The Simplest of Needs

Having needs swelling within
is not a disgrace or shame
it is how we choose to deal with same
that either gives the Lord glory
or dishonors his name.

Many are the verses that speak
of one's burning ache,
which the Lord surely didn't forget
when he made us
never expecting of our passions
to truly forsake.

There is sin in the corruption of his will,
seeking pleasure just as lust,
but when it comes from love he grants,
two hearts united in his eyes,
what is shared is meant to be.

Satan's fiery darts burn to see us reach out
in evil ways for some way to quench them,
God's spirit dresses us in the fire of his light
glowing instead of burning
from torch of faith.

From the very beginning when God created Adam and Eve,
we are told they were to be one,
to balance each other, intensely, so intimately
and completely with a joy beyond words.

It is our essence, the pure blend of body, mind and soul
which only happens with a union as the Lord intends.
That is longing, which reaches deep inside of us,
gnaws at us and will not be denied and wasn't intended to be ignored.
Not fulfilled by an affair or lust as Satan would whisper,
for they only satisfy on one temporary level
leaving us feeling hollow afterwards.
We need the harmony the comes from intimacy and passion,
never denied, always accepted
letting God's spirit lead us by love
to a union that lasts as long as the sun.

Merely Imaginary

Clouds enshroud my dreams
when I reach with astral arms beyond the gates of tomorrow
seeking to touch in intense, euphoric seconds
all the starburst murals coming in the middle of the night
taking me on a golden celestial carousel
so arousing my soul
passing through a mesmerizing cosmic prism
speaking to me in their strange alien tones
vibrating deeply into the recesses of my conscious.

Even though pillows of doubts
attempt to smother
all the mystical serenades,
I can still hear the serenade by a starry choir
singing a symphony flaring in rainbow lights
which I drink in waves of awe.

Hastily, I scribble the messages
carved by their quaking quill of speaking
telling the universe's secrets,
lift the veil to the vast unknown.

By morning I rise to greet a simpler realm,
wondering
after my flight into the dazzling darkness,
if all I truly see each day
is something
merely imaginary

Soapy

Awash with the bubbling froth
in fantasy's foam,
my life lived in the fleeting transparent circles
rising as illusions
turned reality.

Each facet of my existence
perfectly preserved
within a small air wisp of lie,
till it was all the world thought
precious and gold.

Constantly having to add more of deception's
detergent to clean away
my skin's deepest stains which scar my soul,
didn't really work,
but ah, the delicate masks
of flawless, bubble expression
they surely inspired.

Alas, a wind from circumstance's storm
brought a pinprick to my game.
No soap afterwards to cleanse
the vile and evil mar inside my life,
all the bursts to my fabrication,
floating in my self-pity bath
guilt's water never other than cold.

My Life Blood Resolution

I shall conquer the day
with all my juices flowing,
my heart on fire
and head alive with intensity.

I shall rise above my failures
live my dreams,
become the reality
that is in my fantasies.

Then the alarm clock sounds,
its buzz hits to the core,
my energy takes a nose dive
making me listless and barely functioning,
tomorrow again is always the perfect time
for becoming what today's body
says is on vacation!

Perhaps

It is that rarest of times
when you have drawn a curtain
across your mind
veiling it from ogres and screams
worries about today,
stopped playing darts with dreams.

Stopping in the purest of hushes
till every sense is razor thin
in anticipation,
inhaling a mesmerizing natural elegance,
swallowing the tangential potion
deep into the veins.

Light erupts in a plume of brilliance
each color paints its own tale
upon the soul.

You are awake with more intensity
than ever imagined,
whatever kill your mood
before
is a ghost.

But it is the song written
upon the heart
which truly touches the most.

New notes of joy
cast out the ones of lament.

Eyes grow a vision to see
beyond the sticker patches of worry,
uttering in new faith
one simple word of reborn faith,
perhaps.

In the veins

Images of utopias
having castles written with one's name,
fuel the plasma of desire,
secretly inspiring to reach beyond where the arms ache,
walking when the legs burn
ignoring chants of quit
from the corpses who died, but still breathe,
languishing on the grim reaper's waiting list
waiting for him to call their number.

