I was told by Tarot Lady
of my past lives
many lived over time
as Preacher/ Professor
or two-bit man with a bone
and a hammer to pound.
I was told to live powerfully
and accept the mission of
‘carnating’ willfully—
to accept the lot of boredom as planned
and reap the harvest of selling hangers to man.
The Tarot Lady confessed my future/ from my past
not lost but found/ in this mundane task
of flipping these cards/ that hands down tell
an intriguing mention/ of many tales re-lived at last
long-lived and upheld/ as long as life is vast.
Exultation falls flat when the
false king walks in
and expectations
sound the trumpet—
signaling to bow down and pray to the idol
to display your loyalty
without thought or care
whomever, wherever you lay, or
whoever you marry
loses, as the false king chooses to
blow his horn and beckon your call by
his sheer place in line—
first borns and pecking
orders determine your worth and salt, in
pay. The fanfare leaves as you return to normal
and sweep the floors, do the chores left hanging
to dry on laundry lines, whistling,
as your spouse stares blankly, in utter dismay.
She shows me the tubes running down her legs, a chuckle takes hold of her as tears run away. The tulips in the vase sent with no card, light up the dingy space. I hand her the fresh bread she requested I bake. She lifts a bite to her mouth as she wipes her cheeks on the bed sheets.
I remember those green olives she ate on that last day, that last day she was deathly ill. One by one by one, plucking them out of the briny heap grasping the jar in her emaciated hand, she claimed how much she loves green olives.
The sight made me wince a bit, it rattled my mind knowing this was her request at this time. The sodium on any other day, would disrupt the heartbeat in an unpleasant way. Today none of that mattered—
just these tiny olives with no pits, stuffed of course with that tiny-red-squishy-thing, like the flesh of a minnow. Minnows are cool though, I collected them in fish bowls when I was a kid they though, don’t live forever, like I wished she did.
Fanfare and blank
stares don’t cooperate
in willing shakes of
hands
the mesmerized prophet
ladles soup into starving
bowled open mouths
of babes and man
many lost attempts
to settle debts
and return land
fractured beginnings
broken on settlements
caved to God’s clan
of one or the other
not breaking bread
for luck or hope or peace
instead
they stitch lives
together with woven
tales of tea times
ceremoniously broken
wept in the sunshine
and salty sea
dozens of tears shed
on battles bled
confusion ringing
sound of dread
terror rises
inside their heads.
1.
How does it go again? Ahhh, yes...
The doctor said to put some lotion
on it, or some oil.
I calm myself before snapping in disbelief.
I know how to rub moisturizer into dry skin,
if that’s what it is, or not.
It's incomplete.
The answer to my question is not received.
My answer was asked as a last resort—
not out of stupidity.
I scratch my head, arm, knee and gnaw
on the next stupid answer I get.
2.
My wife says she loves me, but I can be
such an asshole.
Times are strained now, we are gonna pop,
the world is fecal, floating
out to sea.
I cannot see the horizon, as shit consumes me
like an asshole running incessantly
on, about the end of the world, or the
beginning of time, that began
the end of right now, at least,
I have turned into gas, it seems.
No bones, no skin,
words in tiny bubbles,
thoughts that linger in a lighter than
troubled mind that doesn’t even
exist...only words no skin.
3.
I see not even the experts have answers.
Their training pays them to downgrade
into mindless quips of wiki-thoughts—
of arrogance, of numbness, of thoughtless obedience.
Here, take my co-pay and I’ll be back in
six months for more abuse, punches
to the back of my head, where my humanity
has drained-out anyway, no worries.
Nice meeting you, and thanks for nothing,
at least I feel like I’ve accomplished something
today, in the rain.
Your metallic space-green Mustang
white faux leather
convertible 70’s model
of something or other
pulled in the spot, out in the street.
You again, on weekends, kicking the curb—
doorbell rang, knock-knocked up.
Surprised you didn’t just walk-in
our salt-box hut.
You so gallant
You so cocky
You so pretend to want to.
Momma doesn’t want to play no more, she is fed-up
and lost. Kids, money, depression—all too much.
You, lit-up and fired-up and freed-up!
Her, imprisoned.
The street seems so mean, so,
gray-black-macadam-green.
