Waiting

Waiting by the car
in your overalls
and underdrawers
pink pussy wiggling in cotton candy stripes o'er my hemline
the car's engine twitching with fine tuned tension
we're both waiting
idling at the starting line
for the fire
circumnavigating your dimensions
sailing turbulent seas frothy with desire

sailors

drivers

lovers

a pair of rabbit in the briar.

TA


Photo cred: Paul Hart

Tusks and Tails

There they were
running to crown the new king
stumbling over themselves in order to be the first
   to usher in a new beginning
ringing their hands mad with dance proclaiming disdain
   to the very last drop of red blood running through their
   blue veins
lines like human trains
lies thicker than ink stains
staring into dull mirrors with dim vision puking into sink drains

let us remember what it is these fools claim
this foundation is at best unsteady
ready to topple under the weight of too much shame
our hands cuffed to rusted bars
forgetting the key was always ours
forgetting we are the ones to blame

how well we listen depends on the celebrity credibility of their fame
name one thing we have in common with these bastards of representation
   and I'll gladly allow hope to coax me from the edge of a misguided nation
with car wreck satisfaction we're transfixed by the action
   but forget quickly WE
   are the deer in the headlights
   about to lose OUR
   life
madmen who sleep easily at night
despite their sins
driving us recklessly around sharp bends
defending such piloting with blatant lies
   and devil's grins

still
we vote them in
time and time again
like lambs
like serfs
like a country of weeping children

I remind you with a fading voice
over senseless clatter and ignorant din
forget not who holds the power...

for even kings
are only men.

TA

Advice To Spaceman

So they say,
there is not a thing worse than a little spilled paint,
there is nothing worse than a few sharp memories of pain,
come to me,
dear fallow visitors from the outer space,
and let us partake in the creation myth that "man came from ape",
a thousand years ago he walked with a limp,
with a scratch,
his table-top brow meant somehow to house families of fleas,

now he moves on land-locked knees
still hunting snatch but
detached from those meandering avenues
in the trees,

Great Pyramid,
tell us your Secret,
allowed to keep it for so long despite wandering wicked deacons who
frequent your WELCOME mat in zebra skins and fur seal hats
distributing leaflets about the posthumous deaths
of the sons of Giza,

we fall at the porcelain sandals of saints atop statues with
inscriptions of virtue but beg daddy to withhold the belt
waiting to be dealt against our pale pelts when we sneak in
past curfew
without even so much as a thank you,

if you're here on vacation,
dead little space man,
my advice to you from a heart long overdue for review,
is to get back into your metallic hovering transportation,
reverse the gravitation (or whatever it is you do),
set your navigation for the farthest constellation,

and find recreation elsewhere.

TA

Not My Ginger Boys

I want my ginger boys bled,
with ginger-covered blood
flowing like fine wine
from the empty eye socket holes in their heads,
crows perch petulantly on their stiff corpse bones
cawing laments for the dead,
no one thinks the ginger boys should remain alive instead,
they made their beds
i.e. bright fiery orange pubes between their legs
where from such burning bushes rise obelisks of flesh,
pink poles where carrion claws roost with wings spread,
purebred ginger gentlemen
aligned head-to-toe out back in the flowerbed,
their crimson covered scalps hanging near the garden trowels in the tool shed,
drying,
a widespread absence of a freckle-faced race,
I want my ginger boys bled,

those were the words of Sugar Ray Neggin,
that's what he said.

TA

Sugar Bee

I am blue cheese
and minced meat
dr pepper soaking into the car seat
I am a three-day old three-meat po-boy
soaking up the microwave heat
I am a lemon tart smile
and cotton candy sweet
I am rotten fruit on the street
I am the sugar beat
but not the sugar bee
I am glucose substitutions
now obsolete
I am a leftover biscuit like concrete
I am ketchup stains on your pants pleat
I am the cute cashier's telephone number
scribbled clumsy
on the grocery receipt
I am flax
I am seed
I am wheat
I am the kind of woman
your momma tells you
you should keep.

TA