Gypsy Honey Whiskey

Gypsy honey whiskey
White sheep winter
Pearl snaps to my Adam’s apple
And the smell of dust
Strangers with Ipods in their ears on passing planes overhead
Coming and going in the post-storm dusk
The faux-January cold
 Sweet sweet sugar on my lips
Golden warmth in my throat
Empty testicles and tired

She stands up in front of the microphone
Drumming on her hip
Purple summer dress
Bruises on her legs
A star on her toe inside her low-top Converse shoes
Colored tape on the keyboard
She catches me watching her
Offers a smile
Lips pushing her cheeks into her blue eyes
We stay caught
Only for a moment

Dishes in a mess
But clean
Leaves blow in through the open door
The grass is still too wet to walk on
Blue sky distillation
Traffic in the stove’s reflection
The brownies slowly disappearing
She holds me inside of her
She’s always texting
When I wake up in her hair.

2.27.2012

The Poet's Beat

I once won a slam poetry contest with this little piece...

Profound scenes,
of multiple handsome man-children,
with their cocks hanging below their knees,
parade before me,
in the infinite space of my mind,
traipsing through gardens of pansies,
swinging by their members through tall cedar trees,
handling those flesh socks with their steely knuckles
     in any way they please,
gathering coconuts and pineapples and slender stiff bananas
     for the feast,
the main course featuring the remains of the island beast,
released last year to grow fat in the interval,
during the time of peace,
a period fit only for thumb twiddling,
and games with grease,
our desires decreased over time,
lost in the breeze,
fed fresh to us from the sea,
pleading from a conch shell to be set free,
still,
still,
this is my madness, you see,
as deep as infinity,
and as dark as I care for it to be,
no matter if its meaning disappears
     like a flock of geese in the winter,
this is my period piece,
the news flash during my press release,
some nursery rhyme that has something
     to do with some golden fleece,
sweet,
too sweet,
hope you agree,
my fingers speak faster than my heart or my mouth or my feet,
perverted, a little,

I’m sure I’ll catch heat,
but if nothing else I’m a slave to the scene,
and nobody wins the race by driving in the backseat,
I’m nothing if not true to my words,
to the poet’s beat.

3.28.2012

Christmas Party Scuffle

The Christmas season is upon us all...

Soup dip scalp and pride for days Pride oozing out of a thick cream sauce oozing out of hair
Fingers forcing finger-foods into her mouth
Cilantro salsa seasoning his eye balls
Skinny jeans
Skinny wrists
The wood deck eager to catch it all
Edible party favors like rain splashing from the heavens
From the rafters
From the Christmas lights strung in high spirits
Tail-bones and slick shoes
Bruised bodies
Bruised pride
Reach for what you can and make it hurt for what it’s worth
Cameras seek to dispel red rage with white lightning flashes
Illuminating cocktail covered faces determined to be detrimental
But there is no room for shame
No time for regret
Bear hugs and cat scratch claws
Beer bottles for clubs
Climbing from the cold ice water pond wheelbarrow of beverages
No truce
No surrender
No handshake covered in mutilated appetizers
The meaning of mistletoe a forsaken muse
A trail of smashed pre-party snacks and spilled drinks
From the decorative table
Over the treated wood planks
Down the stairs
To the yard
Guests frozen in disbelief
Innocent bystanders fuming over clothes covered in flung food
No one else existed
Only the fight mattered
Neither the stars
Or the fire
Or their gracious host delightful and unaware of the melee on her doorstep
Until the two combatants stood before one another
Disheveled clothes disgusting
Potluck repast paste in every orifice
Brains scrambled in madness
Cooling their wounds with ice cubes used to cool booze
Cooling tempers
Saturday in December
On the same deck where minutes before Santa had read us all a heartwarming tale of Cajun good cheer.

12.2012

The Red Planet

Cynical thoughts on the future of my species...

