Current mood: creative
Category: Writing and Poetry
After interacting with myspacers for about a year now, I have come to realize why my writing is largely ignored: my writing is all based on either random perceptions or collective reflections, yet they lack a "definition" for the reader to embrace or reject. As a good purg, I am against putting any collection of written words--or spoken words--in a box by defining them in one specific way. People who do that, IMHO, are not only prone to putting words in a box, but ideals as well. You'd be likely to set "Virtue" apart from the concept of "peace", if you prefer to assume such a Nook-ish, defined outlook on life and literature. I feel that the collection of the poems in this blog, along with the order in which they appear, can give my readers a better glimpse of where my center--as a person--resides.
Let it be a lens--or compass, if you prefer--
into the mind of a young, retired bum and aspiring Henpeck-Hobo
and into the heart of a conscience gone WASP Pro-Bono--weathered by life's many wanton-wares
Of Arrows and Olives
Category: Writing and Poetry
It may seem self-evident by the wars in the Mid-East
that Arabs prefer Arrows over a Peace.
Ten centuries stained with War-lore have increased
a culture the Olive Branch can never reach!
But where in the world has this not been the case?
North
South
West and East
Our Compasses all cock to Alexander's Greece
Our hearts beat in drum-lines no mind would dare see...
and there we Unite when desires are peaked
In Drama and Life, the Grail and the Fleece
the Hunter's nocked Arrow precedes every Feast.
**********************
Shades of Mars
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Writing and Poetry
red chambers transcend into veins of blue
timid vs. tranquil
the beating drum of life
the vintage of Mars--infra-anger...black and strife
coarsing blood knows nothing but cold and hot
on and off
pulse and pause
tick and tock
alive-encased in a box
Aces ashuffle in drones of fifty-two
passion vs. nature is dealt with each flip
Hearts and Diamonds bruise temptation into the lips
tattooing passion in dimensions of two--red, in blue
spades and clover-clubs know nothing but dark and white
loss or gain
absence of light vs. essence of life
between the two is animation's hue
the Shades of Mars
bold...in a world used to the in-animate
Shuffle me
***************
The W.A.S.P.
Watching you, I'm wondering...Did you know you're sleepwalking?
Restless idle eyes beam, shifting moist eyelids
flickering flourescent spheres; slamming doors and spilling tears...
Can you feel me when you're dreaming? Have no fear!
sVento's the name; Henpeck-Hobo, at your service,
W.A.S.P Pro-Bono--Wanton Angel's Suicidal Poltergeist...
I'm delighted to be your Con-Scientist!
Heard of me, have you?..No?!
*suh-VEN-toe?..Sheeyit! Tawk Texan yuh friggin Gyp!*
Hmmm...
I'm like an Earwig, yuh dig?..Tunneling deep?
Swelling the pale-grey goo, inside of you, asleep...
I give chase while you dream, in strides
following down that jolly green-back bricked road
to the wonderful land of W.A.S.P.
With each step, you leave my mark behind, you know?
And these little piggies have seven toes:
One for each dark and beguiling Virtue that provokes you, smiling like the Endangered Cockroach hanging on the roof...
of your has-been Old-Man's gas-propelled digs.
You feel me NOW, don't you?
I am Immortal where tangibles don't exist...
Where Jiminy, my enemy, is often sought, but never caught. Tux or not.
Where driftwood burns without a fire
I cuckold the flames of your desire!...
Does it hurt?
*********************
A Henpecked Hobo
Current mood: awake
At 18 years old, Dad and I seldom fought,
Homelessness bought us nostalgic alarm.
Except afternoons spent with Scott, at his lot
No two men ever locked-horns with such charm!
Perceptions from bums could collage a pig-sty.
Evicted, my sorrows bled ripe--but their pride
Could white-wash the fears from my skiff, by & by
Knavishly jesting and feeding on lies.
Exalted, all Kings need a Duke to harass
Deciding who's crowned is a sport for the brass
Had I the desire to quarrel like that
One fact would remain: I still couldn't bat!
Because theres no difference between Noblemen
Or roles like the slave and the vagabond, Finn
***********************
Always Low Prices...ALWAYS!
Category: Writing and Poetry
Weary, homeless and all alone
at three am, temperature
low: thirty-two degrees; automatic doors hesitate upon
my entrance-colliding with the glass(always!)
as four silver Washingtons
ring from my pocket into the till;
totaling the price for...
a shit-brick piece of Hershey, Pennsylvania made with
love (and almonds): 'ninety-three cents'
[without tax!]
alas!--No change;
yesterday was the same,
seems tomorrow will be too... ALWAYS
*************************
Psyche's Garden Halides
Category: Writing and Poetry
To see you in the dark, my dear
makes flaccid crimson pound with cheer
'cause saddled to my chest, right here
is Cupid's quivered arrow-spear.
