all of a sudden passion suddenly

Sleep comes slowly
fighting through the heat
to close eyes and
forget the sweat pooling
between my breasts.
a single sheet seems thick
too heavy
tossed aside - tossing
finally dreams carry cool
sleep swims deeper
until chill morning
barely light
shivers awake.

I could be sand

sea creatures, stone
glacier freed, carved and grand
I could be sand
silica splintered
sharpened by time
fragments of ancients
flattened and smoothed
by the destructive hands
of man

melt me and hurl
my molten body
through tunnels of kimberlite pipes
I'm a diamond , glittering
lost in a frozen land

Im whole now, but it's
possible still, in my next life
I could be sand

pushed from floors
of oceans long dead
I was the wench
who could have conquered Atlantis
with heave of tectonic plates and
the ghost that inhabits
the marianas trench
no subject too deep
for my pen, or my hand

I could have been sand

sculpted by michaelangelo
was I David's penis,
intentionally unplanned?

oh yes, I could have been sand

that sliver in the corner
of the first lady's eye
flung from the shrapnel
which ended her husbands life

that nick in the marble
of your new kitchen floor,
that fragment youre missing
is part of the plan

the infinite role of sand
make me immortal,
you borught me home
that was me in the carpet
of your new SUV
did you enjoy
your trip to the beach?
maybe so, you brought me home
clinging to towels and your
kids grubby hands

admit it, you could love me
with vacuum in hand

suck it all up, toss it away
but remember you also
could have been sand

fuck metaphors

pulling red wagon down back alleys
not looking for an abortion
but looking for metahphor

like my life depended on it

found myself looking for parcely of europe

striped umblrella becomes the gondalier's shirt and wroght iron table painted white matching chairs
glass top
wiait that is also venice
maybe this alley reminds me of venice
there is even this mucky gutter water running down the middle

from someones sump pump or draining vinyl pool
it runs constantly, this streem
in the depression

but it is not a metaphor tonight


tonight metaphor has become calculus to my mind

poetry should not require differential equations
or the knowledge of greek symbols?


should it?

goddamn do I need this discipline or what



I will give you algebra 2 maybe
trigonomoetry

but you know all I want to do is count the stars or better yet
love me love me love me not
upping the odds on the daisy probability

count the days until you come home to me
and the number of cliches
that fall from my mind
into the ditch

like Venice

to dr. weird (South Jersey Shore)

White tufted madman
Purple robe no doubt stained
With grease,
Occult chemicals
The blood of your assistants.
I see your cracked nails,
Bleeding cuticles
Black hog’s eyes that roll
Wild,
Framed by jaundiced sclera!

Why weren’t you my science teacher?

I just said goodnight
to that girl who plays
in my bone zone
we laughed when I
said that
we could have been
tired
or sick
or both
but most of all
we were with each other
we were
two girls boning
with certain attachment

nineteen degrees,
light snow
and fog.

