Category: Poetry

Poem #124

A midday baroque of fellatio…

‘Though we invade their intimacy of the corridor,
                                                  abruptly,

he begs us to join, voyeurs of their art
and principles of silence,

but what preferences are we given,
mere objects defiled on set?

Dutch pile wears a blindfold of William’s
green shorts ‘cross his lustful eyes–

when his fibers are tickled, pinched
‘twixt their naughty and gracious toes,

and yet, he is animal, tied and stuck
on the unforgiving floor,

piqued and teased with Deanne’s lips
smacking round William’s stiff, lanky dick.

The live spine wall warms with William’s ass,
when Deanne shoves ‘way his hips,

and spanking his muscular bum on such hollow ramparts,
but dreaming,

how William invents a godemiche
and stabs his sphincter, gladly

and at the second floor of their duplex,
we turn down the gallery,

the vanilla hall, and stage for their matinee
by the stairwell;

the slant of sun, that painfully pries past
the brick red curtains,

takes all the supplies from the writing desk
out the office door, and tries

for the banister,
but two office aides are in its way mid bj,

Deanne in grimace licks William’s glans
because harsh rays sting her eye.

He pleas with his phallus, “…Last!
And yet, he grows a bigger head;

when William calls, “Pull my balls,”
and yet, Deanne pleased one with light hints;

she eats his member, till it comes,
when William pouts, when spooging strings,

and yet, Deanne swallows all of lunch;
white, wiry pearls slip down her neck,

and yet, William wishes he was
humping her pussy, from behind,

Deanne’s tits bouncing on the hand rail,
off the landing, while praising “…God”,

how happy he was after soaking in
the tub, to be so surprised,

when Deanne returned from catering,
when Deanne fell below his knees,

when her red hair was rope in his right hand
and William fucked her mouth.

Poem #123

fragment from Americus, a work in progress…

III.

So, Ulysses, you brought back Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Achilles
and stir Athens, mad with Penelope, to these chance-melodies,
till an owl flies up to the apex of Olympus, and of your pleasantry she breathes,
so that these sparks of cloud-rig bring you to your knees;
And in the world there are many histories and currencies wrought with tyrannies.

So he that bears the high most letter “t”,
and his plea to kandake Isabella to find this mystery,
and hidden in the Antipodes these two jetty,
and yet our boats will float not in the sea,
but on the sky, swimming with our galère

Because you must sketch our border, father of Americus,
boon to our wilderness, boon to our new world, boon to our landmass;
And yet Calliope, you remind me of an Illinois poet, in years that pass,
but athwart the lush and the barren champaign and not in the grass,
when his steed’s hooves woke a different blood from ‘neath the tumulus.

O how weary is this skull with Ares
and this ongoing battle with different faces.

Poem #122

Sunday I groaned…

When I push the old screen door,
its worn and rusted spring sounds to me
of grandma, when she was sore,
when she would rather shop on TV for jewelry,
when she was wishing to stay shut in there,
when she whined to be left-be in her favorite chair.

And those days were often as this dreary
and the morning daylight was shielded in sprinkles of water
on the backyard tree leaves, patting slowly.
And yet today, when I empty out these hands
of their load of waste,
and its the last bag the trash bin withstands,

they’re on the top of its lid. With what am I faced,
but the lemon chiffon maggots?
And I think upon my recent visits
with a guise of Vulcan or a guise of Hephaestus,
and the doctor that gifted me this brace,
and hear my grandma complain how far away young age did race,

and yet I discover her voice is my own,
and yet I fear growing old alone.

Poem #121

And yet, it is such a paranoid night…

And yet, staring at college into a trash bin
Of coke cans and rainwater, there,
and miscellaneous litter, and faded yesterday; and yet we fade into yesteryear,

and obsess, still,
when old newsprint dissolves in a landfill,
and in one wrinkled, soiled clump of a memory, of a memory…

Of its once bold headline, dismal, til no longer a memory,
when old newsprint is white, again;
and in its print pressed skin,

and this, revived and thin archive of then,
and this, no more different than beyond where we begin,

what are the many dreads which we hunt and devour,
what we thirst after, into fetish, and into sight,
then desire?

And yet, conversationalists outside the library
speak about Ottoman Empire history,

And yet, before we fear our death
we lose all our disciplines,
and then, our breath,

and yet, how less merry do we have to be
to make Charon unhappy we ride on his ferry,

and yet, the way we speak you would think we read the sign,
the sign over the gate of hell, “Abandon every hope, ye whom enter here…”
and in reading the uneasy line, feel fine,

and yet other unnamed emigrants equally unimportant continue to speak,
and yet these folk far from their daring lineage are entitled too,
and yet the queasy with minimal horror who have no ear, continue to shriek,

although numerous the lists of schisms of -isms in this one theme,
and yet, there are too many to dream, and yet to dream,
and yet, it is such a paranoid night, and propaganda is in our stream,

the street lights are agleam,
the crickets sing mating songs with esteem,
and I write about them.

Poem #120

Delusion #1

for Anna Akhmatova

And in the failing summer light,
and at the apex of a verdant pike,
and I remember each spring cake,
and their plates that had to be cleaned,

and after eating each German chocolate or French vanilla bake,
and smothered in icing equally brown or white,
and always sticking to unpolished and scratched silver,
also these utensils had to be cleaned, and over and over.

And after these chores were done,
and the family would sit down
and we took a book, we would read alone.
And afterward we would describe the details we had found,

and we would relish the coffee stains, the ink smears they had bound,
and we would smell the cigarettes and dust in their jackets ground.

Poem #119

Ghazal and Sonnet for her…

A gazelle walks through my plains,
a gazelle walks by my hut,
a gazelle walks in the wild, where I hunt;

where does a spear point, where do I hunt,
when I drink from our watering hole,
when I in blood sacrifice dance for more rain,
when I look out from the leaves,
when I see your tawny mane,
when I must pounce, when I must pierce your thumping meat,

tomorrow will you be another rack of rib over the orange and shadowy pit?
Tomorrow will you be frolicking in the Serengeti heat?

You are less the hunted animal than me;
you are more the lion than me.
Yours is this, this, our safari, but I bend at the knee.

Poem #118

Of how to be in each vida…

a Rondel for Max Stirner

We all are reading the veda
of how to be in each vida.
On pages of seconds, together they cling,
when we are researching for what we are seeking;

at loss for words and actions and choices sounding as cicada,
and somewhere we set each tome, abandoned. Impossible thing!
Because we are reading the veda,
of how to be in each vida,

and incessant to find our Tao Te Ching
behind the estrella,
we lost the night we were missing; when refining
what we were arguing was more appealing,
than how to be in each vida.