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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Writing · #1771209
Cut and pasted poetry of mine.

Remember a Cold Night

Arms folded, casual ripped back pressed

to the cold flat pane of the November window

Caress of the autumn moon paints us,

softly glowing quiet bare skin that

was all too hot and glaring 

when it was instead engaged

in climatic combat

fighting for its sensual life.

Bared arms entwining, coiling, exploring like hungry

Serpents seeking their nourishment-

hot-blooded furry panacea the animals seek for all its ills.

Hands clutching to misty thighs and neck’s napes

bracing to avoid the fall into erotic oblivion

That deepest tumble, the immortal collapse

freefalling passionately away into a land of nothing

but us.

Venturing mouths succoring the moments between.

Balance forgotten, in lieu of the rhythmic hips

merely writhing bodies thrown into the fray-

colliding, withdrawing, plundering, accepting,

as luck and merriment demanded.

Now with cold palms pressed to the window behind my back

you slumber, I observe satisfied

in that cooling of the room

as the dreamy faraway habitat I cannot dwell in

holds you close under the covers

alone, as you will soon be.

Sunday Worship

In our bed, our sweaty church of mortal veneration and passion of the vice,

I wish to pray to your body

in a manner befitting the goddess that is you.

The sensual idolatry, our virtuous laymen’s lust lavished upon our body and souls alike,

should be a ceremony in which this humble devotee to you

performs his hard miracles within you.

For he is completely devoted to pleasing his spiritual muse in her flesh.

Such pleasures abound in the worship of your abiding flesh!

Indeed it should be I that begs you to allow me the glory

of the slightest taste of your erogenous nectar,

of even the most fleeting feel of the budding nipples at the tip of the tongue,

of the moaning shudder felt low in your miraculous womb,

of the gratification seen in the smiling eyes of my beloved divine body,

of your voice repeatedly reflecting the throbbing, moist affairs deep within you high in my ear.

Your loving embrace unceasingly enticing me into pleasing you.

Your mere kiss is proof of a higher power whose hot effect is a reminder of hell-

hell being a naked moment without you to woo and delight.

Yet it is you that who lies prostrate between my muscled thighs!

Savoring the pillar of our shared ecstasy as your kiss entices it to reach toward heaven.

Such a hearty worship!  The tongue’s pious devotional so overwhelms its hot idol,

its halting rapture delivers its wonderful life aplenty.

And it is I whose cries are of a pitch ungodly yet apt in lieu of the pleasures recited.

Giver of life yourself, you falter not to take in my own.

And you have me.  All of me.

Yes my lover, you have me in total submission to your higher power!

And glory be to your erotic gifts from heaven.


Motions on my mind tonight.

The falling of a tender knuckle

slow-skipping backward

the lightest friction-tip connection,

brings you heat

dragging your words of halting caution

down to the floor where they keep company

with your fallen panties.

Tiny swirls of a pointed tongue

around the alerted nipple- startled stiff

while your two soft hands furrow

rows of my thick hair, over and over

while you bite the corner of your smiling lips.

Deliberate and enticing, your dainty foot skims up my calf

soft toes and sharp nails pointed upward and I arising

hot skin to hot skin, sweat mixing with sweat

beading up and falling away to the ground

unnoticed, the first drops of a torrent as of yet,


Tingling and throbbing the muscles within us yearn

For the give and take of motions

the scintillation of the eye's white under the spell of

the clench, the flow, the crescendo, the ebb, the embrace-

the arms held tight to keep the memory close to the heart.


What happens when a man determines he has no interest in a home,

because he has no heart left for it

and never did probably?

Does he drink and whore?

Seek solace in God or team sports?

Retreat into his cave and piddle with models or the hushed pages of an old classic from his youth?

Does he wonder about the least messy way he may escape the surly bonds of earth?

Weigh the dynamics of a hollow point versus

the embrace of the river many stories beneath the final bridge he crosses midway?

If he be a good man, a man of simplicity and duty, he does none of these things.

He cheerfully turns his key in the lock and enters that home.

Removes his hat, accepts the embraces of those who sincerely await his arrival.

He eats, bathes, undresses and slumbers.

Each and every day, until he no longer can and has to do so.

The Damned Trail Needs No GPS

Dream on, urbane ranchero.

Of lascivious liveries full of corseted and doting phillies

Scratching the head of your faithful and wide-eyed shepherd

panting and baying for work.

And brazen buckaroos.

Perhaps the occasional gaucho hand-

a man named Chico or Ernesto

just to add some hyphenated flair to your cadre.

Think of saddling up and driving north to Deadwood.

Whistling up the herd towards that day’s promised watering hole.

Muddy oases of quiet rest and reflections.

A place to kick out a dent in the hard earth,

to roll out your heavy canvas tarp and tuck your feet in.

A billion stars and the snores of the steadfast all around you.