Pray for me, He told her,

Holding her pale hands against his lips, Outside the broken stained glass windows were stained

rocks red with the blood of ten thousand times ten, Red ran from smoking holes in suits of armor lifting sour pistol smoke up towards the red sun, Dying cries of warrior boys calling screaming for far-away mothers they would never see again,

Trying to stuff their guts back into the cavernous spaces of their spilling stomachs,

Their hands stained the color of bile - orange, yellow, red, In a canyon so far from home so many came to die, Some swore unquestioned allegiance to the Black King and followed him across the stars to fall in droves like

the waves that once broke over that red sand, Some gave their oath to the Red King and with calls to arms raised their banner high over Olympus Mons where

man first trespassed upon their soil by the ignorant ramblings of blind robots, Where so many million years before clear water once ran through rivulets of the arroyos the red water of life now

revisited those meandering tracks, In thick trickles it abandoned the dying bodies of all manner of creatures alike,

In death mankind found in himself a close kin to that race of thin-fingered astral pilgrims, Soldiers from both fronts slept one last sleep and gave up their spirits to wander the infinite cosmos, Still, there was blood yet shed, In the skies above more pale-faced legionnaires would soon descend, Like insect parasites they disgorged from their hulking warships hungry to replicate, Hungry to infect with the diseases of famine and decay, They arrived once a strange new friend, Now they became a pest, When the landing pads of their bollard copper beasts gluttonous with men touched the red killing sands they would meet yet again, For in the caves below cities were burning, In the caves the war trumpet echoed, In the caves the hearts of the people ran red with revenge, In the caves they marched, Past the stone idols and the broken sailing vessels that took them from star to star, Past the bodies of dead grey children whose carbon they would recycle into oxygen, Past the empty citadels where man once stood to preach a false peace, Past the artificial lights and the war chests and the caged beasts, They rallied to the last red soldier, Tall green-skinned space men who mapped the heavens long before mankind had left his crib, Helmets of heavy caliginous eyes, Hollow bones, Long limbs of tight muscles and fleet of foot, To reclaim their home, Take back their planet stolen, She pulled her hands away from his, Fingered the plastic black cross that hung above her pale breasts, Her black cloak fell around her, The hooded cowl framed her small oval face, Powdered cheeks and thin lips, Black moist eyes, His battle axe lay propped against a carving of their Christ, The church lay in ruins, A dim and distant sun splashed multi-colored scenes of religious ecstasy on the splintered pews, The statue burned black from a fire recently subdued, The air stank, He did not move, She reached out to touch his head where the black helmet pushed into his temples and left deep marks there in his skin, His hair a pelt of black mane mangled by sweat and the dirt of a thousand nights, His knees bent and the memory of that metallic armor on the stone when he fell there before her still resounding in her skull, His black cape like folded wings across his back displaying in vivid spectacle the pennon of the people he fought for, The black war eagle holding in its talons the spear and the crown, His skin was warm, His blood beat against her fingertips through the thin veil of his flesh, He watched her face as she traced the line of his jaw with her other hand, Slender hand, Brittle and translucent, A thing of fine glass against the coarse black beard that sat shallow on his cheeks, In the distance a thunder fell in a land where clouds were faint, The drums of a coming nation, The ground moved and the church walls groaned, The Black King never left her eyes, Death marched in the red canyon towards them, What is it that you want, She asked, His answer was quiet but fierce, For there was time yet left for madness, As he stood, He said, I want everything. 11.2012

The Electric Bill

When the electric bill becomes a terrifying proposition...

