30 Edits in 30 Days

1-29

AFTER

The Fitful Dream of Yazdegerd.

Yazdegerd, your enemy rots
on the fields today at Vartanantz,
but be not salacious with your spoil
as she weeps defeat in your tent.

Fear the drone of Ahriman’s demons
who chant a dirge with this woman’s wail
perhaps for you in Drûgâskan,
the deepest pit of hell.

Your wife awaits you at the gate.
Arise! Away! Release your chattel!
Else there be strewn in the stain of your mud
the soul of her fathers in the soul of your son!

BEFORE

The Fitful Dream of Yazdegerd

Ponder, Persia, thine enemy’s rot
On the battlefields of Vartanantz,
And be not salacious with thy spoil
As she weeps defeat in thy tent.

Yazdegerd! Though thou the victor be
And Armenia burn with pyres,
Ahura Mazda judges thee
If thou visit thy harm upon her.

Fear the drone of Ahriman’s demons
Who chant a dirge with this woman’s wail
Perhaps for thee in Drûgâskan,
The deepest pit of hell.

Wife awaits at Taysafun’s gates.
Arise! Away! Release thy chattel!
Else there be strewn in the stain of thy mud
The soul of her fathers in the soul of thy son!

1-13

AFTER

I remember that moment
whispering in anger

chasing you had worn me down
hollowed out my charm,
turned my wit to shit,
I was nothing when you were
around,

you cried away from physicality
led me on for the fun of it
I started to hate you
gave up the pretence
and tried to wallk on

we went round and round
playing chasey
neither wanted win
coz we both doubted the prize,

In that moment a whispered
snap,
"I hope you find a man you love
that doesn't love you back"

little did I know that it would be me.


Before

I remember that moment
whispering in angered
frustration,

chasing you had worn me down
hollowed out my charm,
turned my wit to shit,
I was nothing when you were
around,

a pandering pussy
a man who'd left his
testicles at home
gone to roam
with no
testosterone,

you cried away from physicality
but led me on for the fun of it
to have this eunuch follow you
what a gas,

when I started to hate you
I gave up the pretence
found my balls in a bag
you chased me

we ran round and round
playing chasey
neither wanted to be the winner
coz we both doubted the prize,

In that moment a whispered
snap,
"I hope you find a man you love
that doesn't love you back"

little did I know that it would be me.

1-14

After

Taste*

Subtle tickle
against my lips
world rocks
in vertigo, I spin
the power of your presence
is like a blow,
The weight of a world
restricts, restrains
breath hisses
a staccato arrhythmia
that has me breathing you

all higher brain function
frazzled by electric shocks
primeval preferences and
animalistic desires unlock
thoughts whirl
like a carnival ride,
you freeze me
on a whim

where I urge you
taste my lips
or let me taste yours.
Bound,
I am forfeit
to your desires

Sight black cloth
body tense,
the scent of
candles and sex assails
your weight settles over me
drowning me in desire

A nail drags
lips bitten,
you,
tantalize, tease and torture
thoughts tormented
I thrust the air
As if it will submit to my needs
You have a taste for this
It whets your carnality

before
impaling our desires in
mutual surrender


Before

Subtle tickle
against my lips
world rocking, rolling
like vertigo, I spin dizzily.
The power of your presence
parallel to mine
is like a blow,
The weight of a world
restricts, restrains
breath coming in hisses
a staccato arrhythmia
that has me breathing you

all higher brain function,
frazzled by electric shocks
primeval preferences and
animalistic desires unlock
crashed thoughts spin,
like a carnival ride,
you freeze me in this moment
on a whim
where I urge you taste my lips
or let me taste yours.
Bound as I am, I am
forfeit to your desires
use me as you will

Sight black cloth only
no vision
tense suspense, cloying
along with the scent of
candles and sex
I can feel your presence
weight settling over me,
the pop of springs
drowning me in desire

A nail dragged,
lips bitten,
you,
tantalize, tease, torture,
thoughts tormented with lust
I thrust the air
As if it will submit to my needs
You have a taste for this
It whets your carnality

before
impaling our desires in
a mutual moan of surrender

1-30

AFTER

With Sophomore Minds

We joked, we spoke to malign,
and smoked our teenage mind with lies
we choked on like cigarettes.