Safe in your bed-wrap, worn-out by the saddle and sun,

you sleep soundly.

More so than ever possible on a ergonomic feather mattress paid for

With quarterly bonus silver, rather than the day’s sweat.

The meals are simple and solid on your trail.

One lame critter sacrificed ever so often,

Trading its meat from its bones to yours.

Hardtack and whiskey, gravy and meat.

The palette all so base and efficient.

Organic biofuel for a meandering rover of boundless land

wearing fair-trade boots, walking over globally warmed sand

that yields for no man or beast or scourge of God.

Because he cannot take a personal day

And knows he will leave no trace.

The Tiny Box Snaps CLlosed

Laughing so hard, you snorted.

Couldn't believe that sound could erupt



Was that the first reaction?

The latest inconsistency

to your emotional pablum

always on display. Perhaps?

Perhaps a nervous twitch?

The nervous tic I never noticed

because all I could ever see

was the perfection of your existence.

It was the simplest of questions I thought.

To walk down that nervous staircase-

the end of which leaving our heartbeats

no less pounding after the exit from the final stair.

Will you be? Could you be?

Are you?

Leave No Trace

False is the ignoble assumption-

that hours seated upon packed sand

with a few cheese crackers

or maybe some spiced peanuts,

watching the clearest of Yankee streams

or muddiest of Dixie rivers

is time wasted.

Time being the most precious

yet wasted

of commodities for sale,

I make little sense

of sitting on concrete stoops

in even the liveliest of metropolitan Meccas.

Rub one''s feet in the calming silt

and feel renewed,

footloose in the truest sense.

Rub those soles against pavement

and receive only blisters-

maybe a paycheck, I guess.

Yet the selfish nature within me urges you

to stay on those pavements.

And drive, don't forget to carpool!

Pack as many of my cemented brethren as you can

in those hybrids and cabs.

Stay away from my rivers and streams.

Let me walk in the woods alone,

leaving no trace, cutting no trail, clearing my mind.

I implore you to keep on keeping on.

Make money, buy RVs.

Stay at nice hotels with minibars.

Go clubbin'', make love and work with hangovers.

Have many kids,

that keep you at home when you wish to be out,

that force you to sit in bleachers with the Alphas,

that make you take that 30yr fixed to your neck,

that keep those souls in pews on my weekends.

My river and I do fine without you.

A Country Song

When you sing a song of revelry,

hum that giddy tune for me,

for soon I shall be leaving-

the caged bird fluttering free.

Cry not when my wings feel the air

towards Heaven my eyes are fixed,

I''ll hug you when you greet me there

if you stay away from the devil''s tricks.

My number''s been called

and we lived it all

and for that

a man''s gotta pay his bill eventually.

Been blind for so long,

out from dusk till dawn,

Think someone I haven''t talked to much

is ready to be a-calling me.


Don''t cry for me,

it tears me up my darlin.

Our fingertips pulling apart has got you sad.

Now I sail away on a pillow of wind

up higher than the snowy mountains,

every day I ever spent with you

was the best days on earth I could have ever had.

Gonna sleep now and forever, my lovely miss

lick my fingers and turn the page.

Heard Mama and Daddy''s up there a-calling me,

time to turn the lights out on the stage.

I feel strong hands lifting under my feet,

catapaulting my saved soul aloft.

I love you more than life itself my sweet,

But I gotta go thank a man for His cross.


Don''t cry for me,

it tears me up my darlin.

Our fingertips pulling apart has got you sad.

As I sail away on a pillow of wind

up higher than the snowy mountains,

every day I ever spent with you

was the best days on earth I could have ever had.

Away I go now

and I must say wow

the stars have never seemed so bright.

This epic view of earth I see

tiny ball of blue glory-

just floating so quiet in a pool of night.

Everyone I''ve ever missed just gave me a kiss

even old Blue just licked my face.

When you get here baby

love to show you around,

this world without time or space.

(last chorus)

Don't cry for me,

no need for it my darlin.

Up above the world I'm doing fine.

My fingers are still caressing yours,

my lips pressed to your cheek,

our parting now just a flicker of time.

Thigh-Deep in Aimless Thought

The river splits around the implacable man.

Solid he stands against the pressure

the angry current failing against the thighs

unsteady stones wildly tumbling asunder

yet firm beneath his felt feet-

the impotent granite

unable to shake its mortal captor.

There are no trevails, no details out standing

thigh-deep in aimless thought.

Hours lost flailing the bound feather,

stitched steel and impaled fur sent adrift.

Sun nor cloud of no significance.

He and the ripples roil in place.

Balance steady,

life extended in expanding arcs.

Self-contained voyager

an explorer of wide-open space

seeking new life within

the galaxy around his cast''s orbit.

Trinkets for the natives hanging,

probing out into the cosmos awash.

The solitary helmsman sets his course-

third pool from the jutting tree.

