Saturday, August 19, 2017

They love me; they love me not


Good people don’t tear
Pedals from flowers for fun
This deep need to read
Our fortunes off the pain of others
Always puzzles me
This potency of poems
To evoke rage
When ordinary words don’t,
The power we breathe
Into what we create
Life out of nothing
We like gods
Shaping existence
Never before seen
As thunderous as a hurricane
Or as gentle as a leaf
We torturing all to squeeze
Life out of the lifeless
To make real out of unreal.
Good people do not do bad things
Without becoming bad,
Though sometimes bad people
Do good
In this insane existence
We must tread between
Conception and cremation
Each step filled with dread
We might cease to be the former
And fall into the latter,
This faulty concept of misconception,
Believing we are good
When we do bad,
Like Christian crusaders
Evoking Christ
In a crusade to seize trade
With the wealthy Far East,
We misconceive,
Get lost,
Misstep
Along this trail to nowhere
Turning back
To retrace our steps
Without the bread crumbs
To lead us to where
We once were,
To that place where
We first erred,
This our desperate attempt
To become good again
When the best we can ever manage
Is to do good despite being bad.


Friday, August 18, 2017

I breathe water





I breathe water and drown
Because I cannot stop myself
From breathing,
Even down this deep
Where only the blind fish swim,
Eyesight is not a virtue
Nor is standing
Since there is no solid ground,
We float in this sordid limbo
Arms stretched wide
Living not with hope of salvation,
Just survival,
One polluted breath at a time,
Wary of the abyss
And those things we cannot see,
Touching each sticky thing
Expecting to be stung,
I breathe water because

It is better than not breathing at all.

Killing off elections (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)




For once in their long history
Democrats have come up with a good idea
For saving tax payers money;
If you don’t like someone in office
To hell with an election,
Just kill them,
Burials or better cremations
Save a lot of cash
Wasted on campaigns,
And save candidates from the needless
Task of representing all the people
All of the time,
The only problem with all this
Is who do we kill first?

Save the statues for the pigeons (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)



Where is PETA when we need it most?
Why aren’t they protesting the removal?
Of Rebel statues from our parks?
Where are the pigeons going to roost?
Or better shit, when they don’t have
Jefferson Davis’s face to shit on?
Do the pigeons not have a right to shit?
On General Lee?
Or do they have to hold in it,
Waiting to find a statue of Lincoln
Or Grant or Sherman to shit on?

Turning ghettos into Gettysburg (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)



They shot another kid
In the hood today
While good people
With lynch ropes
Lynched another statue
In the park
Getting even with that
Dirty Johnny Reb
For what he did
So long ago
Because they are
Too hapless or hopeless
To halt the mass murders
They allow to go on
Day in and day out
Under their noses today
Good people with good hearts
Turning every ghetto
Into Gettysburg,
Only it’s really hard to tell
Just whose side they are on
As kids’ bodies piled up
And the statutes fall
Leaving them to take full
Credit for both.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Proud and Gray (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)



They take down our statues
Because they don’t like
The president we voted for,
Needing to punish us for being bad,
These know-it-alls Lincoln called
The Know-Nothings,
Whose grand schemes we spoiled
When we voted against them,
They pretending they are offended
By statues that have stood
For more than a hundred and fifty years,
Their feelings hurt suddenly
After all that time,
Spoiled brats kicking down
Other kids’ sand castles
Because they are too lazy,
Or stupid or selfish to build their own
Hating us because we still revere
Long dead heroes who could
Still hold up their heads
Even in defeat,
These brats throwing ropes
Over their necks
Because they can’t bear the idea
Of losing just one election
When we still stand defiant
After having lost everything
Proud and gray.


Wednesday, August 16, 2017

The real racists (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)



Don’t talk too loudly,
You must be a racist
The only people brave enough
To speak their minds
These days are racists,
Because they don’t care
What people call them,
The deluded do not
Know they are deluded
But always think
They are right
And so keep still
Or you might be called
A racist
Even when you’re not,
Preachers and politicians
Who ought to know better
Keep silent
Too fearful they might
Get scarred with a scarlet letter,
Not so obvious as the Nazi numbers
Yet indelible,
Once a racist always a racist
Or so the saying goes
With us or against us
There is no in-between,
No room for mild voices
Lost in the rail of radical rhetoric
In this civil war
That was not our civil war
But we get dragged down anyway
Like old soldiers’ statues
Because we refuse to stay silent
And speak out against racism
Nobody sees  as racism,
So those who would call it what it is
Stay silent, intimidated
By radicals that have no shame
Mirroring the Nazis they blame
Attacking anyone who would
Call them what they really are.

