Time leaks out
in the blips and drips
of machines and morphine,
while a family cries
the truth that lies
before them, unmoving
except by mechanical means.
The cord, a decaying black
calls in a low amp voice
beckoning to be free
of the holes that bind it
define it; impossible
it seems, to power life
like a light bulb.
And he, a mere object of concern,
can only think, dream really,
of that last sunset.
Portraits - VII
Portraits - VII
A yellow matte of hair
tangled with worry
an earthen-smudged face, cute
but for the constant frown
too sad for just ten years.
The little girl sits, plays
in the dirt front yard
with a brittle tree-bone
that continually breaks under
the weight of her solitude.
A picture of a family—
even a stick-brother
all standing hand in hand
under a sickly stick-sun;
a secret letter to Santa
drawn in the mud.
The alpha and omega of sensuality
is not the bravo of sex, nor Charlie
and his store-bought toys, not even
Delta and her screams that echo
off the ceiling.
Neither does doing the horizontal
foxtrot, or like golf, making a hole
in one in some dingy hotel in India.
I say your lover should be your Juliet
and not some multi-kilo sex machine,
like that November night in Lima, with
some guy named Mike, or was it Oscar
I wanted to be your Romeo, but instead
you wanted to call me papa, remember
it was the weekend we spent in the Sierras
when we tangoed in the snow naked, but
that still wasn't what I wanted love to be.
True sensuality is non-uniform; with no
loser and no victor,
smooth like whiskey, with a kick
and a warm feeling deep down,
an X-ray into the soul, that sees
the true you and plays it like a harp,
from Yankee fan to Zulu tribesman,
all love is the same, eternal.
Love Scenes - a foursome
Love Scenes (a foursome)
She had no effect on the day
other than being in it,
or so she thought.
Little did she know that as she walked
down that same sad street, where family stores
grew thinner every year, she made a boy
fall in love—
with her; it was nothing more
than a trip to her mothers,
but for him it was a time to stop,
to dream of what might be, if only.
Every since that first day, the boy
waits by the window, cleaning
hoping that one day, he'll be brave
enough to change her life.
I've carried around this bucket
for all my life, its been with me
sometimes empty, sometimes not,
never having been full.
Until one day I discovered (right in my backyard)
a well, deep and plentiful beyond all measure
to fill my vessel with that life giving elixir.
Now I can hardly carry it along,
sloshing in and out, spilling a trail
behind me, struggling to keep
all of what I found, to myself.
Through the windscreen and the rain
a couple stands on the corner,
Portraits - VI
Portraits - VI
She was a sock-woman:
a masturbation dream of slick sex
and fetish that all men desire,
fear just the same, for all the reasons
you can think, but maybe not.
Long legs the sidewalk even wants
to lick, look up that rubber tight
dress, painted on a body that makes
the sun drool:
a gibbous ass, articulates
a dangerous sense of black widow,
ready to trap, to suck the life out of
anyone so inclined to have it;
counterbalanced by breasts, equal
in grandeur and purpose, double-barreled
cocked and loaded for fame and fortune.
Fine tuned, a weapon against men (or women)
in a stiletto body, razor sharp and gleaming
with fresh blood-lips, red and wet
walking toward the next victim.
long hours lost
indiscriminate cycles flow
Is he still the same as she remembers,
that sweet caring soul she used to love,
the one that turned her lips skyward
even in the midst of her worst days.
heavy with sorrow and snow
She left in the still warm days of late summer
hoping to return to him by winter, she wished
it would have turned out that way, some way
other than it did, stranded far away but not alone.
sliding past in slo-mo
Will he remember her, how they
used to sit for hours under that oak
in the park, dreaming that same dream
of togetherness, foreverness?
dragging it's feet
Portraits - V`
She folds the clothes in neat little piles
to the heat and drum-hum of the machines,
her dryer-lint hairnet head, almost always
A cigarette dangles from her lip, thin
and long, the color of her bundled hair
matching the floor in hue and age.
Dressed in a table cloth frock
with faded flowers, an undone hem
hangs loosely as the skin under her chin,
both sway hypnotically as she works.
All day and night, the Laundromat
changes faces but hers remains the same, stoic
stoned as if chiseled from some gray rock
by some two-bit sculptor or maybe
the haphazard wind, that blows in
from the constant opening and closing
of doors and the people that pass her by
like one of the many motionless machines.