Eager for first contact and dialogue, yet

enjoying the fluidity of the journey.

Each hour he stands erect,

lean, sturdy, transcendental and glorious.

A leather hat for a shield

a vest housing his wares for trade.

Nine foot of bamboo grandeur tipped aloft.

Solid sinews casts away his trials and tribulations,

laying off the worries of a faraway concrete world

onto a clear stream unknowingly eager

to carry that supine weight,

reduced now, to the gram of a fly,

atop its rolling shoulders.

The Rat Race

Along the trail are burrows.

Nooks washed and crannies clawed

bare dirt and straw dander.

Home to whom?

I oft wonder.

Rare do I meet the residents.

The paths are tread too much.

Fauna leaves the house at dawn

Their commute to work early


they can beat the traffic.

Only after the camp is set

and the laden me sheds his condiments

in lieu of lithe and deceptive mode

do I happen upon fur and smile.

The claw, the ear, the fang, the nose, the eye-

Nature's briefcase and Blackberry.

Snorts and whistles, barks and hisses-

Nature's conference call.

They are usually hanging by the water cooler

rambling about the game and the politics.

Always lines about the weather

and the kids.

When they do see the boss coming

they scurry away to file their reports

in the natural fashion of course.

”There was that to do and it was done.”

Slicing shards of wizened oak

each lick of calloused hand and faded steel

a pittance against the steadfast trunk

with the exception of time

on my side finally.

Twenty ax handle life has ebbed

long before my visit.

There is no reason for this tree to falter.

Neither wicked storm nor change of season

burrowing vermin or annual freezin'

have scourged its solemn rings of time.

Yet there it stands

its hide yielding itself piecemeal

to my determined and prepared assault.

Sheer size assails my efforts.

Each hit of the head

a '44 Dog Green upon my shoulders

The wizard conjures soon enough,

blisters and brow sweat that stings.

Will I see it through?,

it asks me as I flail rather than drive.

Leave it wounded?

Feast for forest rot?

In the end it lays in pieces,

gnawed upon by a yearly visitor today

and many others I assume

in the weeks to come.

Food for the ambient campfire ring.

I cry not at my action.

I rejoice with a tired smile

after the children are hushed in their bags

and only myself, the uncaring stars

and a most curious hoot owl

breathe in the old oak's taste over coffee.

For on this meandering riverbank

Its children are all around.

Their time will come in due course

long after my rings stopped growing as well.

’95 Vintage

Dreams are the best I can conjure now.

The faded Tabasco tie stifles any recollections.

Any hint of a concise instant of my past

now as unattainable in my head

as they are to grasp in my calloused hands.

Friends long since folded into the fray and dead.

The web, though world wide,

never sticky enough to bind us shoulder to shoulder.

Somewhere their rapturous spirits are mere mortar

for brick walls that divide us from the loving bedrock

and the insanity that launched us occasionally from mortal earth.

Smiling, I think of the legality of '95.

Weathered soul by then

yet finally a legal participant in the say.

Elixir mixer evenings. The happiest of hours.

Ice and belly fire tumbling ensheathed in metal and glass.

The life of the corporate sponsored party.

Can still pour a topshelf blind-folded.

The auto-pilot Absolut ambassador-

friend, troubadour, sage, wingman, dealer, healer, shotgun, Lothario.

Eager with the lighter, wit as quick

as the succinct snap of the silver Zippo's snap.

My God, I loved even the shiteous of moments.

Then there would be the occasional hitch on the urban front.

Ankle deep in used plastic,

battered flour my wage ticket

Medium rare with a baker my advance.

Friday night brothers assault the tops

be they coming in first date lovers

rioutous ochos celebrating the precious achievement

even the pairs of chicken fingers for the 2.1 lil 'uns.

Fierce rapport among this grain of salt

and the black peppers that season

each and every neighborhood Southern kitchen

with its own trademark logo.

When the blood and sweat was hosed away,

there was revelry.

Dimestore deals in the breakroom yielding

eager redeye flights into those late nights.

The best hours were those when all you met

shared the sense of cunning for the game.

Quick trips to the latenight laserlight gumbo pot.

Diversity of ingredients rendered into singular pieces

boiled into pairs over emerging flames

seasoned with beer and herb.

The best meals served

with a disco bisquit while you waited.

Sweet melting pot of sounds for the era.

Fresh Floyd pulsing from the tour.

Synaptic helter-skelter mind jumble

Acid was Lord six more hours later

on an average Thursday night.

Gin and juice greasing the gears of the down.

Beck absolving winners of their guilt.

We could come as we were and rape our idols,

until the moody flannel duke

who swore he did not have a gun

had enough of his duchess in April.

Nails scratching my eyes out on my way

so much closer to God than I had dreamed possible.

Retro dips into the tape deck conjure

rockgod still commanding me to exult

promising there was yet to be a place beyond me

where the grass was greener

and the girls so much prettier.

