roses be red
violets is blue
stuck’n Baton Rouge
thinkin’ a’ you
days turn t’ weeks
swamps start t’ moan
workin’ all night
jus’ dreamin’ a’ home
wind at m’ back
ole sun in m’ face
three days till I feel
yo’ Chantilly lace.
All the
Religions agree:
There’s real
Peace
In knowing,
That
Death is
Playing tag
‘Round every
Bitter corner.
we are cruisin’ fast
and your skirt is
ridin’ high against
your soft, American thighs
i ease back into
the red leather
passenger seat and
take a big hit,
you purse your lips
and straighten your
glasses; you’re runnin
late and you never
run late-
i glance at your feet
and smirk as your
red stiletto heels
dig into the floor
mat. toes locked
and loaded against
the klutch.
i hear you mumble, “fuck”
at a slow mass of cars;
you ram your heels against
the pedal, drop us into
third and scream past
on the shoulder. an old
redneck in a truck honks
as you flick your ashes
out the cracked window,
your glasses never stop starin’
in the rear view mirror.
the low ridin’ sun is glarin’
against a west side furor.
lover,
your skin
is the soft
fuzz of a
July peach
with the
sweetest of
juice oozing
from every
broken pore
were i to wave
my dowsing rod
over your succulent
Summer gown,
would it
lead me
to water?
there are words
you speak
with no rhyme
and too much
reason
but in the
way you walk,
there is poetry
enough for
generations of
writers with
nameless faces,
all clamoring for
a seat at your table
there is art in
the way
sunlight tickles
it’s way through
your hairs, the
iridescent flashes
of moonbeams
from the rounding
edges of your eyes
your skin, smooth
and freckled,
and a most precious
of parchments.
let me write lovepoems
into the small
of your back.
and when you
exhale, I’ll read
you like
a book.
in high school
i was
voted
wittiest.
(medium fish,
tiny pond)
but,
somehow
life forgot
to tell the
World of
my Badinage Pedigree.
in a culture
of taxes
and infinite
road signs,
an elected
official of
humor is but
an out-of-step
ninnyhammer.
and i’m
reduced to
being
the butt
of my
own jokes.
however,
despite
these sterile,
zombie-eyed
corporate rodents
chasing the
invisible cheese -
(who only
laugh when it
benefits
their bottom line)
lighting my
eyebrows on
fire in
Coach Cowart’s
9th grade algebra
class will
always be
pretty
fucking funny.
i know that
garnered me
most of my
votes.
It is,
In its purest,
the deep tummy
whiskey burn
of carelessly
ignored apprehension.
it pools.
and pumps.
drips.
stains.
coagulates when it hits air.
red wine, milky moonshine
coursing through every
bird of the air, fish,
serpent, receptionist,
Policeman, and seeing eye dog.
it has its own diseases
and is made inside our bones.
seeping through pores in our
legs, our arms, our hands, our ribs.
we are liquid. a bag of juice.
we are in our blood as
much as our blood is in us.
it warms our toes on cold Winter eves
and flushes our cheeks when aroused, or happy,
or frightened.
it separates us, yet we share it… swap it…
and walking among us
are the Feeders who drink it.
and therein lies our
eternal fascination…with Them.
for who in their right mind,
wouldn’t want to take a sip
of something so clearly…. magic.
In the proper state of mind
My pen could unfold
Countless mysteries
To you.
See the stars and how
they draw power
From the souls of a million
Other cosmoses.
Or the lust that light
Invites when it brushes
Against the tiniest hairs
Of your neck.
Or of infinity and the solid
Boundaries of this
Universe.
Yet when that wholly perfect
State of mind finds me,
I am dumb and a mute.
Lead off towards the
Unceasing sway of
The gallows pole.
Rather,
Just take me in close
To your breasts
And steal this pen
From my trembling fingers.
The South rests as
Charmless as a
Gray dusk
A once fertile bosom
Now nothing more
Than grist for
The mill
And all that remains
Of me is the chaff
From her threshing
Floor.
Fit for the fires of late October.
A pyre of dry casings.
Lives unlived.
And nightfall our only respite.