Mosquito house guests hanging around in the still brisk air, Dining at their leisure, Taking advantage of my open-door air conditioning system, In with a slight soft breeze come my six-legged neighbors, Leaning in to whisper in my ear, To whine about their short lives, Their troubles from the puddle to the grave,
Cream-colored yard lights cast slatted shadows on the paintings on my walls, The long black fingers reaching creeping for me in my solitude, Charcoal eyes mistake me for their own in the flushed phosphorescence of turning cars, We catch one another’s lucid gaze, Like lost raccoons in the trash pile when dad pulls into the driveway, For a second we are brothers of the lonely regime, Until darkness collapses and we are misplaced again,
I wander my carpeted cave following the bouncing beam of a flashlight, A fisherman casting a yellow net upon the sea of my belongings, Single socks come and go, The corner of the couch is illuminated by the lantern’s signal like hazardous rocks off the coast, A ghost in the skin-cloth of my naked self passes through the mirror, Pink parts and pale spindly limbs wound tight under a body lawn of close-cropped pubes, Haunted by my own blinded eyes pupils retreating into themselves, I toss the flashlight and come up gasping for air,
The bills have begun to go unanswered, The phone rings with monsters on the other line, (It has already vibrated growled twice on my desk since I started this poem), Silent electronics surround me in my sadness, One does not appreciate those dim digits on the microwave until they are gone, I am a Pharaoh wandering a forsaken tomb of stone and drywall and asbestos in search of the Hall of Two Truths, My heart on the scales of justice judged against the weight of a single feather, To depart into the Kingdom of the Dead, I am an empty epicenter in a world alive, Headlamp sentences carved by cold fingers on the stoop beneath the stars, They twinkle with life when the bulbs above my stove do not, Always lit, Always burning, Always on, And there is no one whom requires a fee for their power.
11.2012

Two Boys, At Play

While we ate amazing pork dishes cooked a hundred different ways and drank dark rich wine, while the string of light bulbs burned overhead and the black river drifted by behind us, while we sang happy birthdays and percolated in the Fall night atmosphere of friendship, I couldn't help but watch two little boys come and go, playing together, oblivious of the world and of the stewardship that was their's to hold safe, as we all held it so dearly that night around that table. 

While the succulent skins of choice-swollen sows roast in an electric fire

peppered by the refined spices of a colored history of Cajun culinary composition,

While aromatic pig flesh flowed freely from the beast’s bits lying in creative combinations cut for our disposal,

Our greased fingers plucking toothpicks of meat from well-placed plates,

Salacious lips missing slick strips of tender hog muscle to fall glistening buried in beards,

Those same glazed lips over which spill the pungent pig-sweet breath of young conversation,

While laughter danced between intermittent songs of philosophy and enterprise,

While the golden brown Abita ale of ideas mixed in the malt froth foam of the passions of people in love with each other,

And hand-held lightening became a birthday candle that leapt willy-nilly between pale cumulus clouds of body and bone,

The thunder that cracked was the cackling zest of life,

While the mud-rich river that once carried wayward Creoles tip-toed by in the maddening darkness,

While the grass grew heavy under the sins of a cooling night,

While the lamps burned ever on to light the way,

While the root beer settled,

And the cinder blocks remained wrapped,

Two boys came and went,

The venerable youth of this great southern city,

Caretakers of its culture,

Back and forth they ran,

Keeping to themselves the sly secrets only boys can keep,

Two boys, at play.

11.2012

For the Men Who Walked in Zion

The ecstasy of pain. The exultation of thirst. The elation in the destruction of the body. All for those miles. And those sights. The rapture of being alive on the dusty trail...

