Sweet Ass Candy

I'm sitting on a pocket full of Starbursts, making sweet ass candy.

Remembering nights of love like warm chocolate

Memories of your flavors mixed with mine

Warm chewy mouthfuls of my fiery muse.

Mother's Haiku

I stop shaving for
My wife, my mother's face now
Hidden by my beard.

Holiday Spirit

Alone again for
Christmas and New Years Eve
Are We ... getting .. drunk?

Nubian Mother

Oh Africa’s child, gleaming smile

Rich darkness of mother Earth

Glows like a Nubian moon in

Littered sky, stars sparkling

From lustful eyes and wild hips

That bore the race of man

Which loses sight too easily!

Raise up this goddess

The mother of all

So potentates are forced

To bended knee that they may

Beg forgiveness for

Graceless designs and hapless deeds

Supplicate before your true God

Not man but woman who

Bears the chattel of your sins. 

You are my Grace, I am your Monster

I remember the day when your mother told me she was pregnant

They were difficult times meshed with moments of joy

We had just celebrated our one year anniversary

Sean was just ten months old

And I knew you would be a girl as I knew your brother was going to be a boy

I dreamt of you, your hair color, your name, your destiny

And I cherished every thought of you until you were born

The dream came in your guise, I was there

When they tore you from your mother, a handful of ginger plump

Soft downy red, light hazel eyes and a soft mew of a cry

I loved you even more.

Yet you came into a world of upheaval, loss,

Anger, frustration over life and I got to hold you

You comforted me and made me whole, I was your father

And you were my cherished ginger princess

Yet my world was cruel and it created a cruel man

You grew to watch me strike out at your mother

And my booming anger damaged your gentle heart

Each angry word, each heated moment burnt a mark

Upon your kind soul

Until at seven you could no longer bear it

You found your voice, my anger returned to me

You screamed “I hate you”, I knew it and it destroyed me.

Across from Fremont Park

Sitting across from Fremont Park in the Sun & Soul, the taste of a Jamie Garcia special reserve cigar marching through my mouth like fire ant hordes, I await eagerly for a French press of Kenyan Nyeri so that the equally stout flavors can compete for attentions of my taste buds as my mind fashions a Nicaraguan wet dream. My taste buds transports me to a large patio of a 19^th century Central American plantation house close to the edge of an equatorial rain forest, overlooking vast tobacco fields swamped with the fruits of a midday rain. Sweating like a field hand, I sip a frozen Macuá while I blaze a fresh made cigar of perfectly aged leaf tobacco rolled by the hands of artisans, its Capa soft and supple to the touch; its scent spicy and oscuro coloring bespeaking its robust essence. The flavors swim and mix in my mouth, simmering like nature’s soup.

My afternoon demitasse is delivered by a cute barista in gray, wearing black net stockings with a fantastical pattern, engaging as her bright smile. Her aura sparkles of gold and turquoise and I desire to wear her like a favored piece of jewelry. The earthen colored mug she delivers looks deceptively cool, like wet clay in an artist’s hands, but my burnt lips reveals the true nature of its contents, a brew searing like volcanic mud. But the aroma, oh that delicious perfume, of roasted tree fruit, screams out to my olfactories, forcing me to tempt fate again, at least until my lips and tongue can withstand the punishment; piping hot pleasing pain.

Across the street in the park, dressed in a skimpy black something, a transgender woman (I can only tell because she had not tucked her package securely between her skinny thighs) works methodically with a large stroller full of her world. Every one of her possessions neatly folded and packed in its place, bungied tightly to avoid any loss, she looks up to see me gazing in her direction, “Have you been watching me this whole time?” Though I wasn’t, I admit to no less. “How did I do?” I exclaim my envy at her methodical touch and efficiency, admitting to my own failings and my desire of her skills. The smile on her face speaks volumes of her pride and the positive recognition ads a joyous lilt to her walk as she makes her way to the other side of the park in black stiletto heels.

She passes several people, two-legged and four-legged alike, some sleeping while others play fervent games of fetch with ragged green balls; all are sweating profusely. Only the slight breeze from speeding traffic made notable by the waving branches of youthful trees breaks the dead calm on 16^th street.

Two brown ladies break into the picture window of my thoughts, sitting on the near empty patio directly in front of me, as if to purposefully take my attention away from the performance across the street. Shinny pearls for teeth, a sharp contrast to the delicious cocoa flavor of their fleshy wrap. Sipping lattes and chatting over incidentals, occasionally they glimpse in my direction to gauge my attentiveness; their feminine egos stroked like the back of a silky black kitten. I imagine myself getting lost in their dark forever eyes, luxurious as a midnight swim on a tropical beach.