We poked round eyes
at Mary’s full size tits, barely stroked
last night by Roy, or at least he said,

who would twine us some Mary lies
if we would give him one more butt
or a dime in the summer of '65.

To hell with Roy. It’s time to split
with dreams from Playboy under the bed,
lips on centerfolds and cigarettes,

for nothing died in our mind like virtue,
and we were dying to be rid of it.

BEFORE

With Sophomore Minds

we joked. We joked to malign
and spoke

our teenage mind with lies
we choked on

like cigarettes. We poked
round eyes

at Mary’s full size tits,
stroked barely

last night by Roy who twined
his Mary lies

to us for one more butt
and a dollar.

To hell with Roy. It’s time
to split

for wet dreams from Playboy
with lips

on centerfolds and cigarettes
we hid,

for nothing died in our mind
like virtue,

And we were dying to be rid of it.

1-14

After

Undulating movement,
gentle rock, soothing sway
a sip of beer as I slip
into ponderous thought

Clouds hang
giant cotton throw rugs
a tapestry reflects
in twin skies
tints, shift and swirl
greens, blues, blacks
take me back
to when your hair felt like home
and your arms were mine alone

Craggy rocks
Flick up foam spray
Misting the view
as you mist past
untethered ephemeral

cool, bitter sweet,
touches my lips
let my head lull
with the beat,

tip and rock
drunk on beer
natures beauty
and the way you drift,
make me want to dive in
and swim out into the blue
that caresses continents


Before
http://www.literotica.com/p/in-the-midst-of-blue

From Five Senses thread

Before

Absence

After the oatmeal, still warm
in his belly, he shrugged into
his greasy sheepskin coat
and bent into the wind.

Off the road, his footfall softened
by peat moss and heather, he
quickened his pace, needing
to breathe hard, clear his head
after a night of misleading dreams.

There had been no warning, no thunder-
clouds on their sunny horizon,
just a sudden absence when he
returned to an empty house, and
the note. She even took
the dogs.

After

Absence

After the oatmeal, still warm
in his belly, he shrugs into
his comforting sheepskin coat
and bends into the chill wind.

Off road, his footfall softens
on peat moss and heather, he
quickens his pace, needing
to breath hard, clear his head
after a night of deluding dreams.

There was no warning, no thunder-
clouds on their sunny horizon,
just a sudden absence when he
returned to an empty house, and
the note.
She even took the dogs.

2-1

After

Night Tripper

Doctor John croons gris gris
bourbon gumbo growls
yaya chant the key the skull
the drenched piano blue
the stride, the rill, the roll.
Professor Longhair soul

for Iko Iko Tipitina Mama Roo
the Queen Marie in Old St. Louis
number 1 rising drifting
out the crypt to creep your spine,
spin foggy in your bones.

Some old haints came Nawlins way,
burning candle incantations
work the beads and call the saints
Papa Legba conjuration
coffee-scented Congo Square
spirit rhythm into dust forever
magicked mojo there.

The gift of blues
comes wracked in tears
hung like moss across the trees
rebirthed from ancient alchemy
the lore in New World griot voices
received revived reclaimed.

Buddy Jelly Bunk Bechet
Oliver and Louis, too.

You know what I mean specka bean?

Such a long and raucous night.
Oh feather moon and mystery
Oh heat crawdaddy gut bucket
prayer.

Before

Night Tripper

Doctor John croons gris gris
in urban bourbon growls,
in gumbo yaya yowls.

He knows Mama Roo
is queen of the little red wagon.
He conjures her. His voice calls
her out from old St. Louis 1,
and she rises past the crypts
in steamy air that creeps
up your back, grips you
till she holds you
in her foggy bones.