There passed four bearded bastions lusting for the manifold wonders of life,
Thirsty as desert dogs to sip the swift currents of adventure,
Their heart sails ravaged by the monotonous minutes spent too long in the presence of that vile seed, the Every Man,
They fled his kind into high country canyons and the deep arroyos of the West,
Hard land where things lived with empty stomachs,
Where water bled from rocks,
Where lizards jump from shade to shade and eye such trespassers with curiosity,
Bold oarsmen of action these men were,
Rowing with the wooden paddles of manly discourse their humble steed,
Long past her painted prime,
Her blue coat a miasma of rusted craters,
Only a passionate kiss from the driver would elicit her four cranky cylinders into motion,
With a sanguine smile they bade her wait for them,
And so she waited,
Glorious miles of lonely foot falls through the boulevards of sky-high canyon columns,
Down the avenues paved with God’s stone,
And the corridors of ankle-swallowing sand,
Stinging nettles along the trail-side wait like lions for their prey,
A lifeless rat in the water supply,
Blue Iodine in the eggs,
Whiskey fires on the plateau,
Complete pre-moon darkness and the stars dancing in the infinite distance,
Wrapping themselves around each other,
Chasing their tails,
Disappearing into the blue smoke of glowing cigars,
A welcoming wind of fresh cold air in the morning,
To greet their ground battered bones,
Their greasy hair,
Their reluctant metamorphosis from the twisted shells of sleeping bags,
Arise to walk the earth,
To bear the burden of one’s existence on his shoulders,
To don dusty boots cracked and worn,
Joy is pain and blood is life on the trail,
Baptized in a river of ice,
Their dirt washed downstream like the sins from a newborn babe’s forehead,
Four bearded bastards sun-bathing on naked rocks displayed like drying deer-skin for the trolley,
Tick-full of fat tourists with grey hair and the bygone memories of orgasms and chance-pleasures long left behind,
Some men walked the desert to arrive at that river,
Some men took a bus,
Some men will live their entire lives and never hear the blood cold cry of a bull elk in the pines.

10.2012

The French House Affair

Some personal erotica from those wayward, youthful college days, albeit written in Dr. Seuss'esque rhymes. Glad to know my poetry has gotten better, even if my penchant for sneaking into places I shouldn't be in hasn't...

The French House deserves her secrets

but it's time that this one's been told

of the day she opened her doors

to two lovers horny and bold,

The Freshman were served their gumbo

on the French House grounds outside,

the two lovers mingled among them

under blue skies and perfect sunshine,

He kept his flip-flops in his pockets

and ate in the grass and the sun,

she leaned close and she kissed him,

so was the French House legend begun,

They bade their own friends goodbye

and slipped in through the downstairs doors,

their passion turned hot in the shadows

but there were no empty rooms on that floor,

Her lips on the back of his neck as they searched

from one locked door to the next,

until they found their way up a staircase

and the kisses became more than quick pecks,

The conference room had a comfortable couch

and under the windows a long table and chairs,

the two became slaves to their lusts -

that wiliest of all human snares,

He threw her down onto the sofa

and made good use of his hands,

finding hiding places under her clothing,

his fingers performing a dance,

She threw her head back and sighed at his touch

as his lips found those of her own,

when he lifted her shirt and unstrapped her bra

she arched her back towards him and moaned,

The French House must have secretly smiled

as unbeknownst to the Freshman below

the two lovers found more delight on the floor

and discarded all of their clothes,

She was dripping with sweat and much more

as he pinned her down from above,

their hips moved in one rhythmic motion,

on a dirty conference room floor they made love,

Suddenly,

In the madness of climax between them

a soft hand knocked at the door,

the two were naked, on fire and praying

that the knock wouldn't lead to much more,

But before their hearts could slow down

and the sweat could dry on their skin

the door to the conference room opened

and a pair of high quality loafers walked in,

The two lovers were hidden from sight

and remained as still as the table,

but the stranger would not be deterred

and without him would not be this fable,

He followed the disheveled clothes,

no doubt curious where the trail led,

until two naked kids stared up at him,

"give us five more minutes," the boy said,

The fact that the stranger consented

is perhaps God's greatest gift,

wide-eyed he wordlessly nodded,

quietly retraced his steps and then left,

The French House goes on to say

that no two people ever dressed faster,

before their deadline was up

the two lovers vanished without further disaster,

The French House deserves her secrets

but it's time that this one's been told

of the day she opened her doors

to two lovers horny and bold.

6.2007

The Million Miles

Keep your head up above the curvature of the Earth. And your heart open. Too many places are too far away...