It is breath that never quits
runs in times when others crawl,
refuses to accept excuses
for chasing rainbows and dreams.

Finding peace not in quitting,
but never giving up,
deriving joy from the pure ecstasy of facing a test
no matter the risk or results.

Coming to the mattress of conscience
sleeping peacefully without guilt
from knowing the heart didn't faint
even if life never saw what flows
in the veins.

Alien

Eyes so sunken and hollow
giving a creepy feeling,
like they belonged to a predator studying their prey.

Images seen every day among the social labyrinths
where the heart follows ancient footsteps,
singing show tunes to oneself,
whistling mindless affections
in hopes of avoiding the nagging question,
why am I even here?

We look into the faces and masks,
expecting to see another victim or villain.

Never thinking they are other
than a heart with emotions and brain with plotting desires.

But what if they are more, being transitory lives of pure light,
watching us out of curiosity
waiting to guide us to some higher plain?

Then there are times one sees
the panorama of abuse and violence,
wondering if perhaps it they are truly the humans with souls
while we are the ones born and clothed in flesh,
waiting till our stitches of value to mature
before they decide to add a soul
to our costume?

The Cellar

It was Tuesday and I was tied by ribbons
held hostage by a maniac dressed in white,
we screamed love songs and commercial jingles
then fell into a cellar of pure darkness
while learning to swim in stagnation
so we could explain to those drowning
why we feel asleep
when they screamed for help.

Definitely

Acid letters carved
in viperous fixation,
microscope with miniscule
myopic minutiae meanderings.

Stabbing another's quill
with condescending pedantic phlegm
coagulating in anal retentive
arrogance
using a dictionary
to rip open your heart.

Spelling tyrants,
so inventive in their unparalleled genius
rewriting Websters
so "allowed"
is "aloud"
and definitely
becomes
"definately."

Mime In A Bottle

If I could save a mime in a bottle
I stick him in there until he turned blue
then make fun of him every way
until he was insane or turned gray
just to blame it all on you!

If I could make his sanity finally severe
if his cries became as thick as glue
I would treat them as gold, then
just to blame it all on you!

But there never seems to a isolated mime
to do all the crazy things I want to do
once I find him
I’ll check around to know
that’s he’s the one who has to go
through this misery rift

If I had an extra large box of dishes
and cream cakes with frosting like dew
the box would be empty
except for some leftover cutlery
over how I gave that mime his do!

But there never seems to a isolated mime
to do all the crazy things I want to do
once I find him
I’ll check around to know
that’s he’s the one who has to go
through this misery rift


(parody based on Jim Croce's Time In a bottle)

Playing Innocent

Feigning
amnesia
over car keys,
until mother
remembers
park trip.

Painful Pink Cheers

I thought the brew of pink champagne
would make me feel in the pink with a high kick joy,
never before had I felt my skin's pink tones
become such a pink disaster in flush,
as when I saw those pink elephants appear
taking bows with their pink behinds facing me.

Then they took pink paddles in a dark, dirty pink shades,
spanking each other till their pink bottoms
were even a brighter hue of pink.

A cocktail waitress dressed in pink
with several pink bows in her hair,
was chewing pink bubblegum and wearing a pink carnation,
when she came to give me another glass of my pink nectar.

The world reduced in my pink intoxication to hazy dementia,
which refused to sent the pink pachyderms packing,
till I passed with my eyes still blurred
from all the pink hues coloring my sanity.

Reviving long enough to be put into a cab with pink rims,
where the lady driver wore pink lipstick,
mercifully handing me a bottle of pink Pepto Bismal from seeing my queasiness
that I drank till the pink remedy returned the pink to my face.

Drops

A drop is never seen as vividly
as it is felt when it strikes one's skin,
utterly soaking our complete attention,
awash with the clarity of focus to a second
where all history stops in our mind to drink a single gaze.

