Thank you so much

"Thank you for this food that we are about to receive, to nourish our bodies for Yashua's sake. Amen-Ra."




Pot liquor goes down smoothly. We sit back and unfastened belt buckles, stick toothpicks between closed teeth, and make wishes on full bellies. Soul food makes the house smelly. Soul food fits in between the cracks of windows and floats heavenwards into soot-filled chimneys. The dog trades the paper for a discarded chicken bone. Women play auntie to little cousins who lick cake batter off the ends of wooden spoons. Someone always starts the sweet potato pie fight way too soon. It's hard to save a slice.




What does a gravy boat do for a wading soul? Does it pull it aboard and dry it off with the sopping of a biscuit? Does sweet tea cure all that ails? Does a lemon slice sit quite nice on the rim of a glass half full? Large hands shed the peels of ripe bananas for pudding that's often too sweet, but goes real nice with a dollop of whipped cream. Childhood favorites favor deferred dreams. I always keep a napkin tucked inside a loosened seam.




Why does cornbread make the best dressing? It doesn't cover up mistakes or appear expensive to outside eyes. But the "family" knows how rich one feels off of having anything of possession, gold in color. I give a brick to my sister, one to my brother. It must be the beans that plant the seeds of wisdom around a Victorian style round table. We have Yashua as our neighbor. I wonder if he would visit us if the table wasn't so full.




We would sit and break 5 loaves bread. Let sweet cream buttermilk balance on the weight of shoulders. Place a few tomatoes on tip-toes, in remembrance of walking in the garden, of eatin'. I'd tell Eve to pass the apple pie. If two fish could feed a multitude, this feast could feed a million minds.




See you at supper

OMG! PERFECT!

The rain came around midnight.
The standard fare:
Water picking its way through trees and dirty
balconies, gutters and empty boxes
(on its way to the sea, no doubt).
A period of light mist, followed by more assertive drops,
The type that mean business, mother****er.
And then the ventricles and atria,
A thumb or two, maybe the remnants of a face
Like a discarded rubber sheet.
Axles and tires, a sparkplug, a rake, made holes
in the street, falling from such heights.
Bits of glass and bits of water emulated one another
As they met with the ground, each
breaking in their own way,
according to the physics of the day.

We walked in our sleep, through the rain and
these discarded things. You spoke to me
In a voice like a long sigh heard clear across
the water of still lakes
in the dark.

"The water is rising. They'll have to
drag the river to find us."

We used a map, drawn for us by skilled Cartographers,
And it led us to where we had expected to go
Postcards were scrawled, a quick hello,
Then on to bigger things,
"What will we do come spring?

By then the rivers will be high. They'll have to
drag them all to find us.
(Among other discarded things)."

Of course, there were moments,
Few and few,
Standing on piers above ocean wakes,
Where we danced and sang and screamed our names,
Out into fogs and hurricanes
At passing ships and fighter planes
(And other more important things)
But we got no answer so,
We turned to go.

And now, in the familiar rain,
Silent, sleepwalking from time to time
We notice once again that the rivers are running high.

Our love is all behind us,
They'll have to drag 'em all to find us.

more than randomization
you may think by guessing who
was leading the liberation
of the famous tricks we do

i can't go on with laughter
facing the shapes of what you think
well, the suffering that comes after
's always written in small print

I wanna say, that I know better
but that's the ambivalent grief
cause doubts are all that matters
since we know what we believe

so I'm leaving with a headache
believing there are many ways
to cope with the world's mad drakes
back from the good old days

more than a speculation
but worthless from your point
for worshipping the creation
seems even disbeliefs are blind

thank you so much

i would give myself to you
if my ego didn’t have abandonment issues;
I know this be/cause
the/rapists facilitate self—
discovery…

abstract artists name their work:
i/dent/it/y?

i’ve been operating with metals too long—
mechanical lungs:
two methods to sustaining madness.

singularity.
individuality.

drywalls and hollow partitions;
i have burdens that are heavy,
and can’t hangout.

sometimes others can **** up your high!

you are more grounded than angels should be.
i am deep;
the living have a greater attraction to graveyards than the dead.

what can become of a dream—
but a/wake;
if eye told you that the rest is breath,
would you leave leftovers in my lungs?

two sticks with
too much friction
body to body:
fire.

there is no oxygen here,
inside this casket:

distance
de-tach-ment
dis/
connection;

eye want to share a treasure chest with you:
now,
and later.

I want death to find us watermelon-flavored
in life’s mouth,
reach in to suck out the nectar,
and anger the gods.

but maybe this is how we became mourning?