Where are you in the million miles,

Holding close to your chest,

As I am,

The possibility of us,

In all those million miles,

Where ever it is cell-phone signals go,

In passing moments,

Days that feel like minutes,

In a kiss that disappears too quickly,

In dreams that fade with the first light of a dying star,

We exist as an idea,

As a hope,

As the full rich scope of imagination,

Words build up the fantasy,

But only my body next to yours proves any truth,

Your soft hand in mine,

The taste of your lips in my mouth,

Somewhere lost in the million miles,

Somewhere between here and there,

Perhaps in the static,

In the breeze that blows hot from the sea,

Perhaps all you ever were was a ghost,

Only travelling the distance home can I be sure.

3.26.2012

The Shotgun and the Last Letter

Inspired by the darkness of love and one of my favorite scenes from television...

Red jacket 10-guage birdshot in the break-barrel 

     on the seat beside me,

Resting like a quiet passenger,

The radio glows in the darkness between us,

Too low to hear,

But I keep it on to remind me that there is still a world 

     alive somewhere,

The city is warm and smells like the ocean,

Street lights seem lonely at this hour but I can make them 

     become comets the faster I push the car,

Empty streets inviting madness into my mind,

But there is only calm there,

I push back the feeling that nothing exists,

That I could jerk the wheel and flip this car and not feel a thing,

Perhaps I was never born,

Or perhaps my heart stopped when I took that first breath of air,

And this has all been a dream,

Maybe I’m still in my mother’s arms,

Her tears falling among the discarded goodbyes,

Lifeless and cold,

Flying through a city of dying stars filled with 

     memories that never were,

A sawed-off shotgun at my side,

My last friend,

For now, neither of us speaks,

Though we both have much to say,

Tonight we’ve somewhere to be,

Against my lips I clutch your letter I meant to send:

I need to know,

It says,

I need to know if it was real,

I need to know if those parts of me that I gave away 

     were squandered like flower petals in a storm,

Or if your love gave them meaning,

Do you still remember what it feels like to hold my hand?

To hold me inside of you?

To cry so hard at the senselessness of life,

That your words became a torrent and washed away your dreams,

Did we hurt for nothing?

Did we break each other’s hearts like vandals tossing rocks at 

     windows in an abandoned warehouse?

Did it matter that we wrestled unto death,

With our own fears,

With our love,

Did it matter,

Does any of it matter?

I need to know.

The shotgun sleeps for now,

Nestled not like a killing thing in the caramel leather of my convertible,

But like a small bird,

There are things I must do,

That I can never return from,

Things only done in this darkest hour of the night,

When the city has no face,

Nor can see a man’s tears,

Were there tears to see,

No, it’s no longer the ocean I smell,

But blood,

Black as the deepest recesses of the heart,

Not accessible to me,

Accessible only to my friend in the seat beside me,

Eyeing me,

Daring me to believe in anything otherwise,

I hold your letter in the current over the windshield,

Release my fingers,

And do not look back as you flutter to the asphalt behind me,

Somewhere in the night.

3.28.2012

These Hands That Touch You

Space and sex and violence and love. I promise I'm a normal guy...