Comraderie only felt in the fresh gaze of strangers thrust

forth into that modicum of ridiculous depravity.

Of course there were rises and falls within the ranks.

Sometimes the bumps on teeth chattering tracks

overwhelmed even the most diligent of riders

long numbed by their travels between diligent clarity

and self-loathing fuck-it-all.

Ebbs and flows of eager loves

some for only a sprinkling of hours.

Cupid, Dionysis, Pan and Aphrodite firing their quivers askew.

Bad shit going down, in emotional excess.

Back-stabbing and perception of such.

Always the veiled threat of the fronted bunk.

Yet the days went on as such.

My brothers in yarns soldiered on happy or ignorant

of the realistic world sprawling around us.

After all, there was knee-boarding to do.

But as the greys appeared,

my special accepted lovingly

the task so many before had failed to accomplish,

times, in perennially relevant Dylan terms,

were a-changin.

Far now in distance and mood

from those familiar haunts,

long since the daily faces of friend and foe

dissolved into a mental mural so massive, layered

a psychic scion in a thousand years

could not single out an instant of

particular poignacy,

I roll onward aloof yet mundane.

Only on the odd random night

when the stars twinkle and dart around each other

the fresh drip of barley pop tingles the happy throat

when now classic rock erupts with just the perfect intro

illicit campfire smoke lingers upon my being

and I reflect briefly, flirting with that old flame discreetly.

a brief beaming revelation

about the most frivolous yet formative

sum of my parts.

Boxes of Finality

The low wail of the final trumpet's dirge

settles over a misty valley.

The tiny mass of black umbrellas

hide faces from where salty tears surge.

They have come to bury a boy,

who died afar like a man.

Today the bugle's warble,

each note, fingered in solemn pride,

is slow,

far removed from the happy horn of duty

whose reveille the boy so eagerly replied.

When the folded flag is passed

to trembling hands of somber kin,

and the hand salute is dropped to the side,

it is the manifest destiny of Americans

to remember,

as the boy lies in permanent repose

he gave it all for pride.

The Id Should be Hid

Atop my soul's lofty perch,

an insipid devil within me lurks.

He cackles with glee and pushes me

to err on the side of wrong.

Rarely has he ever spoken

of all my own hearts I've broken

or urged me to belong.

He's held me close and kept me fearless

with my devil and my pride I am,

he would of course say,


Awake and Responsive to Stimuli

With a hacking cough,

the higher ground I plow now.

Loftier instances

lagging self-interest.

Jiggy with wooly agents of ne'erdo'well,

soaked in the throes

of mere sweet cubes and dry flora

protracted fantasy,

idle mesmirization

grooving to colored sounds

that spin and dance for me completely.

Sitting back, yanking at the pullcord

chainsaw-firing synapses.

A dysfunction cornucopia

ethereal inhalations- every breath a wander.

Great and worldly ponderings

lapping dogs of lagging doubts

chase me with equal aplomb.

As smoky and pungent kinships pass the laughs.

Turtle in a shell, my mood drizzles away

in the lucidity of forgotten pasts

of a future sure to be far beyond groovy.

Waiting until the night brings those dervish


sexy apparitions that make the

loco in la cabeza ideal

of wide-wake dreaming

all seem normal

and presently


Skin Smelting

Far away from light or dark,

that faint eruption of the spark,

blown from a rosy speck of nascent heat

by the slightest puff of sweet breath

against that most flamboyant of hearths-

my enlightened skin.

Now to return to a place of Stoic pallor

and deceive that glorious fire that rages

on the tip of every hair,

in every taste of surrounding air,

is to deny that all the scions tossing

smothering dirt are for naught.

Alas that smelting inferno rages!

A cry for cold water should have arose

from all around, who see the flames

consuming us sinners

already blinded by the salty heat

ignorant of the burns already suffered.

That petulant roar of the conflagration

is already too loud

though a mere moaning tambour

betwixt you and I

hushed in each other's eyes.

The Eight O’Clock Office Cubicle

Oh to sever my ties with the mundane,

I beg silently to passing strangers.

One day, a angel freed of earthy tethers

will see my plea, not uttered yet hanging,

behind the usual smile and nod

of this man whose unintended choices have


his souls's zero sum gain-

life in the the daily grinder.

Hook my hitch to a roving Coachman

headed west, I hear

the west is the best.

Wind in our face, drive me to the great divide.

Let me out to climb to the apex

and then I'll decide

just which side

I choose to decend upon.

Hop me, kind Piper pilot.

Any landing strip just as long and far

away from the expected.

Aloft I can see the plains.

Follow the concrete ant trails to a sea.

Land ho and drop me near a boat

and I shall row away without due course

until I decide

just which waypoint over the horizon

I choose to set my sail to carry me.

Blaze the trail, sojourner of perennial trails.