Every breath is a brush stroke
blue and grey paint
cracking on the canvas
Dawn is when it isn't day
isn't night,
isn't real.
Any color but white is an
intruder, here
Every dipping bowl
and rising slope
plays peekaboo like a girl in a bar
curve here,
curve there,
Hey sailor. Come home to me,
come get warm.

~~~
"Gimme Back My Hat And Stop Stabbin' Santa!"

(Who that man with the flip top hat
the bucket of lies,
the chicken grin?)

(Where'd he go with my goddam hat,
the filthy beggar,
the yellow skin?)

(Coward, bastard, fruit fly
on my cobbler,
I'll hunt you down or die!)

Wing-back chairs and allegations,
a balm for the slighted spy.
feet tock fast on a stolen heart
and accusations die
on the lips of children,
"Mommy" sits, another waiting lie
men and women stare in awed delight
for the clap-trap man has come to town
in the middle of the night.
Don't weep, my pet, nor cry, nor fret,
for he'll visit you quite soon.
Just set your eyes on the pie in the sky
and wait for stuttering noon.
The knock on the door will lift your head
make you come a' run,
But the man with the knife
and the gleam in his eyes
don't care when you is done.

He's got a purple passion
for the virgin's heartblood
We've heard it's Milan's fashion,
the bee's knees, if you pretty please,
(even if you don't!)
He'll take it ugly, trim or nice,
(Even when you won't!)
Give your all to the stick
figure of a man,
'cause if you won't,
that sharp knife don't
preten' to understan'.

Santa Claus got stabbed tonight
by the man with the hat and the grin
But don't close that flue, 'cos I told you,
Hell is comin' in.

(.....I don't get it, either. Yay to stream of consciousness! And yay to goodnight, i'm going to bed!)

~D.A.

I'm so tired
of being so far away
when I'm sitting
next to your words
I want to relax
with someone
who knows me
who shows me
what I show them
but I want it here
it's clear I'm not alone
I'm loved
but you're so far away
and I'm stuck in
a carol king melody
yeah, I like the way you
move
but, you need to be
closer to me
when you do it
so I can feel you
underneath me
pressing your pulse
against my lips
and fingertips
until I'm in you
inside your head
your body
your mouth
with all of me
and the song of you
will is all
that I hear

I want you
to be near
me when I inhale
your effervescent
spirit
and bubble over
myself, and join you
in the taste of our laughter
the taste of you
on the tip of my tongue
as I sing our song
the one that is you
swaying to my beat
ing pulse
rocking up against
my woozy world
when the scent of you
throws me
across your bed
instead of mine

I want to be close
enough
to hear the song
you sing
when I bring you
higher than
an angel's octave
when all that pain
comes out
from between your
thighs, and all those
lies are swallowed
by me, until you're
free to sing
I shall overcome
I shall come
I am coming
and I'll be
sitting next to you
enraptured
with the song of you
and singing
the words
by heart

She sits in black yoga pants,
A grey knit shirt, and
A smile, rising behind the puff of smoke
From her cigarettes
As she trips the phone line fantastic
As she preposterously ponders
Everything from phone sex to philosophy
With me
I hear her inhale smoke and the scent of me
From a thousand miles away from my misery
She makes me free
She
Who loves me in a washable way
Rinsing out my self doubt with
The slap of her wisest words
Across my flawed, battle scarred self
Like a favorite frayed shirt
She can’t throw away
Loving its holes as much as its weave
Loving its wholeness
Even when it isn’t whole
So, I cling to her curves
Not because I need her
To dip my quill in ink
For me
But because she makes me want
To write myself
Into my very own story
Where the ring of a phone is a sunrise

everyone is gonna know
we're... you know
cause you're so...
responsive
your reactions
poetic
and open
and mine
I like the line
"to write myself"
because you're my
clarity
a rarity in my writing
an insightful tightness
that winds itself,
no weaves
like that worn
t-shirt
across my
nippled poetry.

martyr martinet
major puppeteer
sergeant victim please
take the castanet song
of your grief

tap tip tapping

tangled tangos
like a web we weave
when first we practice
to receive the host of denial
which is somewhere in Egypt
not letting my people go

anything goes you know
oh no I forgot you don't
you don't know that
so don't go there because
there's a place where I can go
when I feel low
when I feel blue
and it's my mind

I said it's my mind
and no one not even
the holy ghost of threats
or the ghost of a chance
not even circumstance
can own that amigo,