All the news that’s fit to print (from Confessions of a Racist)



They bleed us like pigs,
Ink dripping from their fingers
As they skew us with words
No poison letters,
Just vicious headlines
Corrupted over time,
And like zombies
They feed off our brains
Until we can’t think without them,
Inky fingers pulling strings
To make us react,
To inspire artificial outrage,
They are the perfect puppet master,
Proving how easily then can control us,
Ruling the world without obvious symbols,
They need no swastikas
To show us they are the master race,
Nor soviet sickle to slice away our history,
And yet, like an iron rod inside a silk sleeve
They violate us,
Stirring up the froth they have created
Inside our brains,
Telling us they give us all the news
That is fit to print,
And like the robots we have become
We believe them.


Making us racist (from Confessions of a Racist)



I do not feel the whip in my hand
Or the rub of rope
I never even imagined either,
Yet they tell me I must pay
For crimes I didn’t commit
On people I never met
Because those people
Have the same color skin as me,
They like me ache to make
Our own decisions,
Make our own mistakes
Good or bad; rich or poor,
Though most who died in that fight
Never owned a whip
Let alone a black back to use it on,
Fighting blue coats not to keep slavery
But to keep some arrogant know it all
From telling them how to live their lives
Telling them what is right and wrong
When they need to
Decide that for themselves,
Knowing that rich are the same
North or south, only the north rich
Learned to hide the whip better
And let other people swing the rope,
Or pay for some poor immigrant
To die in a war that was never meant
To free slaves but to make rich richer,
And now, all these years later
Some new know it all,
Deluded by some new rich guy
Tells us we have to pay the bill
Calling us racist for clinging
To those few shreds dignity
Carpet baggers didn’t get,
Pushing people into becoming racists
The way those know it alls
Pushed people into a war
Nobody wanted to wage,
Hating us then and now
For refusing to kowtow,
To feel shame,
To pine our lives away
For something we never did,
And most of our ancestors never did either,
Painting us into a corner
So that the only way to fight back
The only way to survive with dignity
Is to become what they say we are,
Which is probably what they wanted

All along.

Black lives don’t matter (from Confessions of a Racist)



Black lives don’t matter
No lives do
In this age where everything
Is disposable
Like diapers or razors
Mass produced education
Regurgitated through the hypocrisy
Of abortion clinics called health centers
Or the starvation of welfare checks
Capitalism democrats use to keep people poor,
Race set against race
By a rotten rich until we riot
And still point fingers at each other
As the filthy rich hide
Soros just another Koch Brother
Wearing batman wings as disguised
Just another wizard of oz
Hiding behind a curtain
As he manipulates the levers
That keep us all apart,
Keep us all deceived,
Telling us black lives matter
When only the voting booth does,
Selling us snake oil philosophies
About love which is really hate
About fairness that is unfair,
When all we are doing
Is pumping up their power,
Getting nothing for our investment
Except grief and pain,
Souls sold to his party of that
When they are all the same,
Walking over our backs
Like Egyptian pharaohs did,
All of us, still slaves
White or black or green or orange
Betraying ourselves
With unreal ideologies
that infect us with foolish notions
of justice
even they do not believe
telling us black lives matter
when no lives do,
once they are done with us.


Pickett's Charge (from Confessions of a Racist, a satire)



If you force me to pick a side
It won’t be your side I pick,
I won’t be part of any rat pack
Of bigots in black face
Deluded into waging a war
They have already won,
Tearing down every bit of history
The way Stalin did
Simply because it offends them
And in doing so, shape themselves
Into the very monsters  they
Perceive the rest of us to be
A mindless mob filled with questionable degrees
From institutions that teach them
How to hate; not think,
A mob that mistakenly deludes itself
Into thinking it has moral high ground
The way the Union Army did at Gettysburg,
Leaving the rest of us to pick a side
And live – as Faulkner claimed –
On the very edge of Pickett’s charge,
Knowing we can’t win against such rage,
Yet knowing we have to try.


Friday, August 11, 2017

Sea of love



Friday, August 11, 2017


We sway,
Sailing an invisible sea
Rocking each other
To keep from falling overboard,
Yet aching to drown,
To breathe this which is not water
Or air,
Sea brine I fill you up with
So we might both survive,
Potent as a witch’s brew,
An intoxicating broth
We shake up, and feel rise
Rushing into us
As we rock on this sea
That is not a sea
Living like sailors
Stranded in each other’s arms
Hip to hip
Lip to live
Drinking in each other
As we drift on this
Sea of love



Not too sweet



Friday, August 11, 2017


I taste honey
With each lingering tip of tongue
Sweet yet not too sweet
I ever lost my taste for it,
Always wanting more,
Needing to press the tip
Deep to collect it all,
A busy bee buzzing
delving to the core,
With you the perfect flower
Whose petals part
So I can reach the heart
Collecting nectar sweetest in the deeps
All of it flowing out of you
And into me,
I am forever drunk with it,
With you,
With the feel of you
All around me as I delve,
And a taste I know
I can get nowhere else,
A lingering sweetness
That is not too sweet.