Some old haints came
Nawlins way, riding west
in the smoke of burning candles,
riding Papa Legba
into coffee-scented Congo Square.

Ghosts beat rhythm into dust
forever, making mojo there.

The gift of blues
comes wrapped in tears
birthed in pain, aches beauty.

Art and magic mix, remain
in New World griot voices,
ancient tales reclaimed.

Buddy, Bunk, Bechet,
Oliver and Louie, too.
You know what I mean,
specka bean?

Such a long and raucous night.
The beads, the feathers,
oh heat, crawdaddy spirit offering.

Before

American Invasion 1945 – 1950

Mothers warned daughters
distrustful of the flashy cars,
chocolate bars so tempting
in those days of rationing.

Dubious of those laceless loafers
and cigarette packs tucked under
shoulders of spotless white T-shirts
like angular muscles. “They’re probably
perfectly nice boys at home
but over here…..” open ended.

Their exotic lives promised short-cuts
to a Techni-coloured better life
than post-war drab, the crew cuts,
the manicured hands alien
beyond belief.

Feeling safe from disgrace
a few, drawn in by the
saviours’ rubber guarantee,
fell in love and were left bereft,
no transatlantic flight
nor wide screen life.

The lucky ones took over
the role of the exotic.
Trophy wives in Texas
or New York where accents drew
stares and their complexions
were envied.

After

American Invasion 1945 – 1950

Mothers warned daughters
distrustful of the flashy cars,
chewing gum and chocolate bars,
still rationed, so seductive.

Dubious of those lace-less loafers
and cigarette packs tucked in
sleeves of spotless white T-shirts
like angular muscles. “They’re probably
perfectly nice boys at home
but over here…..” open ended.

Their exotic lives promised short-cuts
to a Techni-coloured better life
than post-war drab, the crew cuts,
the manicured hands glamorous
beyond belief.

Feeling safe from disgrace
a few, drawn in by the
promise of rubber protection,
fell in love and were left bereft,
no transatlantic flight
nor wide screen life.

The lucky ones took on
the role of the exotic.
Trophy wives in Texas
or New York where accents drew
stares and their complexions envied.

2-1

Before

Perspective

They look so peaceful there in the grass,
The morning robins,
Heads bobbing up
and heads bobbing down
While they chirp like a poem
And bob like a metronome,
So peaceful there in the grass.

Looking for another tuft,
They prance bobbing up and down,
Looking down
At the grubs
And the bugs oblivious
To the monster above.

After

The Robins at Dawn

The robins at dawn
sing their song,

a meadow full
of metronomes
there among the tufts.

Yet there are shadows
among the slugs

who haven't knowledge
nor can they care
about the monsters above.

1-1

My first attempt at a 30/30...

After

wish I dared
walk the tightrope
a separation of civility and release
temptation makes light my tread
yet expectations and conscience
intensify gravity
inches turn to miles
end a world away
as if a dream in a dream

Before

I dare you to close your eyes
To walk the tightrope
that stretches across the sky above me
To use only your heart to balance you
And guide your steps across
I dare you to lift your feet off the ground
and close your eyes as you step into the sky
I know you can make it across
to the land of peace and contentment
But if you fall for me
I'll be here waiting
In a place few ever find
Where happiness is created
and fantasies are lived
In a place most people can only dream about

2-1

After

Ice Maiden

A cold front
frigid and unmoving
Jagged edges sharper
than viper's tongue
Denying the sun
ever made her weep
or traced her curves

Adventurer surges forward
reaches for peak
Slides his pick
In hidden clef
Only to find it rendered useless

Even the gent who drills a hole
Into her underlying depths
Risks frostbite as he dips his pole
For nothing but cold fish


Before

Ice Maiden

A cold front
frigid and unmoving
Jagged edges sharper
than viper's tongue
Denying the sun
ever made her weep
or traced her curves

Adventurer surges forward
reaches for peak
Slides his pick
In hidden clef
Only to find it rendered useless

Even the "gent" who cut a hole
In her outlying skirts
Risked frostbite with the dip of his pole
In search of bigger fish to fry

2-2

After

Stretch

The sidewalk was crawling
with neighbors, looky-loos
gawpin at the long white limo--
as improbable as a magic
carpet in our crummy street.

