Sunday, October 31, 2004

One of the greatest choruses in the Song of the South is that of the magnolia blossom on a warm june night. Posted by Hello


her hair on my shoulder
weighed more than the kisses
she dropped upon my sun burned neck.

ah- her eyes!

blacker than her hair.

deeper than the night we sat beside the river
watching the frost of our breath
drift upward
toward the crisp stars too cold to twinkle.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

#16 from sun city blues


winter queen angel
licks her wintergreen lips
pokes her ice cube tongue
into the hot air and chills it
with her rigid words.
her dark eyes shift
like black snow dunes
from me-- to somewhere beyond me.
the moon hangs behind her head
outlining her olive face
like a catholic crown--

i fall across her altar feet

and weep.

49-51 from: sun city blues


drove the flat tire car
to the corner of 7th & washington
to the corner where
women in lace & whalebone
with 8 lbs a makeup on their face
stood rockin
bawkin about which no pecker
faithless husband cheated her.
to the corner where a wirey black man
stood smokin kool after kool
starin at the girlies
to the corner where the magic a music
bumped its rhythm
pumped its blood flow
humped its listeners


drove down to the corner
thumpin tire tired car
slumpin forward
leanin to one side
where a doe eyed black cutie
smiled wide
at me while shakin her hips
to the hip hop song a night.
the corner where strung out angels
with black hungover eyes
hung to one another with the shakes
lookin to get baked.
the corner of neon light
meets black flannel darkness


to the corner where every envy child
sucked the bitter pap
a red streetlights
blinkin out their mouths.
to the corner where
lovers & strangers share cigarettes
pickin up throw-away butts
off the shoe-worn concrete
to steal one last drag apiece.
to the jazz corner
where life lives
and breathes
out an old man’s
tarnished sax
above his upturned hat
that holds 3 quarters
and a dollar bill.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

#5 from: sun city blues



this is not my mountain
buddha said,
and this is not my hand
   wrinkled & curling in front
   of this what that is not my face.

the ground swelled to meet the feet
buddha borrowed to stand
one sole on the mountain
the other sole in the sea

buddha smiled with someone else’s teeth.

#2 from: sun city blues


puffed away my camel dreams
til i had no money to rent them
& had to get generic visions instead
wife kids jello after dinner.

i’ll roll my own.
ain’t wantin to dream
wanton perfunctoryness want the wet
messa happy-go-tardy
come as i don’t call and wash
the dust of each city off
whenever i get to the next.

no hurry.
     no prefab heart.
         just dreams like arizona:

            waiting to be walked

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

from: visions of a desert angel



angel wraps her bright eyes
around a dark man
warps her lips into a smile
that screeches like a train.

she is hipping and hopping
watching the still gray air of others
circle away from them
and return
more still
and darker than when it left.

in her heart of God she is beating out
a slow burial
for the doomed. in her other heart
of God she is singing
and clapping
dancing raindrops over the ground.


in her fantasies-- like mine
and yours and our mothers’
she is no longer a romantic paraplegic
but an able-bodied lover
able to cover another with her soul
while they cover her--
stitched together like a two-sided quilt.
it does not matter one soul may be more right
what is important
is that one body may be more wrong
than another-- and there is time to search.
always time to search--
though her invisible rose heart
is approaching the end of spring
and preparing to hit the july desert
of too long alone,


angel dances
zips zings zims and zooms
through the universe
capitalizing fire
screaming to the fire trucks--
you there--
run over that apple!
and you--
water my garden!

through the night
like a bright
chip of blue ice
she cuts
and melting sharper--
ripping the flesh off of heaven.


naked, and disemboweled, heaven
weeps out its blood for her--
washing her tattered garments of failure
wishing she would face the pithy night
and pray one golden prayer
for the collective soul.

illegitimate angel
does not know who her father is
does not understand
when she prays for one
she prays for all
and when she prays for all
she is really praying for herself

instead, she prays for herself
and no one-- not even her-- is helped.


she is not illegitimate-- she knows
who her father is-- rather
she is illiterate. she cannot read
people any bettern the rest of us
can read assembly instructions.
but the buddha truth of it is
when she left me on the floor
she was not careful
because no one else was around
and we were both laughing
wildly drunk with the human experience
our lunatic hair both frayed and matted
with the burning sweat of madness.
it was not bad
it was good
just as all things
are unequivocally

She is all the time

She is all the time
harvesting the fields of my mind
tearing the wheat from the tares–

she is brightly consuming;
raging through silent eyes–
which are mute
eyes which pantomime
desperation in a shrinking
eyes which beat against the pavement
like a yellow jackhammer.


I watch the art of her masturbating
the heart of her naked soul
beating through the narrow wind
like a hummingbird
something distant.
She is coolly shallow and reflective–