One foot in front the other, I'll follow

through dear thickets and thin paths between pine boughs,

eyes looking asunder for some minute diversion.

Point out a game trail,

a naturally befuddling Y

meandering toward fate itself

not yet traveled by leather-bound  souls

and I shall migrate to

just whichever inevitability

I choose to cast my lot in this shortening life.

A Sunday After Noon

There is nothing to write about today.

A day off from the grind

the gridiron unappealing and droll

weather foul, clouds and cool wind

not enough time to get anything going.

Friends out of pocket.

Spongebob watching the kids for me.

Even the telephone could care less about me.

Idle poetry reviews,

aimless clicks of the mouse

dreary blogs about Bhutto and the year that almost was.

El ano nuevo just another numeral.

Lazily counting down the hours before

setting the alarm

and quitting Sunday altogether.

The tree is down, gifts old already

Just sitting with feet propped up

dulling your day in prose.

The Sipsey Fork

Eons of water carvings yield all-

encompassing halls for my enduring devotionals.

Frigid ripples of nature's lapping knife

awash with dimples of coloured leaves.

Unseen trout peckings,

squealing kingfisher jealous of my creel,

lovelorn hawks passing through.

Thrashing down the brushy hall

two squirrels

twitter-pated, dancing a jig.

A beaver's tail adding

an occasional tympanic flourish.

I stand mute


mouth agape

enthralled by the concert.

I dare not clap lest

los maestros bid me adieu.

In the pools there is silence.

Crickets have gone to ground,

trout match the hatch with ferocity

yet silently as they slurp.

Lest I slosh haltingly toward

a more eager patch of mirrored solace

I am the tree that falls in the forest,

nothing and no one to hear my sound.

There is ease of motion then

fluid flailings of the streamer

a well-oiled machine, a skilled operator

with steady pace and thought put into

every niche of the delivery arc.

Should I falter, and often so it is,

a resting log wins the prize-

mere piece of twine and steel,

a few moments of my time

nimble knotting

and sounds of muttered swearing.

Smooth stones punctuate the river's voice.

Every sentence uttered

an era in the making.

When the rains have come

it roars through boulders in triumph

thundering around the stone in a din that

an auditorium carved by Man

will never touch in potency.

In drought it cries at its loss

dainty tears

tinkling, lost

between the tiniest pebbles

as they await their turn

to move on downstream

and pass on what they have learned

to those who will stand idle

long after I have passed through

and passed beyond.

The Last Year with Alexa

A dervish in life, now more so in death

tossing aside notions of physics and poise

silent sexy shadow spinning asunder

her daily essence a loco trip without tangibility

Now she puts on a show unencumbered

by pangs of self awareness

or tethers to mortal earth.

In the glow of black lights

a sultry sparkle spinning.

Billions of dusty specks colliding

undeniably revealing her glowing form.

At times she beckons to me

as I lay beaming on our bed.

That finger of sultry moxie,

beckoning for me to join her

almost too much for me to deny.

I feel her in the shower steam

her warmth undeniable.

Her svelte form jutting

from the foggy bathroom mirror

tiny beads of water run daintily

down the small of her exposed back

trim the form pressing out from the glass.

I trace my finger slowly down the muggy spine

in my head I hear the echo

that silly giggle of freaky-free release

coming soon to fruition.

I beckon for her to come back for a mere second

to taste that giggling flesh once more.

But she cannot.

Tiny footfalls on the carpet plush

dainty sixes- a helter skelter trail

always to the bedroom

dancing on tiptoes giddy

an eager beaver-

constant jaunts to the boudoir

pitter patter over my head

springs creaking from the empty bed.

I sit on the couch below

listening with glassy eyes.

Ignoring the ringing phones

that cannot be her.

Thousands of pixels fleeting-

the TV runs amok as I try to watch the game

Warped static- her impertent signal

frantic fuzz now her hands on pouting hips

Ex-pros words hazy as I hear only "Why?"

Every channel I find a new Alexa.

Spike the night she and I first touched eyes.

ESPN the nights of each team scoring to screams of adulation.

Discovery a glance at the day of the Blue plus.

Soap the day of the revelation of her affliction.

PBS the open proclamation of our joining together.

History the day she joined eternity.

Lifetime the months of loss after.

Every night she is must see TV.

Now as she flows around the house we share

her carnal spirit reaching for only me,

I sip a Brandy Alexander in her honor

offer a sip to her, which she takes,

shadowy air empty to all but lonely me,

Show her the single shell, she sighs.

A year to the day since her transcendence

months of gloom outside of the happy walls

life away from the house free of her

unacceptable for a moment longer.

Down the hatch with the Alexander.

Tip to the temple and drop the hammer.

And feel her immediately against me, chuckling,

as we embrace each other completely, finally.


As we always imagined it could be.



Does she know?

Could she know?

If she knows?

Where do I go?

Altered profile left unclosed?