Oh yeah they was elbowin,
hee-hawin when the driver
stashed my bag and whisked me
into a cool hum and smooth
leather.

Don't drink the bride's champagne.

I stared through tinted glass.
What did I care anyway?

I was leaving.


Before

The sidewalk was crawling
with neighbors, looky-loos
gawpin at the long white limo--
as improbable as a magic
carpet in our crummy street.

Oh yeah they were elbowing
and gee-gawin while the driver
stashed my bag then whisked me
into the cool hum and smooth
leather.

"Don't drink the bride's champagne,"
he said. I stared through tinted glass,
airport bound. What did I care
anyway? I was leaving.

Before

A Marriage of Convenience

No romantic, he read the obituary,
thought of the widow. His drowned friend,
her husband, the common link.

He had felt a twinge of unaccustomed
jealousy when their wedding invitation arrived,
ignored it guiltily as he held her on the day.

Now he saw his way,
she would be alone, lonely,
a child bride with children.
He would be her saviour.

Her eyes bruised by grief,
veiled in shock,
her children bewildered
by the absence,
the whispering silence.

Her second wedding was a civil one.

They couldn’t love him
any more than he loved them
or she loved him.

There were no angry gestures, abusive words
but no loving either,
no hugs from him just
judgment and disappointed eyes.

After

The Step-father

He was no romantic, saw the obituary and
thought of the widow. His a college friend,
her husband, the common link.

He had felt unaccustomed jealousy
at their engagement. Attended
the wedding, suppressing his feelings
as he embraced her on the day.

Now he saw his way,
she would be alone, lonely,
a child bride with children.
He would be her saviour.

Her eyes bruised by grief,
veiled in shock,
her children bewildered
by the absence,
the whispering silence.

Their wedding was a civil one
The small girls in attendance.

They couldn’t love him
any more than he loved them.

There were no abusive words or
angry gestures but no loving either,
no hugs from him just
judgment and cold eyes.

2-2

After

In the Duat

"You must go to the Hall of the Dead
that Ma'at may weigh your heart"
Anibus said to me.

With a feather strapped to her head,
the Goddess of Justice sits
and summons my trial to begin.

I shudder "Am I dead?"
to the jackal-headed Anibus
who has my heart in his hands:

"If your plucked heart is light
as a feather, it shall live forever,
but if your heart is heavier,
the demon, Ammit, whose bite
is that of a ravenous crocodile
surely will devour it."

The duat's dark as night.
Anibus readies the scales.
Ma'at removes her feather.

Alarm's gone off; I check to see
if my heart is in my throat
and whether there is any weather.

(Italics note changes.)

Before

In the Duat

"You must go to the Hall of the Dead
that Ma'at may weigh your heart"
Anibus said to me.

With a feather strapped to her head,
the Goddess of Justice sits
and summons my trial to begin.

I shudder "Am I dead?"
to the jackal-headed Anibus
who has my heart in his hands:

"If your plucked heart is light
as a feather, it shall live forever,
but if your heart is heavier,

the demon, Ammit, whose bite
is that of a ravenous crocodile
surely will devour it."

The duat's dark like night.
Anibus readies the scales.
Ma'at removes her feather.

Either the wind or an old hag wails
there in the darkest abyss,
and suddenly I bolt upright

because it's the witch in the hall
who stays awake all night,
apartment 10, howling again,

but I don't think she fell.
The boss says get some beauty sleep,
important meeting 8 a.m.

2-3

After

At Colleville-Sur-Mer

The plain holds rows of crosses,
stars and bars shield the dust
at rest beneath the bluffs above
the sea where many brave men
are asleep in the deep.

