This mind turns on its axis.
Continuous thought uninterrupted
by the vicious sleep of reason,
breeding Goya's monsters in ground fertile
with preconceived knowledge.
The grease of time speeds the spin.
Disoriented, weak against the chain,
links of assimilated concepts layer like brick.

The whirl of intellect births ideas.
Intrinsic contemplations on a mental screen,
infallible doctrines speculate
on suspicions whispered to living rock.
This mind trips on unearthed reality.
Forgotten voices speak for themselves,
startled hands bring pen to paper,
validation stains the page with creations' mistakes.

And I hear the scream as I write the words.

Logic (A Rare Ryhme)

By my hearth I've often sat,
and curiously wondered at,
the circumstances of my current state;
how it is I came to be
such a hardened, jaded she,
laughing at the irreversibility of fate.
Quick of wit, a learned mind,
taught to mingle with my kind,
if I only knew just what that meant;
I only know I won't conform
to what is the considered norm,
so does this mean my tree is slightly bent?
I never asked to run the race,
they can't make me stay in place,
the way I live my life is unaccepted;
and so I ask, with heavy heart,
if my free will and I should part,
would all I have accomplished be respected?



They haunt this place. Invisible footfalls dance,
they rise in ghastly ballet; grotesque arabesques
against bone-colored walls, murmurs without voices.

Low laughter ripples beneath flesh, crackles along a dead line.
Strange shades waltz beyond the corners of perception,
twirling to a spectral band; the sweet scent of Mignonette
an undefinable presence, it's decay lingers on the air.

Revenants in party dress, their passage kisses the skin;
they whisper close, seductive invitations to the dance.


Good pussy

My cat purrs
like a dick-whipped woman;
fat orange tom, his cream stripes
run through my fingers
in spermy ropes.

Milk And Chapstick (Edit)

She used to be Viola, cornfed daughter of dirt.
Baby fat blonde jumped the nowhere bus,
bootlace flapping, gritty chapstick in her pocket
pasteurized milk in her daddy's scotch thermos.

Fate est. 1977, she walked away on rooted feet,
now she shakes a disillusioned ass at a titty palace
called the Maraschino Cherry; screaming red walls
full of glaring Warhol and polite bouncers in suits.

The clientele speaks of Paris, of summers spent
at Archipelago de Colon in knowing voices.
It brags like a regular Studio 54, but it's just another
downtown hard bar, the regular fakes licking Kismet
from squares of cellophane, faces pulled in passion.

The stage pops and snaps, the crackle of charged air
makes her think of the spark chamber she saw once
at a county science fair, when she was still Viola,
baby fat blonde the crowds called Sapphire,
because it was spelled out behind her on a backdrop,
sputtering tubes of violent blue spitting static at her back.

She sways on rooted feet, runs a dry tongue over drier lips
and thinks of chapstick, of warm milk in a plaid thermos.



He sits in front of  Bea's Corner Store
(another shiftless nigger)
a perfect Rockwell
by the rusted Grape Nehi sign.

He hand-rolls cigarettes,
ponders the color of a God.
He hears cicadas buzz
in harmony with memories
of when it wasn’t wise
to look daylight white men in the eyes,
because they might come to call at night.

Now old, those men pass
on their way to buy Bea’s shine;
they call him by name as if they’re friends.
He wonders what they choose to forget.

On Saturdays, little white boys
drop their battered bikes,
head into Bea’s for colored popsicles.
But he needs to see them colorless,
and can’t help wonder
what they’ve already learned.

He has heard of the change bought
with the blood of those more bold,
now he’s too old, too tired, too black to care.
So he nods to all, while he appears
to focus on a patch of oil that darkens the asphalt,
and stains the scent of Gardenias in the air.


I like the way I look in car mirrors
if I'm on the side and it's dim through the glass
or I look in the lighted one on the visor,
over my school-marm glasses
right after I put on honey lip balm.
It's easy to pretend it's not me,
the distortion creates beauty where there is none,
not like walking down short halls with flamingo legs
above everyone else in the sand;
this is an Irish face, flat and squash,
mirrors add dimension like a photograph from a autopsy
but in the end, they usually find the body in the trunk.

Dead City

The city is haunted,
filled with the shuffling dead.

Someone's nightmare broods
on the rim of my waking sleep;
it wears a man's clothes, a child's smile,
and it leans, a malevolent slant,
in the recessed doorways of periphery.

It moves by me down night streets,
past buildings like tombstones.
Gutterplates and cornerstones
bear names of the irrelevant doomed;
anathema writ by those who came before.

Now it's ahead, tripping the dark fantastic
along the edge of my watering lid,
a lurid writhe in rhythm to the hiss of my mind.
It beckons, silent coos of seduction,
drawing near the cold press of it's regard.

The city is haunted.
Winds keen through barren streets,
pushes past buildings like watchful crypts,
scatters faces on the skittering strains of a howl.

I see it beyond,
someone's nightmare dancing with my own;
one mad ghost entwined with another.


Where It Goes

My fear has nothing to do
with God teaching me lies.
We wore painted masks
representing faces,
the bless-us formula and linear proofs
holding the house together
like a dime-store novel spinning
its tale in a drug store
that doesn’t exist anymore.
No matter how many times you move
the same shadows fall down the stairs;
you watch as the newest star
to come out of the consortium
dances above their heads while
we spread our tale across the gods’ table
before asking them to show us
where it goes.


You knew I'd call it Chartreuse.

I was looking on the web
like I'll do to keep my mind from dwelling
in a petrified wood that it shouldn't

I came upon a place devoted to Chartreuse
which turned out to be
a French liqueur made by monks
and aged with 130 kinds of herbs and flowers
it all sounds so simple

and I just like the word
of course I know it; what it is,
have seen and heard and even used it
but never really thought about until today
when I saw it in a slender, nondescript bottle
such a cool green beckoning...

yes, that's it, beckoning;
calling me to Chartreuse mountains
where holy men gather herbs and flowers
until they count 130

and I read later
that some songwriter somewhere
Tom Waits, I think it was;
had said that Chartreuse was a whiskey so good
they named a color after it.

I once had
a shot of color like that.