Backroom nights typing instead

of mere pointing and clicking

(at WND headlines.)

Clandestine software downloaded?

D- all of the above?

Past misdeeds taint the scene already.

Eyes linger a tic too long

that glower unmistakable.

Outright consternation-

her clothes rarely come off.

I gripe to her about it a lot.

Assume an IM happenstance muy malo.

Presume a sloppy night of digital whimsy.

False names always but a signature rap

all too familiar swagger in prose- me.


For sure-

If she hunts prey like me.

Racing heart pounding.

No eddifying note left behind,

a terse docket laying out charges.

But no phone answered either.

Damn caller ID.

No way to pace the battle.

Kitchen cleaned now for my honeybabysugarpie.

Innocuous news channel on TV.

Cats fed, litter fresh.

PC screen turned off.

History erased, cookies eaten.

Unless already documented

by the most vengeful of historians-

the woman scorned.

Rumble of idling motor.

Thumps of chattering of the scamps.

They walk in.

With Walmart bags

and kid-size DQ shakes.

Fresh ketchup stains and useless toys.

Flagging heart triumphant.

No mess, no muss, no fuss.

A false alarm, test-run drill.

False online identity still

trickling out in nervous spurts

in the room at night lit

by a shadow in the monitor's glare.

Don’t They Blow Foxing Bugles Anymore?

Bang the drums! Join the hunt! To arms!

A gathering of armed men on steel horses!

We start in their already-burning streets

and push towards them back toward the east,

shooting their legal bucks without remorse.

Those penitent leeches whose protesting spit

allows our thick blood to thin

and flow all the more easily,

in pictures of shrapnel-induced pores,

must be burned off one by one from the world's skin.

The religion of peace?

That should make them weak-

a humbling faith turning the savage into quivering lambs.

However, like packs of marauding wolves they fight

against both our palms-up lefts and closed-fisted rights

killing many more of the ewes.

In the seasons of woe yet ahead,

I will weep for those unlucky souls

for whom a crazed fox in their own backyard,

shot down after eating our defenseless chickens

is found to have been let through the fence

by the soft neighbors on either side of our land

who love the animals

and see no wrong in their need

for blood and rendered flesh

to faithfully survive.

It is a travesty that the strong

defer like the ox to the nose ring

led by the shrillest voices of the otherwise weak.

Are your brothers merely dead carcasses

for whom we will continue to weep

at solemn annual gatherings?

It is a mockery.

Such weeping pageantries for the souls

numbed with thoughts of futures cut short

by the lunatic need to understand the feral-

these are the only true unification of the divided nation?

Marking dutifully to the very instant

the senseless loss of those we knew?

War, my countrymen, is not for the meek.

It is for the harshest prepared among you.

Send forth the aerial steeds aloft!

Let their arrows streak!

Dole out the lessons our softer men rue

Gleaning the Rinds at Three at Doogan’s

When token toils ebb

pleasures ascending in ounces

the day is tossed away

the mind begins to bend,

I reach out for someone beside me.

But I called up old buddies and strayed

let cheap pleasures take me away

now love no longer tries to find me.

Cut me away from her bleeding heart

denies me daily my pleas

for the cure, her healing sutures.

So here I sit with bended mind

stirring my wettest pleasures available now.

Remembering a time

when I drowned my stiff pity

in the minutes of cheap whore.

Ahead of me, as yet not

but of course to be uncorked

solo hours of cheaper wine yet

in every possible future I see,

Including the one now in front of me.

Hey buddy!

Another round, please, dear friend

another blended poultice

so I can better mend myself.

Passing By a Day

My bare ass on shaded-cool sand

is the crux of my master plan.

With the calming soft hand of a river bank resting on tan shoulders

sharing my admiration for a troupe

of sun-bleached-white turtles

watching the sky's threat of peculiar spasms from a bobbing log.

A Zebco tip extended across a split-tip shaft of scavenged drift wood,

uncaring whether the catfish wants to free the drowning worm,

lies next to prone feet

unneeded shoes- free your toes!-

only serve to protect fresh feet on concrete

from shearing on the broken glass of parties

of those upriver

who work five days in a stasis controlled by man and

for two days drunkenly toasted the smiling of Apollo upon their naked chests

and the virtues of naughty Aphrodite upon their nocturnal breasts.

A laden Igloo beside me lies open for aluminum exploitation,

coughing out cold doses of soothing elixir-

colour not so far removed from the waters I watch

carrying the cypress flotsam down to the campfires of the weekend natives.

The river is a silent audience to the distant cacophony of eccentric songbirds

angry woodpeckers hammering out an existence against the protests of stubborn oak.

Explosions from beneath the placid eddies all around

only raises the ire of the innate yet nuanced bass hunter

lazily awaiting his turn towards prominence in my psyche.

By the way!

The only boss to answer to today?

That angry patch of rain clouds

passing by soundless to my right.