How was it Daddy?

How was it in that sickening boat,
waiting while the bodies float
fire booms and blood blooms,
men curse and pray running
toward uncertainty.

How was it thrusting through
the waves, you with your red cross
and heavy pack? Were you pale
as milk under your freckles?

Back on Rivington Street
you were a prince. You'd never
known a world like that. Daddy
did it feel like the River Styx,
did it feel like eternity?


Before

The Old Order of Things

At Colleville-Sur-Mer the plain
makes cross of bar from star to
shield soldiers at rest beneath
the bluff above the sea many
brave men are asleep in the
deep so beware the copse
beware a sunstruck glen
birch and birdsong where
they gather

mushrooms there black
berries beckon still Kiev
Lwow choose a town and think
on tangled horror breeding
tender grass.

The dead

will speak without
a sound with mute stone
lips beseech the wind the
lichen studded wings are
bent in reverie the stoic

names and dates
meaningless time
in the maw of void.

Where’s Beethoven? He’s decomposing.
The Caesars less than dust
their monuments have crumbled or
conserved and pinned to steel or
glass their calling cards announce

This was

the day I said goodbye
to nothing more than
rain soaked earth the
stumbling bearers final
hollow thud.

How bright the morning
kitchen once on Saturday
an open door.

Before

Mirror Image

I am not young anymore
but was one of those ugly-
attractive girls you are not
sure about, neither plain
nor pretty. A slight over-bite,
not unattractive in most,
my smile reveals too many
teeth to sustain that.
Blue eyes, good skin and firm
chin, no sign of duplicates
even in my forties. I can still
see that girl in my morning
mirror behind care-worn
crows’ feet and smile-lines.
I comfort myself knowing
She is still in there,
somewhere.

After

Mirror Image

I am not young anymore
but had one of those
ambiguously attractive faces
you are not sure about, neither
plain nor pretty. A slight over-bite,
not repellant in most, my smile
reveals too many teeth to sustain that.

Blue eyes, good skin and firm
chin, no sign of duplicates
even at my age. I can still
see that girl in my morning
mirror behind care-worn
crows’ feet and smile-lines.
I comfort myself knowing
she is still in there somewhere
but wish I’d acknowledged her
back then.

2-4 (still editing...)

After

At Colleville-Sur-Mer

The plain holds rows of crosses,
stars and bars shield the dust
at rest beneath the bluffs
above the sea where many
brave men are asleep in the deep.

How was it Daddy?

How was it in that sickening boat,
waiting watching bodies float
while fire booms and blood
blooms, men curse or pray
running toward
uncertainty.

How was it rolling in the waves,
you with your red cross
and heavy pack? Were you pale
as milk under your freckles?
Were you thinking of dying
or dancing, dreaming a date
with Rita Hayworth?

Back on Rivington Street
you were a prince. You'd never
known a world like this. Daddy
did it feel like the River Styx,
did it feel like eternity?



Before

At Colleville-Sur-Mer

The plain holds rows of crosses,
stars and bars shield the dust
at rest beneath the bluffs above
the sea where many brave men
are asleep in the deep.

How was it Daddy?

How was it in that sickening boat,
waiting while the bodies float
fire booms and blood blooms,
men curse and pray running
toward uncertainty.

How was it thrusting through
the waves, you with your red cross
and heavy pack? Were you pale
as milk under your freckles?

Back on Rivington Street
you were a prince. You'd never
known a world like that. Daddy
did it feel like the River Styx,
did it feel like eternity?

2-3

After

Lemon City

Les p'tits suck on South Florida sweat
whose nipples have traces of pumpkin soup,
which cooks in a pot if turned upside down
looks like the tophat of Baron Samdí.

A roomful of mothers prays Mambo Leah
kills the cholera in Port au Prince
and Xavier won't go back with Simone
who calls herself My Sin each night at nine
when a John says Boogie Nights on her phone.