It’s not warm and comforting, it’s
castless, cold and melting.
No path forward—nor backward.
Not sure where these mean streets lead
but we go anyway,
it's obligatory.
i used to run through my days like sand sifting through a sieve—
or like the mist of you rising from your grave, daily you haunt
my brain, a magnet stuck to this evil, gripped by nightmare,
a force to reckon with, no cease or desist. i struggle to stand a Victor,
i beg iron-grips. molten-orange burns. i dream of being legless—
running from dream to dream to dream, begging for release of
the night shadow, the beast, and plea for the day to come to my rescue.
my pillow rock-hard. pounding waves. i call to my side that song
from 1969, the one i use to soothe me but i lose the music—
the tune drifting like sand in sieve, blowing in wind.
i run endless to chase ‘the dream’ of each day. i stop. i breathe, i exhale—
a murder of crows, a blow of wind, a tempest-dragon—mounts then rescinds.
The arc and white streaks of what appear to look like clouds, create patterned designs in the blue sky, causing a constant stream of onlookers gawking upwards. The sky is endless and blue here, minus these patterned clouds. If one chose to ignore the upward tick in the number of them, over time, it is quite fanciful. However, if you snap out of the clouds for a moment and take pause, it dawns on you that they represent pollution. The number of airplanes and flights that race and dart across this blue sky have increased, and the UFO type aircraft that circle and dip into the indigo night has increased tenfold. Loud heli’s closing in and circling around in a whirlpool of motion, fly low and spot white-hot spotlights searching for criminals and their patrol cars. It is pollution. Pure and simple. Our air and ears are assaulted on a daily basis, not to mention the disruption to our animals and birds’ homes. It is messing with the earth’s balance and mine. Balance is a necessity to thrive. Thriving is necessary to find one’s soul and manifest purpose. Noise beating around everyday, all the time, 24/7, irritates a man with a slow rise and gnawing grit. Before they know it, they lose it. Peace and harmony is what is preferred, to rumble along with verse and song. Svelte in motion the beats flow rapturously, off and on the tongue. Checkerboards, Tic-Tac-Toe white lines pollute the skies, silent mimes streaking high with onboarded lives, hopeful to escape the Covid times. Unrested vacationers seek refuge on better shores than those that have wrecked their hindered minds, impatient in patience flying high, onlookers gawk and deny the pictured airshow of wonder, high up in their blue sky.
Blink blank stares
pinpointed glares
harnessed hatred
on the back of hands
feel the burn of love
blow the plans
two fisted batterings
fish-fried hot pans
let the drain open
to drool out and fan
the heat rested
then baked inside
gripped irons
whipped hides
starched whites
demands power
stiff on command
led then flanked
then led again
blink blank stares
shuffled cares
whisked away
on double-dares
do ya’ ?
Don’t give a damn!
Paint the sky bitter orange
with chocolate
the clouds mourn
the darkness
paint the clouds
pink cotton ball
fluffs
of bright poppies
the red bleeds out
in titanium white
strokes
stroked out on cadmium
chemicals bled
bright red
out of
tubular metal
coffin beds.
Built block by block
a vacancy
windowless and piercing
straight through my soul
a shiver delivered
to the tip of my bone
In wind and whispering
dark, they settle, they come
cauterized relations warehoused
growing old
The base of your knuckle
fused, abandoned long ago
the hand that fed you, crippled
and stoned
Sacred sites, sacred burials
blessed to wield the weight
gone by the East, gone by the West
relations severed to heed, to warn
to love lost, in land lost
locked down scorned
You stand silent to block out the sun
rolling inward, frigid, you mourn
the cold heart frozen, a fortress built
in regret. I taste your bitter bite on
my tongue, my lips speak in languages
unsung
And, now you stand alone, you
cinder block by cinder block
a vacant piercing monument
of cement and stone.
I speak of angels that fall when I call them from the clouds
arrows and flowers and smiles shower down as I call them
with orders to enlighten my words and power through verse
in shining recitals I converse.
I speak of angels often as friends fire and shout and scream about
the injustice and hideous groundswell of hateful distrusting
of humanity’s suffering masses living in earthly locked fortresses
and castles and huts from disasters that are never ending.
