ode to a decade of art (or, i wish i could push rewind)

ten years ago
i took up the knife
held it to my eye and with a flick
felt it cut; just a trickle and a speck,
and the city barely felt it
but it was reddish-blue, a royal hue
(though lacking you)
and i cut again, and often.

four-score and seven years ago
minus eighty
i freed myself from my earthbound
wondering if you were out there
‘cause i could taste you
even if you danced just out of reach
of my tongue
and i took up the gun, to shoot, to kill,
and kill me i did, until reborn,
i rewrote myself, with
you as my leading lady

and then four years hence
mass-killer now, and crazy
with the knife, i cut, i kill,
i spin at will, i’m there,
you’re here, but still not near
still out of reach, that tender peach,
i’ll always taste, that bitter waste
my leading lady,
that failing muse, that buys me bullets
i’ll never use, and tears i shed,
we’ll never wed,
but faithful shall i ever be.

Against the wind

From my “Pain” photo-poetry series:

“Legs II”

Against the wind
and to the sky
with steady gait
past prisons fly.
accept the world
against her feet
and move, uphill.
decry defeat.

that perfect spot
the All have made
in quiet, tears
surrender shade.
when comes the sun
again, she’ll try
to climb up to
sweet destiny.

but night surrenders
take her breath.
don’t notice pain
leave her bereft
of love, of worth
a simple touch,
a kiss, a painless day—
not much.

her prison’s walls
are bittersweet
with angel tears
and kitten feet.
she know her hills
are always steep
and hearts don’t always
keep her beat,

but with the dawn
come expectations
All will meet her
she’ll stretch past pain
and grumble smiles
then climb her hills’
unending miles.

I Danced, Once, with Her

I danced, once, with her
Weather Report was playing
Between the Thighs
and in my mind, I was there
She danced back at me, her hips
hopping to my spoken word, her
being to my bop, ebb to my flow
She washed along my shore
her big hair lapping me
like red waves, unkempt on my beach
dancing in the way hair is supposed to dance
daring me to catch it and run my fingers through
to pull her to me, taste her
and her lips
and perhaps the milk of her

she never heard the music I selfishly
hoarded via pin-sized ear buds
but she heard my body singing
calling her, and she sang right back, and
damn could baby sing
could she sing baby
could sang them notes
and I pulled her to my
and kept her there, forever

I danced with her
just that once,
and always


Monday, 27 July 1987

Some old schtuff.

Sonrisa Dominicana

Spanish laughter
lifts in the air
punches holes
in my somber armor.

It asks, tenderly
“What is wrong?”
inwardly cries at a null response
and turns
to seek new

I cry in secret
at the loss of you.

Germantown Dusk


flight of arrows
westward to the horizon
wings shimmering in the heat
translucent golds
lavender highlights

glides in air currents
rising in the thermals
wings outstretched, passionate
eyes closed in rapture
an eagle’s shriek
with a westbound tack

to summer secrets.


Ristorante Italiana

table for one
away from the kitchen
back to the wall
not under the plants.

the skylight’s too bright
too much damned smoke
the fat lady farted
and fifteen percent
is just too

Why We Don’t Treat Them?

City night is calling we.
Crying in her sleep,
despair rising
over rooftops, we
shoot to kill
him dead and then
another mother weep
why we don’t treat life like the way we should?

Empty arms embracing, she
clutch an empty heart
revenge tell her
no more misery
found her baby gun
and empty clip in we
why we don’t treat life like the way we should?


She was a sheep in wolf’s clothing
baring store-bought fangs
in struggles to kill his indiscretions
and rage against his mal intent
Tilter against windmills, she
toiler in the lonely moistness
of the southern sun

She would roar, sound and fury
yet with a hurricane’s eye
the calm amidst the storm –
torrential tears in tattered tropics
flooding the scorched earth
a mudslide of malcontent
to quickly follow

Against the windmill, she
into the breech again,
Jeanne d’Arc taking counsel
from voices that would save her
from pointless Crusades against
Drunken Princes of Impiety

From God these voices, beckoning
our Jeanne to walk her gentler path
For sheep are blessed of Him
and wolves are but demons
wrapped in lies and

Princes are but little men
with small penises
instead of minds.