She prays that the call is coming from Harvey
I'm Sorry But I Just Want to Talk,
or maybe it's Jake I Just Want Your Panties,
but that it's Brad who finally came
and, after refusing her overtime,
he had to pay Xavier, how you zay?
tru dhee noze, his white powdered South Beach nose.

Before

Streets of Gold

They asked for their ancestors after dark
With photographs, flowers, and red bean rice.

Petit gens were suckled by their mothers
Near the fire who came to hear Leah,
Mambo Voudouisant from Port au Prince,
Whose third eye makes dolls in Little Haiti.

She will summon with them all saints tonight,
African, Creole, and European,
For unemployed men in the neighborhood
Where junk cars cost little more than Simone
Who was baptized the same on the boat lift
But calls herself My Sin point of purchase.

3-1

After

Fingertips itch to
trace lines and textures
Mouth waters at
such a feast
Teeth scrape across
lip in concentration
Tongue soothes
self-tortured lip
Aware of every
hitch of breath
tense of muscle
Finding each place
that causes you to wriggle
Nerve endings fine
tuned to every move
Bomb counts down
explosion imminent



Before

Fingertips itch to
trace lines and textures
Mouth waters at
such a feast
Teeth scrape across
lip in concentration
Tongue soothes
self-tortured lip
Nerve endings fine
tuned to every move
Bomb counts down
explosion imminent

2-4

After

Finality

Theresa's last moment of Doubt
haunted her when she thought she heard
the dulcet voice of Mother near

and thought perhaps her waiting tomb
might really be another womb.

Perhaps that would have been serene
for all the Hindu skin she cleaned

but for the habit she still wore.
Her rosary beads fell to the floor,

hands reaching for the no one there
who never was or maybe is
as Mother may or may not be.

Before

Mother Theresa's Moment of Doubt

except when she thought that she heard
the dulcet voice of Mother there
and thought perhaps her waiting tomb
might really be another womb.

Indeed, she might have hoped for that
for all the foreheads she once wet,
but for the habit she still wore
when she dropped her beads to the floor,

for with her final thoughts she prayed,
however dark that life became,,
the black she sees about her now,
God knows, it's only human to dou....

2-5

After

Minton's Ghazal

The dream was sepia. It was a satin tone poem
played in a minor key, a smoky ennui all alone poem.

Picture a tiny stage, a barroom haze, the mirrors
gazing at the crowd enchanted by that moan poem.

Tenor man says "Have another helping," passes a hand
across his brow while a thin man blows a bone poem.

Am I blue? I'm telling you baby you're so mean to me--
when you sing soft and low I hear a shoulda known poem.

A lazy fan turns slow and shadows shiver with the beat
the bass man walks along a syncopated drone poem.

The record pops, skips and suddenly the past recedes
but the song plays on in me for it's my own poem.


Before

Minton's Ghazal

The dream was sepia. It was a velvet tone poem,
a minor key, a smoky ennui all alone poem.

Picture a crowded stage, a barroom haze and mirrors
gazing at the crowd, bewitched, spotlight on a moan poem.

Tenor man says "Take another helping," then he winks,
steps to the shadow, lets the thin man play his bone poem.

Am I blue? I'm telling you darling you're mean to me--
when you sing soft and low I hear a should have known poem.

The record pops and skips, suddenly the past recedes
and yet the song plays on in me for it's my own poem.

2-5

After

John Donovan's Dream

The fire spat as if to invoke
the broomstick, ghost and goblin jokes
he told little Katie on Halloween,

but summer nights with Maeve still seared
and burned in him as she appeared.

“Although I'm dream, debauchery
is in my deep green eyes,” said she,
"Besides, Dear Heart, I need a good foin."

Riding atop John Donovan,
she whispered thus as she lipped his lobe:

"Try to have some fun in life,
some friends, and a wife for comfort, Love.

No, no, Dear Heart. You must hear my rhyme."