I stumbled upon love at a corner bodega,
bought nothing,
stole no/thing,
and returned home with the entire candy aisle
in right cheek-pocket—

I have stalked lust to different continents,
basked hand-in-hand
saw heaven in the tower of two shadows
stretched out before me;
and would follow it again
to a new world,
choose a new religion—
if I hadn’t come back lonelier than before I left,
arms tied behind the back of a cloudy day,
a foreigner
and atheist.

There is a cavity in my heart;
I never asked her name,
never offered mine as a sacrifice to silence,
or as provisions for
departing pang: feeling famished.

checklist isnt bad...still like delicate things better

thank you...i think i could have done a little better with this one ...i dont think i got across everything clearly

I Like that

These hands
These empty hands you tie up.

Without
Life/
Line
Or
Dream.

Will wait for
Rops to decide
They are tired
Of holding on.

And then

These hands
These empty hands
Will buy knives
Bullets
And guns
Full of freedom.

before the fall:

right hand
unearthed crevice:
thumbed labium
fingered mouth
pushed in
secured lock
G’d-spot
pulled body
toward sky

climbed…

right foot
located gap
dis/covered
found/a/ti/on
gift
unwrapped
fastened—
hold…

recoup breath…

breathe
deeply…

climb…

left hand
search shelf
pitch-a-tent,
hammer spike:
grip tight
head-butt sun

cool down

climb…

left foot
footsied ledge
lodged in/crease
suddenly




slipped
heart rate
new pace
off rhythm
on course

climbed
climbed
climbed
climbed

didn’t need air
don’t need air
didn’t need air

tip-toe room only

right side wobbled
left side wobbled
knees buckled
snapped in—
balanced

ballet pose
pirouette

stay hear
write here

to God

Dear God,

do not end
chapter…

If you wanted me to go
Uncluttered
Without suitcase or
Resentment,
I would;
Take a locomotive
To your insecurities,
Pay my own way
Blood/letting
Tickets from veins.

I am your passenger,
Tourist of your every
Journey.



To Selves

l.

She wants me
Too
Hand over
Delicate things.

I
Have a hard time
Holding this
Slippery pride,
And it has
Like favorite fabrics
Curved
to the contours
Of my being,
Yet still
Manages to
Get away.

What would she need
Such menacing material for?-

It doesn’t keep me warm,
Does not keep me company,
Will not caress
Or fill an empty night
With love.

Pride is pretty
Use/less.

Here.

ll.

What is between us
Short of
Opportunity

Have I confused a kiss
With a bridge?

Has she mystified distance
And danced armless into a dream?

Where are our hands-
We must get a grip,
Pull the seams of these
Drifting continents
And suture our world-

Why does falling in love cause death-
Are we asleep?

My I
Your I
My I
Opened.

1.

we are I to I – waging war with whispers; we are dust particles, collective conscious glue. we act as if we matter. death was born to destroy life as we know it. maybe we should practice a different kind of comprehension, or ignorance? at least, a new one…

i – damned of. what man fails. to understand: the question. suffered by. traditional answer; i tire, attempt to, make muse in the mockery of misinterpreted messiahs. by lecture of pen, eye channel to transcribe – sadness is not mere evidence for tears/transverse truths; two or more dead flowers still rooted in earth, is a garden. sorrow does not suppress smiles. perhaps it is even, eclipsed by them.

people pay more attention to accidents than parades: God’s photogenic side is Satan.

crazy: a fire escape route from hell to heaven. they’ll think it sacrilegious for me to say, “Jesus would be straitjacket material today.” what does the masses do to our schizophrenic population now? we tune out their ramblings with psychotropic me(d)eye/sin; any frequency that appears to be getting free – will cost. curses put wait on faith – we should all be trying to walk on water.

this is my head sea/horses have galloped to my rescue – waist-down they keep me torso-up; anything at eye-level is righteous.

2.

i like the bass-line Satan ****s to. when i reach that bottom floor of fire, you’ll hear me scream, “that’s my shit”; as a flashback of my temptations treble thru tweeters and vibrate flames, i’m gonna grab the hottest demon i see, grind on her like the slow jam eternity is. forgive me father for you have sinned; created a creature that gives good head – con/science speaking. the double-dick pleasure of duality: the devil teaching you wrong – the devil teaching you.

morals should make you masturbate. anything that good for you, should feel good to you. and angels were the first voyeurs – they should watch. i like to color in coloring books with my non-dominant hand during orgasm. scribble outside the lines. come/outside of myself. holiness is a dissenter: leave your damn body, follow your spirit. make love to gospel songs, i sincerely doubt that Jesus knows the words. callout your favorite disciple; my love and i like to quote psalms and proverbs – but do whatever gets you closest to freedom. animals? Genesis. Noah. whatever floats your ark. the book of revelations has horned beasts, complete chaos, and apocalyptic adventures for the freak in you. what say ye? what shall you do with the power of profanity?

do not waste the wine people!