The cheerful scream of a child at the apex of their grounded flight pulls me away for a moment; the playground abounds with joyful minions, each seeking to reach that invisible point in their pendulous arc that will forever make them the bold adventurer. The coffee has reached its apex as well, its piquancy close to perfection.

Glancing down towards my technological fetters, my eyes catch the perfectly proportioned toes of Latina numero uno, painted cherry red like candy Red Hots, the fantasize that they might taste the same invades my brain. My eyes wander her sumptuousness, soaking in every nuance of her body, the lay of her red dress across her curves, the near perfection of her calves and thighs, the amplitude of her peaks, the supple lobes of her ears, eyes that smile without wrinkles and her dark hair shining in the noon sun like the wings of a Raven in flight. She catches me but I don’t look away, instead I stare into her eyes more intently as if to say “I can see your thoughts and hear your soul” then grin proudly and return to my coffee which has reached the perfect pitch.

Looking up through my eye lashes, I can see she has returned to her tête-à-tête, the lilt in her voice telling of her satisfaction with her effect on me, one more mollified customer.

The image of me softly kissing her red painted toes and sucking the cinnamon flavor from her Red Hots invades my aboriginal soul, epodic measures stream in my mind as I strive to find the idyllic connotations that will lead her to my Pantheon of lust, where I will attend her in a licentious Eucharist and hear her cry my name in heavenly release, giving the angels something more to be jealous of.

The last measure of my drink is tepid and lush with the matter of the fruit whence it came. Grit fills my mouth, passion fills my jeans and sounds of joy fill my ears like rushing waves, whilst my eyes glaze over

Across from Fremont Park.

Haiku #11

Brown dry grass
Soaking in the rain
Fall breeze stings

#NationalCoffeeDay 2015

Blackened fruit,

Hard like life,

Earthen fragrance

Sun sourced vigor

Smashed into thousands fragments

Your energy is never lost

"Oh mighty fruit, release thine vitality unto me!

That I might conquer nature’s lethargy”

Life released by liquid heat, searing the fog from our eyes

Yet we still fail to see the nature of your harvest

Dark hands, hard and cracked like a water starved lake bed,

Picks your energy burdened fruit so that

Lite soft smooth ones may count their riches



There is no equality in a world burdened by gold

Nepal

Earth breaks, mountains fall
Spring snow sweeps a man away
Does your Buddha weep?

Breakfast

Happiness
is the pancake
drowning in syrup
smothered by the mouth
of a smiling
child

Poetry Is ...

Poetry is the perfection of thought, using words, which is never attained.
Poetry is the literary proclamation of experience, which no one else will ever quite understand.

#EatingOurselves

Some dangerous strains of ‪#‎Escherichia_coli‬ 

Are obtained from eating bovines 
Or hanging out in #Texas too long

Some strains of ‪#‎Salmonella‬ come from eating birds and reptiles 

‪#‎Ebola, however,‬ you get from eating other ‪#‎Primates‬ 

Or from hanging out in ‪#‎Texas‬ for too long.

‪#‎Chlamydia‬ ‪#‎Crabs‬ ‪#‎Scabies‬ ‪#‎Gonorrhea‬ ‪#‎Hepatitis_B‬ ‪#‎Herpes‬ ‪#‎HIV‬ ‪#‎HPV‬ ‪#‎Syphilis‬ 

Are diseases you can get from eating live humans 

Or from hanging out in #Texas too long.

Maybe we humans should be more careful with what we put in their mouths 

Or at least try not to hang out in #Texas for too long.

A Summer in Hammond

Six years in asphalt and stucco deserts,

Summer days that were little miracles

Wrought with small glorious adventures of

Puddle jumping in damp concrete channels,

These spawned green slime, tadpoles and you.

Greater adventures ensued the day

when your mother and grandfather reconciled

In the land painted green with ensemble trees

Where silt colored sod flavored rivers

Meets the chilled blue of salted ocean,

Here layed the memories of her first years.

Here ripe black fruit explodes from thick fierce brambles

Splashing your toddler belly with summer’s blood.

Briar scratched arms tattooed with natures wine

Race to fill your lustful little mouth with hordes

of swollen flesh  bursting with sweet tart juice,

the gleeful revelry in air amassed.

Upon the apple wood roasts pink orange fish

And calcium castles that pop to share

Wet grey flesh less their lucent stone,

One missing treasure that could make these days

Last til weeping ceases and joys abound.

Long tendrils of grey green moss wave ghostly

In weathered knotty pine boughs brushed

By salty ocean breezes mulled with fish,

Herald a starlit evening of chat,

As waves of reconciliation wash

Across the shore to sweep away the foot-

prints of familial schism and regret.