These hands that touch you

Once took life too

Smearing ashes on your cheeks

Black mascara deltas form into rivers

     and cascade off the edge of the world

A million miles away a planet is swallowed by a too hot star

First quietly collapsing into white light

Preparing itself to die

And then taking back every celestial body it once gave birth to

Like an angry mother disappointed in her creation

Blinding the loneliness of space with a camera flash bang

For an instant

A moment of eternal time

Registered here under the dull moon by a simple twinkle

Where once there was everything

There is nothing

My fingers find the cusp between your shirt and your jeans

Transparent skin holding your body together

Count your ribs

Trace the surface where below lie your

Kidneys

The outline of your liver

Pancreas

Spleen

Precious lungs

In them a well placed small caliber round will open a clean hole

     and drain the air from your body in bubbling whispers

Rattlesnakes in your chest

Supernova in your heart

A warm night full of dangerous shadows

Ghosts in the corners of your eyes

Spider webs in your mouth

Let’s dance around your spinal column

Holding your sharp hips

Don’t ask me my name

Or where I’ve been

The answers will revisit you when you sleep

The electric street lights buzzing and the dizzy avenues

Valleys of toy soldiers

Night huddled in a boxcar around a cold grey rifle

A million miles away: the dead star

Grizzlies hunting in the woods outside

I think to myself

I love you

But you’ll never hear me say it

I want to take you home tonight

But I can’t quite remember where that is anymore.

3.4.2012

Sweet Streets

Sweet streets swept clean by the dancing feathered heels of
     long-legged girls in lace and lipstick and serpents coiled in their
          timeless hair,
Sweet last look she scars you with as she holds you through
     the train’s cloudy coach window where in a finger smudged
          script read the words: TREES ARE PEOPLE TOO,
Sweet are the colors in their clothes dull earth tones orange
     as a setting sun cerulean blue skies and the hot reds of
          fires that burn below the ground,
Sweet sex on parade in the click click of their pointed shoes
     billowing dust storms on the floorboards and the long white
          fingers smoking pistols on those razor-edge hips,
Sweet sex in the silence between twirling hemlines and the
     softly clapping hands of an invisible audience overrun with
          ghosts and the empty forms ghosts refuse to haunt,

So Heaven did not descend quickly enough to save you,

And my arms were never strong enough to hold you,

Every face is some perverse memory begging you to trip
     and fall again,

Sweet snare suffocating you in the mistakes of your past but
     wearing the coy smile of the very GOTdamn golden bullet that
          reaped havoc in your heart and made you broken forever.

4.7.2012

The Road's Conclusion

An old poem from the open road, when I had just arrived in Denver and was exploring the place...

For one final time, I closed Jack's book on

the auditorium floor next to the stage waiting for Dylan.

I fled New York for Denver following the footsteps of Paradise,

not knowing the road beneath me was the original beat home.

And there I was alone in my fascination of

the newly discovered musical vibe around me,

opened to me by my lonely quest for miles

that led me to sit at the feet of a rock and roll legend.

What was this need to be impressed?

I was caught in the illusion,

swaying to the rhythmical current of the crowd all

lost in the sounds that were alive to me for the first time,

out on those same streets,

the inner workings of a magnet that Jack surely felt too,

finding Denver a stop-over that could not be avoided in

the long list of American wonder.

We all wanted to dig this place, yet up until now,

the only digging I had known was Seamus Heaney's.

Jack taught me the confinement of that dream.

I finished his book and woke up realizing

that Bob Dylan was a real human.

4.12.05

Pink Dolphins

I found you floating face up
In the brown curling jungle river
With a broken heart
Taking on water
Leeches in your eyes
The current lapping waves onto the islands
     of your pale breasts
You told me I could follow the stars
That their trails would take me home
But every star is where I came from
Every star is where I’m going
Tiny grey black-eyed perch kissing your skin
     where my own lips used to rest
Tan lines on your hips
Tiny wrinkles on your toes
My limbs wrapped in wet clothes like a new flesh
Draped over my hollow bones
Protecting the water inside of me from the water without
I wonder what you’ll see on the river tonight
When the world floats by in greens and sprinkles of stars
Conversations with pink dolphins
Comparing labia
As they sing shrill songs lamenting better days downstream
I call your name from the bridge
My voice a scream
An echo
Nonsense in the still darkness
Life must go on, you say
Ignoring my attempts to retrieve you
As your long hair swarms slow motion about your peculiar face
Life must go on
And I must forget you
Ten thousand jungle noises drown my reply
Invisible hands pull you away from me
Always slightly stronger than whatever I can muster
The Pirarucu whispers in your ear
It’s time to go
The Jaguar, always watching, drinks from a pool at your throat
Don’t leave me like this, I say
But without another word you fade into the muddy river
To become silt and sand
To eventually empty into an enormous lonely sea
I am left forever with the image of your long nipples
     slipping beneath the surface
Like duel periscopes
3.9.2012


 

River Queen

An homage to our annual celebration of the inherent wildness within men and the absolute necessity of releasing that said wildness in places where the forest is deep, the mud thick and the water dark...