I speak of angels to soothe and caress and serenade the souls of lost and dis-heartened people forgotten of their power and purpose where fear rides recklessly on flesh bone and marrow spewing nonsense about division-based camaraderie and loose-lipped debauchery.
I speak of angels to ground me in heaven and load-up the world with a love-debt from burden a man a woman an animal calling in their blessings to mend the story to fit the end scenes of told glory and folklorey the shared tales that heal wounds in a collective allegory.
I speak of angels to protect me with love and light and eternal life flowing the kisses of sunshine that rest on my bed slung by birds singing pitches of fits that ring the days light in rainbows in flight to catch the lyric of poets who rhyme and fill hearts with fevered delight.
If you listen and promise to hear
I can go on in the carefree lusting after, this life
promised in securities, in monies, in ancient tableau’s
acted on stages and written on scrolls; and on cave walls
Scratched and etched into hearts professed by apostles
by sages and the venerable teachings of all the religions
the winnings dulled out to the dutiful players
immortals, mortals, all the same faces
Believe what you want no matter the villains
they come in your dreams and dance on your pillows
the wakeful can’t hear them, they stage a rebellion
and live in the parallels within the dimensions.
The age of bourbon burns less
or more into my throat as the
time allotted myself to even
the score wasted in resentment
or protracted into the procurement
of forgetting
lost time from feeling caged in
by the expectations.
I lick my lips and suck down
the amber lust and spice of
the brown-sugared-warming
juices and the choices to live
in freedom failing—
past mistakes burning my core
in daily fires that ignite.
The settling of sediment in my glass
half full and emptied once more
seen as a win from time spent
imprisoned in desires left to others
to determine my fate and mull
over the winnings of who got more
or less of me and lost the game.
I float with no arms to battle
or feet to run but soothe the flames
in aged whiskey instead, I
spoke to whispers from love in
bourbon bliss and whiskful wins
in hope to rest inside a freedom
that has no end.
Powder-air, inclement in mindset
I walk the wooden day, erected
by dawn, followed by sunset.
There is no barn-raising today—
on this flat land,
littered with beer cans and dry grass
with some patches of
stiff green, fresh blades, genuflecting
praying for rain—
to lift their parched spirits
of mottled-brown-withering
stems
from dusting—
the sub-tropical terrain.
it’s the old ways in which you manipulate
that give me pause and contemplation
to gather up my things and flee
the scene
by not hanging on your every word
it frees the caged bird who clings
like vipers to your broken wings
sucking the blue pigment from your pin
feathers
an obscene loss of blues/ blood/ life
draining you/ I
fly free to freedom
without cause or condemnation
to ruminate on the whys or hows
of the awakening.
lost in the acrid smoke
of deceit
the taste of your bitter
languishes on her lips
she smiles deliciously
satiated by the heat
and burn, of your hate
she fondles the proclamation
of your love,
then spits in your face
saddle and whip, hat misplaced
she jumps on her horse
rides the dust - wind - force
slapping away in an
unbridled gait
onto the hardened scape
of battered memory
of controlled burn
of friction and heat
singeing forever
in her vigilant mind
a raging fire
she lit the page
torn the love in two
once begged
for more,
a story rebuilt from
spine to cover from lip
to lover, a book of deceit
closed forever.
lust engages my core
hammers my mind
i thirst endlessly
mismanage my soul
for centuries
time travel eludes
my reality
but i beg for a chance,
a bite, a taste of it—
moonshine, potbellied
stove,
blew up, sky-high
into the woods
and i ran to the cave
and hid from authorities
i dug a ditch
into the earth
a wormhole
a beggars grave
i sat in wait
i regained my strength
i came to the place
i blew up
and lit the pot again
i lust after
the moonshine
i mix the sun
into the herb, the weed
the pit of gomorrah
over takes,
i plead
to the spirit gods
and the ether rises
like heathens
unseen.
i got tired of it
i had to walk away
it was a matter of
exhaustion
and preservation
of what little energy
i had left
that is the way i saw it
and none of it
seemed to render
a care from your gaze
or a nod of confusion
at all
in the tiniest fashion
i left to find myself
wandering the fields
walking the streams
wailing at night
in sheer pleasure
as i lay my head
in rest
the days played on
as the nights wrestled
the sheets to silence
it was an amazing
feeling
to release all of it
at once.
