be both
On par
and
still so far?
Can you be both
alone
in your very own
time zone???

Can you be both
carried away
and
want to stay?
Can you be both
wretched
and
frigid?
Can you be both
weirded out
and
seared with doubt?
Can you be both
heavily written
and
smugly smitten?
Can you be both
an angel
on
some dark new level?
Can you be both
Minted coin
and
willing to join?
Can you be both
ragged bone
and
super alone?
Can you be both
Strongly cemented
and
fairly demented?
Can you be both
scared stiff
and
piled drift?
Can you be both
Limp wood
and
stocky food?
Can you be both
Crying ends
and
ending friends?
Can you be both
pornographic
and
romantic?
Can you be both
finished
and
famished
and
completely pretend?

Sewer Water

I’m writing
writing
writing
the pen is running
out
spinning out
of
control.
I’m fairly certain
I will bomb-out
and explode.
I’m sure of all
edges
Whether it be
towel or cliff
or paper drift
My
pen
pen
pen is
Running
out
out
out.
Barley registering
missing loose ends.
I’m pretending
to pretend.
I’m grasping at the lapels
ripping out
each stubborn
staple.
I’m snipping off
Procrastination’s somber lips
as they level
and fill
with all possible
doubt and pricks.
I’m swimming
in blue shit,
green envy,
and red spit.
It winks at me
with empty eye sockets,
teeth changing
quickly into to rockets.
I’m trying to commit
but am failing to do so.
Every missing letter
kills each trodden cell.
I’m learning
to let go,
pinch it off
let each breath
flow.
Treat every teardrop
as yellow cyanide.
Box every butterfly
as it’s dying
inside.
Barley comprehensible
these missing feelings
as they fall.
I’m equipped
to handle
it all but ignore
inner advice like
putrid lice or tepid fire.
I’m sweating
in this porcelain tomb
sucking fresh cobwebs
from the corner of the room.
Stealing thoughts like maggots
falling asleep on the rug.
I’m white-washing
all the putrid green
that killing machine
still wanting to gleam.
I’m gristle to the
muscle core.
I’m gorging out,
gargantuan doubt.
I’m failing in the sewer of lies
where lead men sit
to stink up the flies.
Sewer Water only tries.

The Conception of Characters

Where is the conception of character?
Is it frolicking in the air?
Flitting two and from everywhere?
You’d better not stare…
Plot makes the world go round;
sometimes it goes up,
sometimes it goes down.
Characters tear up your imagination
every darn day, but you refuse
to let them come out and play.
To be simple is to be limited.
Characters cut frames
linked to genres so small
they feel as though
they can say nothing at all.
Where is the expansion
of character lives?
Where does that authority lie?
Is it but the lag of politics in your work?
Characters have gotten too real
they choke.
Narrow turns as brittle as a baby sparrow.
Break bones to make bread.
See how you thread
thoughts together by shells.
Broad social visions contradict
the urge to shed
the real world for words you’ve heard.
Where does the character sleep?
Do they do it without making a peep?
Maybe you just need to let imagination seep
into the each and every word.

Layers

Layers and layers
we are,
conceptualizing each moment,
feeling each spark
as our hands, eyes, and voices

meet.

Layers underneath
is something hidden deep
like frantically scribbling
a poem beneath
the notes from a class
all about literature
from all around.
It’s amazing, now? Isn’t it.

Layers buzz dim, they strike
out at whim. Tree rings
are like our dreams.
Circles contract
again, they pull slack.
Layers between bright
fields of glam. Beyond
the Modernist thinking
I go. Post-Modern
eclectic sultry
salves it so. Projects
to be made. Speeches
I gave. Layers beneath layers until
digging my grave.