River Queen,
Have mercy on us,
Have mercy on our souls,
For what is to come,
For what we are sent out to do,
For spent rifle cartridges in the freshly turned mud
     where they will rest for eternity,
Save those we find and properly throw away
     in veneration for the Natural World,
For the blasted Coke and Sprite cans,
And likewise for the splintered bark behind them,
Oh, River Queen,
Look the other way,
When we delight in the incense that drifts warmly
     from the hot end of a smoking barrel,
Our praises to you drowned out by the sharp crack
     of a depleting 9mm magazine,
Please accept the discarded bones of our feast of meat,
Thrown into your swirling brown currents for slippery catfish
     to curiously investigate but leave disappointed that the strong
          odorous skeletal remains of chickens and pigs
               are nothing for a fish to eat,
River Queen,
In our madness,
In our delusions of grandeur and manly attempts at posterity,
When our dark blood has been dismissed and replaced
     by even darker liquors of foul fiery tastes,
When our tongues have forgotten words,
When our lungs are tarnished and torn,
Our livers depleted of decency,
When our feet fumble at steps an infant has mastered,
River Queen,
Forgive us,
Look down upon us and forgive us,
For we are infected with YOUR madness,
The thud of the drum that resonates from the forest
     where your inky waters flow,
Has infected us,
And now our own hearts beat to that rhythm,
Our souls are dirty because you are,
Our minds are bent because you are,
Oh, River Queen,
True Lord of the Flies,
Do not forsake us,
Baptize us,
Again and again,
Drinking from the same cup as snapping turtles and water moccasins,
Until we come up bobbing like cypress driftwood babes,
Drunkards of gun smoke,
of moonshine,
of pocket knives,
of camaraderie,
of manhood,
We worship you,
River Queen,
And promise to do our best to defile ourselves in your temple.

3.28.2012

Mon cœur est Lafayette

Fashion show at the Blue Moon Saloon...

Mon cœur est Lafayette
où les jolies filles transpirent quand ils dansent,
Wooden white folding chairs in the garden,
Fat as fuck full moon saying come, little children,

Célébrez avec moi!
Célébrez avec moi!
Dip your fingers into the stars and suck the head,
A Spiral Galaxy of ketchup and mayonnaise
And the sweet sting of the spices in the cuts on your hands,

I walk like sex up her legs
Over her denim hips to sparkle in the golden jewelry
     that dances between her tits,
 Willy-nilly she slings a disinterested gaze into the crowd,
I’d like to sling that shit right back at her feet,
but like a weather worn fool I reach out to catch it,
Burn my hands when she looks at me,
When she looks through me,
Placing one heavy-heeled hoof in front the other,
Riding her own pendulating hips with invisible
     pistols smoking hot in her fists,

Lafayette a les plus belles filles dans le monde,
And what would you have me do??
They wear pheasant feathers on Indian headbands in their hair,
Cloak themselves in clouds,
Eyes painted in the same colors as night-time stories
     and dreams that don’t make it into morning memory,
They’ve forgotten about how we stare at their pebble’d nipples,
Cigarette smoke hanging in soft shapes around their lips,
Bouncing like wayward rabbits and topless behind the curtain,
Sweet sweat gathering in the soft spots on their flesh,
Holy Hell the Moon is pregnant tonight!
Inviting me up, up, up,
To dance in those dark shadow dimples,
Ces lapins de Lafayette,
     avec leurs longues jambes et des seins magnifiques.

4.10.2012