you dig? you receive
my meaning bro?
because it's not
about you at all
it's not about you
at all.

shards of memories
echo through my
troubled thoughts
of you

so long ago
so far away
once we were almost lovers
in love
with first kisses
and small caresses

the torn apart
by misunderstanding
and confusion
as you said no
and meant yes
wanting me
only after I was gone

twenty years have passed us by
and we never said goodbye
only cried
once again I find you
look upon your memory
then turn away
knowing that what was
can never be again

confusion reigns supreme

I know not what I seek
the past pure and simple
a love sweet and innocent
or myself

I lost myself along the way
sometimes I find hints
among the shards
before they are swept away

Time to put away the broom

buena boys

did you see the innocence
of those old seamed faces
those voices the musica
ringing along

chang chang

the beat of cubano, of son
offered from tattered hands
brittle and twig-fingered
but cakewalking smooth
as ripe guava baby
over keys and strings
and spirit

which is ageless

Silencio!

that's life triumphing
dancing in a little boy
face grin-lit under the cap
or winking gripped
around un puro grande,
nodding, plucking chords,
singing past carnations,
or in branches that drop
like youth,
one tender leaf at a time.

time dances.

my baby, my main hombre says
look at Ry. he's in awe of them.

and yes! yes!
I think so
because the grace of that
unquestioning dedication
deserves no less.

lesbian flirtation
(for you-know-who-you-are)

she wanted to know if i was in denial.
no, i'm in virginia and i don't care if you do dig redheads.
it's not natural.
no, not the gay thing--
the hair color.

you can still flirt with me, though.
everyone should flirt with me.

i'm such a self-centered drama queen
and i realize i'm thoroughly desirable.
how could any lesbian resist me?
how could any man resist me?
i can't even resist me.

so, if i touch myself,
you know, girl hands on girl parts,
would that be like totally gay?

pondering his afterlife

if you should die, I asked him
before I do, would you
return and haunt me?

don't give me an answer
just stop, for a moment
and consider this thing I ask of you

would you come to my bedside
spirit naked and aroused
touch my nipples as I sleep
and braid my honey hair?

could you resist the softness of my skin?
as slumber takes my hours and draws me in
and to your waiting ghostly soul you bind me

would you sit beside me on the couch
and hold my hand and wipe my tears
as I watch demi with her pottery wheel
listening to "unchained melody"?

I want to taste your ghostly come
breathe in your spirtual see oh two
it is a morbid fascination I have
with making netherworld love to you

Tathagata said:

I just want to say
that it's ok
if you are gay
I mean what the hey
don't go away
please stay

here's a bouquet
yes it's cliche

your hair's not grey
it's red you display
under a beret??
and your hips kinda sway
not sashay


and if you do play
tomorrow or today
with a mallet de croquet?
oy vey
so risque

i think its all hearsay
that you might be gay
some kind of foreplay
like they do in norway

ok ill go away

Click to expand...

it's brown
too much dye
I'm not gay
I like men
really
but if you're gay
and you hit on me
it's okay
because I know
you can't help yourself


(Why am I such a lesbian magnet?)

I just sent email to Angeline from my Yahoo account
and got this "Reply Sent" page with a big ad off to the side:

Victoria's Secret.

There's a blonde in a pink bikini,
kneeling in the water,
tanned with puckered lips,
beauty mark above her smile.

But she's so golden dark
that it could be a growth,
like skin cancer
Ad says sun-kissed.
Looks like melanoma kissed her instead.

But on the good side,
select styles are 20% to 60% off.

Blame this one on Perks,
who said "Boo" when I said, "Non-erotic" and asked if I went to open mic nights.

~

Open mic night make me want to vomit,
Every beret wearing fuck
with a limp wristed cup of coffee
(Two creams, two sugars)
stirs my need to pluck out eyeballs
in reply to angry glares and
snooty waves of hands under
noses, aimed at my cigarette smoke.

One more poem about your goddam snatch,
lady,
and I'll carve out your uterus and make it into
a hat for you to put feathers in,
parade about town.
The thing could probably scare rats
off a garbage barge,
looks like a hole kicked in a pig's carcass
"Every good pitcher loses his throwing arm,
But when do you have to hang up
your vagina?"

But there's a milky-chocolate skinned
voodoo priestess queen
in a green satin blouse unbuttoned to her
velvet abs,
