"Ain't No Party, Ain't No Disco" (But The Propaganda Ministry Disagrees)

Before I turn of the TV
The blonde flight captain says,
"You're life needs accelerating."

She looks like an actress,
she wants me to think
I'll meet her in the Navy;
Her smile says bogies at 9:30.

And it's too early for me to be
all that I can be, or one of the few
who think like all of the rest--
in a war with no beginning or end
a checkered board filled with pawns
and a couple useless princes on a
cold, black and white playground.

Sorry there, sweety--
not even if Godsmack
writes the soundtrack.

Not even if I am an army of one,
a captured, debriefed heart and mind
in someone else's chicken-wire cage.

I can see it now:
Johnny returning home as one
in an imitation pinewood box--
in nine pieces, or one lucky whole;
intangibles lost on the other side
of this temporal oil-slick planet.

It's 9:41--bogies turned bandits,
and I've lived through the last
twenty four hours dodging bullets
fired in my own divided house--
elephants and jack-asses,
no mission accomplished,
homeland insecure.

I'm Alive,
still kicking in these jack boots
in the concrete jungles of home.

I'm still Alive.

And so are many--except the few
and the proud, bless them for
their most vain of sacrfices,
all of those whose precious lives
were valiantly given before 9:48
and all who will yet spill their's
on an Arabic-Aztec alter of
our national dark god's choosing.

It's 9:55--fuck it
do you know where
your army of one
has been sent to now?

It's 9:59 --fuck it
accelerate your life;
because the reaper is
one quick little bastard.



Addendum, thanks to beerspitnight and Henry Rollins:
Letter from Ramadi

Still Dreaming

This is a sequel to a previous poem I wrote way back in the day... you know, June. Feels like forever ago. And that's a damn good thing. Time has hurtled by, until now. Now, I feel like it's my turn to laugh at time for once...

Peace out, everyone.


I'm a butterfly--
still dreaming
I'm the moon.

I'm the moon dreaming
that I am but a man.

I'm a man, still, dreaming...
I am the rising sun.

I am undone.

Soon,
morning should come dancing
into my eyes
like wings that know the ocean's
pulse so well
they dance it's samba, knowing
she's always there
waving to me on the end of the pier
welcoming me
with all of her 'is'
giving me her 'am'
promising me with
all her her "will be"
through a smile sized doorway,
washing away everything
that is not her peace,
her love that lies waiting.

Until then I am still dreaming
of the holy glow I knew by touch,
her halo following me to the horizon
to star's end
and beyond...

But until then,
I remain undone.

Holy Roller

God hands me the dice...

He says:
"Lucky sevens, Holy Elevens,"
righteous echoes playing havoc
in the houses of the holy.

Looks like Einstein was wrong...

(Einstein said of the universe
in regards to chance occurrence
"god does not play dice")

I throw His forbidden bones,
praying they aren't loaded....

"snake eyes again," He says.

Wasn't fate supposed to be
what we make of it?

But as of now,
I owe the Big Guy
a penny and a pound.

So I look Him in the eye:
"Double or nothin--you know
I'm a man of my word"

And for one last wild cast,
the bones tumble down, around
for destiny, for a soul--
for one more lucky number
that I know is meant to be.

Chapter Seven: Herstory

She tells you her story,
beyond the bounty
of sun-bleached pages
the words are warm
the heart is hot,
blood and gasoline
or burning martinis
gulfstream sunrise
fires glowing

so she begins...
chapter seven,
the one chapter
unbroken
unchained
unclaimed
unnamed...

unfinished...

the number says it all;
if you're very, very lucky
she'll lend you the other
six little digits
and the rest will be
history; herstory—

Unfolding a page at a time
no broken bones
no chicken shit,
only eyes to see the sunrise
and the purple sky change
to blue...matching her eyes
word for word
for gleam and hue
and it's not an illusion
or a cheap collection
of pawn shop lines
collecting dust—

It's chapter seven;
her lips say it all.

Waiting By The River... A Gift I Never Knew

Gotta love beautiful art.

I just recently received this gorgeous lady, named Justgivemepiece, with her all-mysteries-and-maybes-laid-bare baby eyes in the mail from my friend, Singleton, in trade for some vintage Levis destined to become cut-offs, a Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble CD (In Step), a very used paperback copy of All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers, by Larry McMurtry, and one poem, hand-written on the back of a photocopy of another poem "The Darkness On Your Lantern" by... um... well, I forget who wrote it, it didn't say on the page, but my old creative writing prof knows. I'll ask her one day.

Not bad, considering she gets very good sums of money for all of these unique, hand-drawn and painted art pieces. It's outsider art. You should see her non-outsider art pieces. Holy frijoles, are they ever life-like.

So, I present to you another collaboration, one written about a month and a half back. Hope you all enjoy it.

Peace out, y'all.

Waiting By The River... A Gift I Never Knew
Singleton, SLB, E1313


Winstons are dry--when you light one up you know that the desert must taste like this too, when it's burning in the summertime blaze. They taste like August heat, raspy like barroom smoke, and the smoke circles are blue like false lightning flaring under glass, which should scare me, but they dance like perfect ghost donuts, like pale blue dragonflies hovering over the river, and so they don't...