Though gone is Cupid's bow, no fear
it drowns with wings in Venus tears.
Without it arrows should be thrust
by hand into your fleshy bust.
I don't know if I have the right
though prick you anyways, I might!
My trembling fingers catch dim light
impassioned by your very sight.
Much adds to this young stalker's plight
cause beauty best shines in the night.
To see you under moonlight, glow
makes sneaking stealthy easy, though
should not decide for you, I know
('Cause only Cupid feeds the bow!)
You needn't arrows to win souls
from you a look would slay the bold!
Your chestnut eyes react,
and stare......
They do not know the force they bare!
Like Garden Halides: plants abode
with naught a flimsy internode!
Since ever first a seedling sprouts
stems pawning leaves must know their route!
Bright warmth envelops breeding greens.
No moderation. Not this weed.
When water's sucked, and soil's dry
I will crave halides till I die.
For nourishment, fried stems reach high
not needing any azure sky!
Good plants crave NPK-Ca
imbalance 'tween those forces may
Yield basic or acidic pot.
'Cause lacking either makes them rot!
And timid is the one who smokes
harvested gifts that often choke!
Those eyes of yours, much like this drug
Imprison Gods as common-thugs.
I have not what it takes to lie
or break your will, make you confide
or make-believe your hand's aren't bound
to love me back, like any hound!
Though tempting as that life may be,
'tis not true love when geared towards me.
(No Matter what the common creed
In Mount Olympus Cell Block Three!)
Like feeding plants or bows, you see?
Good love's fed balanced! He and She!
*********************
Love's Shadowy Manta
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry
Oscar Hammling wisely wrote:
"To ask of love that it be without jealousy
is to ask of light that it cast no shadows"
I agree.
Love is a blanket
whose light is night
dancing to mock the flames
People escape in it's embrace...
leaving no trace
Of it's true face
But what if shadows cast while I'm blanketed in Darkness?
Who has envy when there is no love?
Cupid has a neurotic sense of humor
he never aims to please...
merely to subdue hearts
with the shadow of Olympus.
Jealousy is a cancerous cast
over our thoughts--conscious,
sub-conscious
and unconscious
wearing a mask of conscience,
common sense
and
pride.
Blanket.
My light is Night.
I dance to mock the flames.
People escape in my solace...
Embrace
************************
When Daddy was Fifteen
Two days after Grampa's Irish Catholic
Knuckle-lipped bona-fide punching-bag wife
Left him, took the kids, and ended her strife,
he cried 'til his .45 blew him a kiss:
ti-click...POP
Nine years passed in heart monitor ticks
Beep-pause
beep-pause,
lungs wheezed on like a fife.
Just three fourths a brain, his hospital life.
You prayed for nine years while he drowned in the Styx.
~*~
"Get me outta here, boy!
Dont'cha know I'm okay?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Y'all never visit me...What gives?
You ashamed of your old man, son?"
"No, sir.
I visit you every week
bring your smokes, smuggle in your Jackie-D...
Remember?..."
"You know these coons, boy?"
"...Coons?"
"Yeah! COONS!"
"Who? The orderlies?"
"Don't give me lip, boy!"
"They just work here, Dad.
...Fluff your pillow,
Clean your sheets--"
"They STEAL from me!
You know that don'tcha, boy?!"
"Yes, sir..."
"You never did tell me...
How's the baby doin'?"
"What baby, Dad?"
"Well...you know?..The baby.
....The BABY!
The fuckin' baby I was holding when the lightning hit me!...
...The BABY!--"
"--Baby's fine, Dad.
The baby's alright."
"Oh, yeah?.. That's good."
"Get some sleep, old man."
~*~
I see it now, Dad.
Why your heart is so rife with those bitter old aches
from your past. Why you binge.
I see why you sever love--tongue like a knife
Ever fifteen, your development singed.
Subconcious yearns a man comparably bad,
Tempered through me--any boy--not as sad.
Any son with a Dad...
*************************
Won't You Write a Dixie Tune for Me?
Current mood: amused
Category: Music
When Nicholson took to the screen
and didn't mold to Ratched's scheme
and plotted his escape like Steve McQueen
we knew:
The battle's lost, but not the War!
Only true losers are ignored:
Why don't you write a Dixie tune for me?
The Combine never broke before
this cunning R.P. stole the floor
and freed the minds that Ratched whored to sleep.
McMurphy sowed what he would reap
'cause Big Nurse Ratched plays for keeps
and poor R.P. had his lobotamy...
The worst of Ratched's therapies!
A Purgatory without dreams
but Bromden saved him from this misery
And now the Chief is free to dream
I wonder if he'd ever sing:
Why won't you write a Dixie tune for me?
The Battle's lost, but not the War!
Remember me, I do implore
Why don't you write a Dixie tune for me?