the faintest peek of two heavy breasts
swaying back and forth her nipples
count time to the rhythm of her street poetry
She's restoring my faith in poets,
destroying my belief in men with stories
about rape and virginity taken,
Rape thrown back in a taker's face
with quicksilver rhyming verses that
beat back a rushing tide of sorrow,
loss
One queen amongst a motley horde of
fools,
and me,
drinking fifths of whiskey
in the back
with Bukowski nudging me in the ribs
and talking about eating her pussy
playing with her tits

~D.A.

DeepAsleep said:

Blame this one on Perks,
who said "Boo" when I said, "Non-erotic" and asked if I went to open mic nights.

~

Open mic night make me want to vomit,
Every beret wearing fuck
with a limp wristed cup of coffee
(Two creams, two sugars)
stirs my need to pluck out eyeballs
in reply to angry glares and
snooty waves of hands under
noses, aimed at my cigarette smoke.

One more poem about your goddam snatch,
lady,
and I'll carve out your uterus and make it into
a hat for you to put feathers in,
parade about town.
The thing could probably scare rats
off a garbage barge,
looks like a hole kicked in a pig's carcass
"Every good pitcher loses his throwing arm,
But when do you have to hang up
your vagina?"

But there's a milky-chocolate skinned
voodoo priestess queen
in a green satin blouse unbuttoned to her
velvet abs,
the faintest peek of two heavy breasts
swaying back and forth her nipples
count time to the rhythm of her street poetry
She's restoring my faith in poets,
destroying my belief in men with stories
about rape and virginity taken,
Rape thrown back in a taker's face
with quicksilver rhyming verses that
beat back a rushing tide of sorrow,
loss
One queen amongst a motley horde of
fools,
and me,
drinking fifths of whiskey
in the back
with Bukowski nudging me in the ribs
and talking about eating her pussy
playing with her tits

~D.A.

Click to expand...

kowinski
had a galvanized
pale
of barrel mouthed
bottles
next
to his
poetry
desk
in Tenderloin schoolhalls all the way
north
of San Pedro
in the City
that made him nervous
so he drank
Oklahoma
and lapped her
grand canyon,

the old galute was a
traveler
who never needed to leave home,
and hated to have to do it.

DeepAsleep said:

That was awesome.

Click to expand...

Im lucky that I got to see the old boy read
theatre seats
midway up-

lucked into it

it could be trouble

it could be
armor

"how can he
hold a piss
so long?"

he's got a gasbag bladder
and fear the size of
some continent.

eagleyez said:

Im lucky that I got to see the old boy read
theatre seats
midway up-

lucked into it

it could be trouble

it could be
armor

"how can he
hold a piss
so long?"

he's got a gasbag bladder
and fear the size of
some continent.

Click to expand...

I'm barely awake
trying to keep up with
chinaski's running commentary
I couldn't keep my head up anymore
slept with the book
on my
face
and dreamed of
beautiful trash
dancing women on
fire,
"Have you read pirandello?"
No, never,
But I've played a
little hot water music.

DeepAsleep said:

I'm barely awake
trying to keep up with
chinaski's running commentary
I couldn't keep my head up anymore
slept with the book
on my
face
and dreamed of
beautiful trash
dancing women on
fire,
"Have you read pirandello?"
No, never,
But I've played a
little hot water music.

Click to expand...

Hank

get some sleep

the track opens at

10 am on Saturdays.

eagleyez said:

Hank

get some sleep

the track opens at

10 am on Saturdays.

Click to expand...

always wound up

picking a one

trick pony.

Some guys have

all the luck.

knit one perl two bones
click on click back together
so the old skeleton jumps
out of the closet and shuts
that door

more easily than expectation
walking away from madness
when each word is dropped
down a string catgut taut
lacing pearls but rotten with lies
hung more easily than pawning
that necklace mama gave me
draping grief that wasn't
even meant for my neck

I'm secondhand
in her death
in your marriage
it's not about love
but loyalty

you can embrace
responsibility but it burns
cold truth not love
weighed like pearls
meant for someone else's bones

Dear Ear Crusties

Dear ear crusties,

My, but I hate you,
little crystal
of dried blood
dead skin
Little rubies forming on steel
remind me of the phlegm
on a dolphin's
blow hole
Battling q-tips,
cottony pugil sticks
of sterility,
justice,
the clean earican way -
these'll show you,
fix your little
dead skin
wagon.

~

Eyes roll back
toes go numb

Slim fingered
she was
heavy-handed
in the right places

I'm glad I taught
her that trick