3.

is the light associated with love, Lucifer’s?

she is a warm glow inside of me. her pointer finger rubs against my wall, and turn me on. i bet you Solomon was into watching same-sex relations – you can’t convince me that one of his 700 wives didn’t love him so much she wanted to taste the ***** of the last ***** he was in just to have the flavor of his penis, once again. come on son, you can’t tell me that Naa/mah - didn’t get her name by pushing some new chic to the side. getthe****outtahere!

4.

we dialogue about night, as if not to wake nature. and raise our voices as noonday sun, in total disregard of the moon’s rest. we don’t know what is diminished in goodness when we boast of it. yet, we commute to evil over eggshell and murmur. all of the universe is listening; bats and whales have coveted private thought. put the possibility up to your heart and here it. touch and feel it with your ears. taste it with your I – can’t you see that?

eye am the reflective image of Her with supreme vision. you doubt the distance at which i can see light penetrate darkness; you whom wear the corrective lenses of commandment – seeing from stone ages. you, in need of mediator between one/ness – thinking polar opposites are not the same. continuum…

as if my mind and soul are not the suffering grace of dissociative identity disorder; you whom will trust science enough to locate the maladaptive gene of my wicked disposition, until asked to put your faith in a Petri-dish.

you, who believe that your beliefs will save you from the self you be/leaving. you, who conclude that my values are a rite of passage to damnation. damn you. for i am. your left thoughts aiming to get right.

you who do not appreciate a jonesin’ Jesus. a panhandling prophet pinching pennies like copper peyote – looking for shamans on the lifelines of passerby’s. you who deem the trinity womanless – preferring a ghost over a live womb. you who will sick your church hounds on me, prey me into corners, bark me up the tree of knowledge – and serve me as communion when i fall. you who say i am the antichrist – when it is the word that births, that is therefore – for, a returning messiah. when it is me. whom will.

write it.
amen.

Presentation is everything;
sometimes my day opens in a garbage can,
not among leftovers,
but brand spanking new, still warm bagels:
buttery gray matter, on fire, racing in circles.

Is there no safe haven for dreaming?

I am a light sleeper, and it seems I startled the heaven-fairy,
she departed before she could make me an angel of mercy.

There is no wrong-side of the bed,
there is a sunken ship to the left,
a sunken treasure to the right,
and a wall down the middle of the sea.

it ain't the sun but...

And the waves crash me,
to rise with brick debris,
caked in eyes.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT...


Verb—used with object

To press between opposing bodies so as to break or injure.

She
is no bookmark,
just inside our pages
helping us
to hold position,
not lose footing,
keep our place.

I like her for that.


Share: (shâr)

Verb—used with object

To participate in, use, enjoy, or experience jointly or in turns.


Crush: (krŭsh)

Noun—used without object (informal)

An intense but usually short-lived infatuation.

Stopped by sheets solidified to hard/cover:
volumes to come,
chapters to follow,
she has an imagination that has no end—
I hope she doesn’t change characters;
because of the way she sees you,
I see you—differently.


Free: [free]

Adjective—

Exempt from external authority, interference, restriction, etc., as a person or one's will, thought, choice, action, etc.; independent; unrestricted.

Verb—used with object

Synonym—

Unpretending, unpretentious, crush, and humble.

Losing
Our
Varied
Experiences*.

My house,
is your house;
Inspire decoration—

Food for thought.

Sometimes I can’t say everything in one place;
forgive me for leaking varying versions of vicinity—
I can feel the universe when I imagine your laughter,
and have come to the conclusion—god is happy.

There is nothing
between us,
and it is proving
to be too much.

If truth has a formula;
it is not as simple as mathematicians would have you believe,
nor as effortless as linguists propagate,
and though numbers are but names scientifically—
crammed subjectivity: i/dent/it/y,
i/dent/if/y?

How do you chronicle the non-existent?

We are phantom-
tissue: cells and fibers.
Yet we are.

Eye have seen your invisible notebook,
I have been an invisible pen.
We are ink-filled for one another,
undetected by formalities: strang(h)ers—
locked in the ours of time.

Hearts are poetic calculators in labs behind ribcages.

I
am not objective,
you
are the object/I’ve
desired:

You think
I/n/scribe.
You read
I know.

We journal.

My left helps you write?