And then the fog blew Donovan's mind.


Before

The Widower Donnabhan Dreams

(827 A.D.)

The fire spat thrice when he awoke
Like a fog bottom night when folk
Tell tales on All Hallows' Eve,
But summer sins with her still seared
And burned him now as she appeared.

“Be dream or ghost, debauchery
Is in my deep green eyes,” said she,
"Besides, Dear Heart, I need a good foin.”

As summer sins with her still seared,
He foined her indeed whilst she did moan
And lipped his lobe to whisper thus:

“Hear Thee this, Heart, hear Thee this:
I will be gone and life goes on.
Thou must find His Mercy in life
As foreknown, some friends, and a wife
To comfort Thee. No, no, Dear Heart,
Hear my rhyme, you must hear my rhyme:

Thou shalt find me there beyond time.”

The ghost of a fire then spat
And all was black just like that.
……

Morning has birds that play and sing
At sunrise, taking to wing
In the meadow, much the scene now
When he awoke with a brow
That thither felt no gentleness
Nor birdsong, much less the rest
That he was breathing now.

“Sleep,” a whisper then said,
"No more to wake the dead, no more to wake the dead."

After

Fingertips itch to
trace lines and textures
Mouth waters at
such a feast
Teeth scrape across
lip in concentration
Acutely aware
every hitch of breath
each tensed muscle
Eager to draw out
involuntary shiver
and need for more
a hard body arched
Nerve endings fine
tuned to every move
Bomb counts down
explosion imminent


Before

Fingertips itch to
trace lines and textures
Mouth waters at
such a feast
Teeth scrape across
lip in concentration
Acutely aware
every hitch of breath
each tensed muscle
Eager to draw out
involuntary shiver
and need for more
a hard body arched
Nerve endings fine
tuned to every move
Bomb counts down
explosion imminent

4-1

After
Spinning Desire

Know when you whisper
of sweet love in the moonlight
You vanquish my defenses

Your white, hot desire
brings even my hardest of heart
down to its knees to
beseech a night without end

The dizzying madness
Urges me to yearn for forever
even in dawn's cold light
Now maybes, ifs and mights
become hopes and dreams


Before
Spinning Desire

Know that when you whisper
of sweet love in the moonlight
You vanquish my innocence
And I am defenseless against your desire

For your white, hot desire will have
even the purest of hearts
Dropping to their knees
Beseeching a night without end

And the dizzying madness in the night
Urges yearnings of forever
Towards dawn's cold light
Taking maybes, ifs and mights
and spinning them into hopes and dreams

2-6

After

Living With Bukowski

If you lived with Bukowski
you'd dangle like Damocles
on the precipice between
joy and tribulation.
You'd be beery, foggy
but raw with revelation.

Poetry would linger
on the air like a miasma.

You'd have to wait
while your motor idles. Imagine
how the snow would fall
in furious flakes, grand
yet empty as the resolve
of his promises. Wouldn't you
choke them down anyway,
word by jagged word?

If you lived with Bukowski
you'd wash his shirts, make sure
the keys didn't get lost.

Every damn day
you'd want to punch his lights out,
even as you craved those blasts
of grimy insight, craved the careening
blur of it all and just when

you were sure to slam
the door behind you, sweetness
would illuminate the irony
of this rapture that leaves you
sore and weary.


Before

Living With Bukowski

Imagine living with Bukowski
on the precipice of joy
and tribulation, bumpy
with beer and sandpaper,
poetry spilled all over
the carpet of your days.

Imagine waiting for him
with the motor running
while snow falls furious
as the resolve of his truths.
You'd dry swallow them
word by word, accept
the stained pages.

I don't know if truth
and wisdom are the same,
but if you lived with Buk
you'd wash his shirt,
make sure the keys
don't get lost.

You'd want to punch
his lights out, but you'd
love the raw blasts
of simple insight,
the edgy zen.
Sweetness
would illuminate
the irony in painful
weary rapture.