The burning rope



Friday, August 11, 2017


The rope burns
Where you bind it,
Making me bristle and moan,
Your fingers tighten each knot
That tightens the knot inside me,
A ruthless mistress
Whose demands I must obey,
Each fiber of rope connecting
To some nerve in me,
Sparking fire,
Your fingers burning me
With even the least touch,
You securing me so I cannot move
Until I am bound up inside,
A prisoner of a will that is not my own,
My lungs gasping for breath
I can barely take
As I struggle against the burning rope
Constricting me inside.




Would you let me do you?



Friday, August 11, 2017

If I ask nice,
Would you let me do
All I imagine doing with you,
This heat I feel
With each scalding thought,
We in some fantasy landscape
Where anything goes,
Anything can happed
If you would only let me dream it
For both of us,
Each curve, each whisper
Each sweet breath sighed,
The heavy churn of breathing
As we press so close
We no longer know
Where one of us ends and other starts
And do not wish to know,
You letting me do all I want
Need to, free I must,
In and outside
All around,
If you want
I will.


That kiss I could not get



Friday, August 11, 2017


I sit in the window seat
And see your face reflected
In the glass next to mine,
Though you are not there,
Just a memory of a moment
When I could feel as well as see you,
The soft touch that lingers against me
Like the finger prints I leave on the glass,
Where my fingers went, and lip
Where my mind went,
Pushing through all imagined obstacles
To touch you in places
I cannot otherwise reach,
You, now, a reflection,
A feeling of touch on flesh
A kiss I want, but could not get,
Lingering over the thought of it
Aw we take this ride together,
Me and your reflection
Mile after precious mile


Slow motion explosion



Friday, August 11, 2017


If I touch you there
Will you explode,
Overfilled,
Waiting for my fingers
To bring you release,
Something exploding in me, too
My touch pulling a trigger
That sets us both off,
Leaving us shrouded in smoke
And shaded by the afterglow
The impact of it inside us
And outside,
Both of us gripping each other
To keep from being knocked down,
Pressing against and into each other
So we can feel every inch of it
Each subtle vibration
Of a slow motion explosion,
When I touch you there.


Leap into the deep



Friday, August 11, 2017



I dive into the deepest part of you,
Knowing I can’t swim,
Unable to hold my breath for long,
Needing to rise to the surface
Before I drown,
But can’t so that either,
Breathing in only you,
Filling my lungs and head
With all that is inside of you,
A desperate plunge from which
I already know there is no escape,
Know I do not want to escape,
Filling myself up to capacity
So I can do nothing in the end but explode,
Inside and outside,
Deep in the deepest part
Never willing or able

To come up for air

A taste



Friday, August 11, 2017


I take your fingers into my mouth
Go taste where you’ve been
And what you’ve touched,
The flavor of it lingering
Like a finger print,
On the tip of my tongue
Then swallowed whole
Digested and stirred up into my blood,
A drug, an elixir,
As intoxicating as wine
This taste, a tease,
For what I would want to do,
What I would like to taste next
What else I can take into my mouth
That will bring more of you into me,
My blood stream burning with its need,
once tasted
I am never the same



Stirring


Friday, August 11, 2017


I can’t help it
When it stirs inside of me
This movement, this rush of blood,
This light-headed loss of thought
Drunk when I’ve sipped no wine,
The air you breathe into me
The second you leaving lingering behind,
Me, unable to stop this shiver inside of me
This rush of blood,
This stirring of something I feel but can’t see,
Set free by you when you leave,
We coming all so very close, churned up
You gone before it can be complete,
A touch, a kiss, of words I miss,
This ache I feel,
Stirring


A gush of love



Friday, August 11, 2017


We see it in each other’s eyes
Close up, like a snap shot of the soul
We might miss at a distance,
Needing to rub on it the way we might a bottle
Hoping for the genie to pop out
And grant us three wishes,
When we already know,
one wish will do,
close up, rubbing it raw,
until the top pops and gushes
we surprised at the outcome,
at the feel of it
as we gaze, face to face,
magic, a free wish
a gush of love
never ending



Sipping our fill



Friday, August 11, 2017

We all ache for rain
after so many days of draught,
We needing to drink from a well
we already know has run dry,
To sip and taste something sweet
after so much bitterness,
Seeing the flow of it in each other’s eyes,
The drip, drip, drip of need
We do not see until we see it in the reflections
Close up, lip to lip, hip to hip,
Road rage roaring inside us
we cannot cure without
Engaging gears,
Needing for the rain to pour over us,
Drip off lips and hips
Until we have finally
Sipped out fill



Holy and hot



Friday, August 11, 2017


Hot sun, sweat rolls down my brow,
This movement we make,
Touches we give and take,
Lips kissed and kissed again,
In a fist we never meant to happen,
Yet like magic does,
Despite our claiming
We can stop it when it starts,
And skid out of control when we try,
Breathing deep as we delve
Into those deepest of places
We ache for, too scared to go
In the outdoor, out the in,
Around back and then again,
Each move making it easier t touch
Holy and hot,
Sun making us drip
As we sip the nectar of life