An Optimist’s Winter

As a summer buff,

I weep annually

when green falters

fruits wither

leaves blowing asunder

from forces

far past my mere mortal



yet felt.

Sloughing off vibrancy

in lieu of a stark nudity

stoic trunks

face anew

a whimsical firing squad

of ice.

Yet as I sit here

looking into the shadow of

an increasingly bare elm

bare feet cold

coughing, nose runny

epiphany overwroughts

my chilly premonitions.

Now I can see more of the sky.

And that sun on its holiday tilt,

will shine for me once again soon.

Bare Foot, Bare Floor

The two tiny sons I love

have been raised on hardwood floors.

No fluffy plush and padded carpet

cushions their falls

as they learn to walk

the tidy asphalt streets

and unkempt gravel roads

certain to lie ahead.

Their feet will be theirs

for the rest of their lives.

Shoes they will outgrow

and toss away

either by decline of fashionable interest

or sheer time of usefulness.

Their tough feet will always take them

the rest of their way.

One bare foot in front of the other

if need be.

There are few decorative rugs

to adorn the floor

their tiny bare feet

toddle over.

They are to create their own art,

not walk on someone else's aesthetics

colorfully covering

an unkind blemish

marring the firm floor

a flowery Band-aid of sorts.

They see the floors can be a thing of fleeting beauty .

Flawlessly shining

when stripped bare

waxed tediously

polished with sweat

and perseverance,

shimmering in windowed sunshine.

The boys see the ease with which

the perfection of the floor

is marred

by thoughtlessness,

uncaring decisions to mess with

the placement of hard objects

to clean them of their filth

and scuff out a place

far more foul than the mere dust

that will return

as soon at the broom passes on.

When they fall

I listen to their wailing.

Is it indignation punctuated

with the stinging of a throbbing diapered rump?

Or that deep-inhaled blast of agony

of a knee bruised far worse than their ego?

The father in me

like the father before me

coddles little.

Pain in itself

arising from one's own actions

needs little more than a moment of clarity-

an understanding hug and a stern rebuke.

Both warn them to watch out.

I suppose it a Southern-ism.

The babies go without shoes often.

They lie in drawers and closets

awaiting the boys' public forays.

They need to feel firm ground beneath their feet now

as they grow like weeds

(soon to bring Mama to tears as those tiny shoes

disappear into the red brick halls of 'enlightened' strangers!)

but they should feel the floor on bare heels.

No tiny plastic soles to soften life's inevitable impacts.

Bare feet are to be stung by unexpected splinters

the occasional ant sting

toes stubbed on door jambs

sticker-bush burrs

all to remind them

as they wear their

do-the-deal wingtips

loafing-and-laughing sandals

punch-out-at-five steel tip boots

spit-and-polished shoes, oxford, black

walking-and-watching hiking shoes

and as often as possible

bare feet- uniquely theirs

just as their Daddy has shown them

all of their young lives.

A footnote: Mommy is out buying carpet as I write this.

Viva la difference-

I suppose.

Memorial Day is Now a Day-old Memory

Give me no day next year

of employer-sanctioned

tri-color patriotic fervor.

Sell no more Chinese-made Old Glories-

all the more cheaper on Tuesday

at Wal-mart

after the mood has ebbed.

Leave me more room on the lake next year

to watch diving fowl

rather than the Milwaukee foul

cutting errant donuts at full throttle

in the backwater usually so still

even my toddler can catch a perch.

Today on Tuesday I have my memorial day.

And every day before and hence.

I need no parades of drum majors.

No wreaths lain with due solemnity.

No three-day jaunt to Florida's comely sand.

No fresh smoked ribs or pulled Busch tabs.

No slaloms on fresh pack up at Squaw.

There need be no American May Day

to salute the countless noble

who gave so much more than I.

On this day I remember

that slightest wince of my grandfather

when a riotous thunderclap

hit a little too close to home.

I thank everyone

who carries that lingering psychosis

in the back of their aging minds.

And I revere daily

all those who never made it home

to do the same.

Swing and a Miss

With a wave of my hand

came a practiced flailing

of the limber rod.

The charcoal streamer

tied taunt already

flailed over my head

in practiced arcs.

It lay delicately

on the foggy water

for only half a heartbeat

before boiling into oblivion.

Then it returned to me

just as quickly

without paying off.


more practice is needed.

Musing on Thursday, Not Much to Speak of

What to write about, this fine fall day?

Shall we start with chipmunks at play?

Or maybe the lake's loons out diving for fish?

A little tyke I watched pay a penny for a wish?

The early morn's foggy soup threatening a crash?

My daily hustle and bustle in search of fresh cash?

Our two little sons throwing treats to the dog?

My breakfast-fat belly full of eggs and fried hog?

Saturday's game in front of the home crowd?

Maybe a word about some insult fingered aloud?

How about a line about dead Muslim kids?

