Sunday, March 26, 2017

Gideon Doesn't Live in This Place

Gideon doesn’t live in this place,
its soul as black as the moonless night,
silently sitting, waiting for the prey,
carefully choosing,
devouring them whole,
then spitting out the pieces,
as circling sharks,
patiently wait for the left overs;
on Friday evening,
like an invading, street tough, conquering army,
the crip/blood, gangsta wannabes come pouring in,
their baby mamma, whaever bitch,
ho entourage in tow,
ghetto cool,
tattoo correct,
bling tough ready;
they understand this place,
no words required,
just a natural progression;
they have arrived;
you watch, then quietly realize,
you love your wife,
more than you ever knew.


Friday, March 17, 2017

Not Bad Chinaski

my god,
they’re still making money
off his old, buffalo ass of a hide,
he’s been dead for what now?
three, no four years, damn,
he’s becoming a regular
Jimi Hendrix of the literature world,
they’ll be digging up his manuals
for the next thirty years,
there’ll be books coming out about;
the early years,
the final years,
the in between years,
the lost journals,
the never before published journals,
the secret diaries;
it’s almost enough
to make you want to puke;
especially when you just know,
somewhere the old bastard is
laughing his fat ass off,
thinking to himself;
not bad Chinaski,
not bad at all.


W.B. Yeats

welcome old friend,
come in from the cold
and rest awhile,
I recognize your voice,
It is one I have heard
many times before,
the accent
was a little different
from what it is now,
but still,
it is the same;
we have talked often,
you and I,
during that soft
and painful transition,
as I tried to hold on
to the dark and dying night,
and you patiently waited
for the pale, morning dawn;
tell me old friend,
have you found that precious
light of a new day,
for which you waited
and searched
for so long?
ah well;
nor could I
hold on to the darkness,
but what difference does it make?
it is in the trying
that matters most,
you and I,
were never born
to live in the black
or the white;
it is the cracks in between,
where we belong.



the laughter rings in my ears,
the silence covers the night,
like a worn out lover,
inviting everything into its domain,
like flies in the spiders web,
echoes of the past,
banging into the walls of my mind;
who am I?
how did I get here?
I remember a road,
on a dark, starless night,
I remember your laughter,
I remember your scream,
I recall everything,
which means nothing;
ah Kathleen,
your hair was like silk,
you smelled like the springtime flowers,
we were young,
we were lovers,
we were soul mates;
we traveled the road to Dublin,
then you were gone,
I searched for you in the meadow,
but you were not there,
I screamed out your name,
but received no reply;
oh my Kathleen,
where have you gone?
time has no hold on our love,
our love was greater than time,
greater than life,
our love was endless,
even death cannot keep me from you;
remember the moon?
we watched it rise,
you saw the fairies,
and called them out by name,
we danced till the new day sun came out;
oh my Kathleen,
where have you gone?


O Eire

O Eire;
who could taste your sweetness,
and not cry out for more,
who could stand upon your cliff tops,
or walk the banks of the Shannon,
and not feel your mystical magic;
your hills
breathe with life,
young and fresh,
yet with a wisdom,
ancient and old;
O Eire;
even the mightiest invader,
is overwhelmed by the power
of your charm,
succumbing not to your sword,
but rather to your spirit,
as you take not their lives,
but steal their souls,
making them prisoners to that
which they had come to imprison;
O Eire.


Push Buttons

sports, sex and food;
those are about the only things in life
that have ever really interested me,
and I’ve only been good at two of those,
well okay,
I used to be good at two,
now I only do one well;
bores the shit out of me,
and on top of that,
I don’t really understand it,
yet somehow,
here I am,
a highly trained technician,
in a highly technical field,
pushing buttons,
watching red and green lights
go on and off,
thinking about
the leftover steak in the refrigerator,
the secretary with the nice ass,
or how my daughter can improve her
basketball game;
sometimes I imagine life,
living in a stone cottage,
overlooking the ocean
on the western coast of Ireland,
writing whatever comes to mind
all day long,
then walking into the village at night
to drink a few pints,
tell a few lies,
then stumble home
to crawl in bed with a good woman,
big and soft,
who moves with passion,
moaning out of control;
and keeps the house clean;
excuse me,
I gotta push a button.


Sunday, March 12, 2017

This Love

I want to breathe her like air,
taste her like honey,
eat her like a pineapple,
sweet and tender,
soft and succulent,
juicy and ripe;
I want to feel her like the ocean waves,
absorb her like the morning sun,
touch her infinite energy,
while we laugh,
while we run,
while we cry;
I want her memories,
her thoughts,
her past,
mix them with my own,
until we become one;
this love humbles me,
this love brings me to my knees,
staggers my mind and soul,
this love silences me,
this love fills me,
like a mighty river,
overflowing its banks,
covering the scarred and broken land,
this love spews forth,
pumping like liquid gold,
into the soft smooth opening of her
moist wet silky fields;
this love overwhelms me,
this love fulfills me,
this love completes me;
this love consumes me.



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