The smoke circles
rise with no wind,
their shape twisting
into figure eights
and wisp-thin ovals;
portholes and gates
that lead to another
universe.

Perfect bracelets
for the wind
to offer as a gift
to a lover dear enough
to be blessed by
their other worldly touch....

always doing figure eights,
even in my sleep, figure eights,
the perfect bracelet...a gift,
I never knew...

Only dreamt of...

The river rocks and dragonflies...
Everything around me
zinging with life's dance,
but we are not alive
or dead--
we are only here,
in a now world,
saying final hellos,
mouthing fledging goodbyes...

There was no breeze at the river today.

None at all.

The dragonflies were above,
darting through the hazy hoops,
the lazy eights drifting on nothing
hanging in air, perfect blue bracelets,
gateways to another world
beyond golden sky.

I light up once more,
wading in waters,
tasting the desert
in full-bloom heat.

A smoke circle rose
in quiet still-life,
drifting perfection.

The entire world was hushed;
everything hung in the air;

Waiting...

Draconian Smile

Your smile is—
a jagged panorama,
as the dragon's grin;
wings
on the night wind
blotting out the stars
with fantasy ink
before gliding on.

Only
you are real;
unlike the world
in the mirror
of broken truths
and deceits.

You probably won't
demand a virgin
for dinner.

Truly
you are kind;
not dragonkind
not scaled
not armed
with hell's heart
or black magicks.

Not sleeping on
the gold of dead men;
but a faerie
and a shaman
of spirit children.

Only sometimes
does the fire
make me think
otherwise.

Drinking Nostalgia

Clink!
to the memories past,
as they transform
from long lost love,
into the symbols
dotting each page
with emotional blood.

Clink!
to the memories
twisting
into pictures
in mind,
in heart--
as easily as I
empty this glass
I fill it again
for want of one more
beautiful thought,
and goodnight!

Clink!
in loving memory
of our old language
of nuances and sighs,
memories turned
into hieroglyphs
that only a similar
heart's rosseta stone
can ever hope
to decipher.

Clink!
in loving memory,
burning and fading
fast with the night;
Homer once said
"no poem of great
import was ever
written by a
water drinker"

Clink!
to Homer
and the Greek epic
Clink!
to Virgil's
Roman hangover
Clink!
Ovid! My man!
long lost loves...

meta
morph-o
sis

to change,
Clink!

Many-Splendored Drips of Paint

Drips of paint applied liberally
in skeins of mosaic twilight,
like the stars peeking out
at the last ray of the sun.

They smirk their bright pinpoint
five-billion-year-old cosmic grin,
"I told you so..."

You light a smoke
salute them in one finger fashion
they laugh and cry and make stories
from the chaos and insanity,
drips of paint like stardust thrown
to the winds hope springs eternal
through the motions of the ritual.

You laugh and they match you--
four billion years ago they did,
just now catching up,
and you capture their essence
in smatterfied psychedellic freckles,
stars looming in an otherwise
once more brown-eyed sky
falling in love with you...

That's nothing new...
...like nothing under the sun.

But drips of paint
flying higher than god to rest
where you tell them to--
most of the time they listen,
and you listen too,
loving their every hint
and allegation
each twinkle
billions of years in the making.

God
could've used a few good women...
or one chain-smokin' hippie.

But he loafed on the job
for a few billion years;
thought ribs into ladies worked,
when all he needed was under
the apple tree slithering to victory
and a separate piece of the pie.

So ...

Now it's make believe
and catch-up time,
all in one galaxy made from
drips of paint shimmering
like the most heavenly of jewels
making many a splendored night
exactly what you say it is.

Another Dance, Darkside Princess?

Eyes sheilded from the
lucid fire shrappnel
of solitaires waltzing--
flesh and blood and the
demands they make on
humanity's
bare foot children
come home to lie down
on a killing floor of lights.

Together on this endless
ocean of escape
of primal music
rhythms and drums beating
that drive body and soul
over the edge
of the known world
between the presses.

music that screams ecstasy,
that sometimes moans
in haunting despair
music to slide across
the blacklight lit
silhouette we've called love
for lack of a better word.

Music that hangs in the air
her perfume
or his confidence
like rumors
wrapped together
around soft silver tongues
and the frantically sought
warm places between them.

Music we can all dance to,
even separated by oceans--

Love's own
theory of everything--

Maybe
our love will be famous
as the mashed tator
as the twist...

The dreaded boogaloo

The Bee Gee's Lament
or other such discotheque
killing floor mating ritual--
something to remind us
we aren't solitaires
together.

Philosophy on the Rocks

Stone-faced and blue
a midnight philosopher
sits facing the wind
stars winking on
for their turn
at the wheel

Still

he knows not "why"?
or "how"?

and change is timeless
cold and ceaseless
but welcomes all into
it's flight
even one too numb and brittle
from the long cold clutch of hours
to come in out of the biting wind
while Love's arms
are open one last time

so the philosopher of stone
sits
thinking
a million maybes
"why?"
when he could've been thinking
"how?"
and did neither

his finest hour unheralded

but upon him
like a smothering blanket

the wind his companion

still