Trapped under their schools crushed by tectonic skids?

A little snipe at the President's yes-men?

Caught with their pants up, but their palms open?

Fresh news of heavy rains flooding the North?

Another psalm/sign of God's angry retorts?

The old puss in my lap taking her six hour nap?

Until the kitten came by and gave her a bitch slap?

Never mind to all of this ebbing Thursday's minor things.

All that really matters is what tomorrow's light brings.

No Need for a Smoke Tonight

Both detest the clenched eyes,

that taunt shudder yielding

embarrassed sputtering spray.

A brow not yet sweaty-

but still an obligatory moan

the abrupt end of the lay.

Those ill-timed ecstatic shivers

the ebbing of rigid form

yielding to stuttering quivers

shortening a ribald and carnal act.

Now two fresh strangers wonder

what to do about the unseemly sap.

Quickly comes the flushing of cheeks.

Shortcomings extremely apparent,

all allusions to manly prowess

dribbling around and errant.

Out comes an apology so swift,

the babbling explanation

leaving both quite miffed.

Now all the selfish accolades-

tinkering with wet nipples

yore of lavish oral escapades

the great spectacular high-hard one

barroom war stories which,

tomorrow to be sure both will admit,

was followed upon in spirit

with an all-too-brief exuberance.

Now is tis known to each

the flapping tongue was by far more potent

than the rapidly shrinking protuberance.

In every author let us distinguish the man from his works.

Voltaire  (*Pthb*)

With this Ring, I See Red

The ease,

she was always so easy,

with which those young new mens' eyes

in hotel bars

or rocking cars,

as the night would have it,

find her

naked, frolicking and rich

and free

from dear stupid old me

has freed me from my soul.

Wild-eyed jealousy,

heaped high with each kind kiss

of her lifetime's dwindling clock,

the likes of which

my racing heart

never wielded so callow,

replaced a selfless love for her lusty spirit

that blinded the eyes of an aged sage

to the fact of her essence being so shallow.

She may well know not of the ire she raises

or care to taste the wet lust for her

she creates so indelibly

on my quivering lips


so publicly before my peers,

to taste again

that taunt flesh

though my check is always good.

She eases through life

with disregard of my strife.

My young blond ex-wife

will soon be in awe of my fleshy knife

For once

it will be

only me.

I visit her this very night.

The only difference between a neurotic and a psychotic is one bad day.

Macho Man

A cloudless Saturday night in October

after a day on a pristine lake

where the fish begged you for mercy.

You feel like a friggin' stud.

Hair trimmed by an old man's expert hands.

Wallet is tight, car shining bright.

The guys are gonna' head out a while tonight.

Face clean-shaven, nose hairs leveled.

Exposed jawline that could chisel leather.

Hard-labor-molded chest in a well-fitting vest.

Oh-so-snug jeans sure to make them all cream.

Time to leave the house for a few hours.

Watch the LSU game at the sports bar

before headed home


for the rest of the night

snuggled up to the loving wife.

Breaking your buddies balls

and few pretty girls' hearts.

You just know it.

Just smell the possibilities!

Smell 'em, I tell you...

smell...? smeelll...


What the hell's that smell?

A gasp of exertion from across the room.

The omnipresent giggling from the tiny blue swing

has subsided all too abruptly.

Ah the look on his infant's face-

crimson-bright as he grunts in place,

while mama folds her arms,

in deference of my turn to investigate.

Declares her services null and void on this one.

Thus the macho man holds his buddies up

while he takes the time

to squeal in horrified disgust

as his eyes weep like a schoolgirl

due to the demonic odor of the tiny butt.


O thou ballsy slanderer,

O master of the cocky slight

Tis best you leave me alone

this cold and stormy night.

Tis the sickest manner of health

you so unknowingly seek.

Braggard, caustic macho self.

whilst I cower, mute and meek.

Thoust insipid tongue of blazing spit,

taunting, derisive shots that upon my manhood so often publicly hit.

For a dozen nights I have but only cleaned

the open sores upon my soul so obscene.

Turned my cheeks in solemn humility,

raised my arms to God in earnest futility.

Prayed for your soul to find some enchanted light,

but received for my tithe more of your horrid blight.

But tonight as the wind blows with force,

the roads are dark while you thread your course.

Trying to outrun the pelting of chilling divinity

merely brings you all the quicker to the holy trinity.

You see, oh scourge of my ego and ears,

while you bragged for hours over fries and beers,

this quiet man passed by outside your stomping grounds.

Now as you navigate through tipsy town,

O'er winding curves, hills' ups and downs,

your footpedals bring you a dose of my nervous blight.

For this quiet man may not fight,

by the swaggering rules of the street.

He awaits his most morbid moment of chance

and without so much as a cautious glance,

cut your brake lines

on the night it's certain to sleet.

© Copyright 2011 D.L. Glenn (oddtunes at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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