The brain immerses in the swirls of ticks
time's portrait cascades across our soul,
we submerse ourselves in its refreshment
letting it seep so intoxicatingly into our being,
like a steady rainfall
one experiences without an umbrella
willingly drenched to allow it to be apart of our history's current.

One splash speaks to us like life's stop watch,
reminders of its fleeting, vaporous entity,
drinking so fully into our thoughts,
knowing how eons pour across the centuries,
flooding with the erosion of consciousness
before we embrace the effervescence of transition.

Inside, the pelting dew of rain's lucid pearls
throbs our waking in beads of moist remembrance.
Clock of the soul sees it clearly,
hour's portrait masks the crystal calm of pure fluidity.

We come to see how water always exists just as day,
but transcending the present like our reality
being the perfect face to express the flow in ages.

Mmmmm

Words exquisite fail the mind
mouth inhaling such a breath
of icy sweetness.

A single button of paradise
pleases the palate
till life seems
less harsh and bland.

After dinner,
between the perils of noon
and dusk,
revived by is fleeting chill,
one momentary pleasure
neither law nor God
forbids.

Small precious metal coffins
hold their magic
for the prefect time of whims.

Calories not a shrieking ghost
unto the conscience
when one's fount of happy
flows behind the lips
savoring a slice of ambrosia,
sunshine running down the throat.

Seasons

Winter
Snow
consumes
heart and land
mind drinks sun's rays
dreaming of summer's breath upon the skin
praying for thaw
drinking tea
heating
body.

Spring
Earth
explodes
in colors
reviving soul
nature stirs its enchantment's vibrant hues
hope is reborn
preparing
feasts of
light.

Summer
Heat
swelters
ambitions,
desires strip nude
endless sunshine makes one feel immortal
tan skin trophies
are one's pride
sweating
smiles


Fall
Pulse
retires
from frenzy
thinking calmer
welcoming slower races to sundowns
savoring festive
harvest times
and their
spells.

Identity

Icon arousal shutters
from desire's wind.

Quivers having lips
licking their phantom lovers
against the conscience's membrane.

Gasps and prayers uttered in synchronized ecstasy,
pleasure groping insides
as trophy stuffed behind clouds.

Playing Russian roulette solitaire
with the fire inside,
Madonna solidity lures with its wings,
but heart shakes from ache
melts one's grasp for heaven.

Marrow Smorgasbords

Jackal tailors hiding prevarication's cookbooks
underneath whitewashed bibs shaped as tour guide badges,
lurk in commercialism's liberty torched fashion stores.

Fanged deceptions clothed in Cheshire assurance.
seduced patrons escorted to promise's snack bar
butcher knife fabrications fatally wound trust,
their quintessence gnawed till identity mutilated.

Succulent

Vernal droplets oozing pink and alabaster,
hang as beads of nature's silky necklace
wrapping the soul in life's silent effigies,
paradise plumes perfume in precious floral incense,
heart feels rhythmic floral symphony throb its elation
petals pour forth sweet streams of serenity's tangential hues,
bathing the soul in the calming immersion of pulsating melody,
until what drips from one's mind and into other's esteem palates
flows from a bottomless cistern of love
finding beauty in any withered blossom.

Apostrophe

Curling cue greed with plotting tentacles
write in serpentine claims of ownership
over each layer of identity,
from the red tape citadels
sucking dry all of passion's juices.

Insides decay like a melting clump of snow,
ever so slowly,
mind never noticing
that erosion in sensations,
till one day you just don't care anymore,
emotions turning leathery,
eyes blur
towards any demon, succubus,
saint or angel.

Image of RSVP invite left on doorstep
by embalmer party animal,
life becomes an anesthetic cocoon
while fantasizing how the jingle,
"I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner"
was one's reputation.

Thawing

Morning's passions
carving dreams
in frigid white.

Sub zero fingers
trim wonderland's
artistry moments.

Shivering victory ecstasy
celebrated next to fireplace
with hot chocolate trophy.

They

I know they are everywhere,
lurking in my television set, DVD player,
hiding in my closet and microwave,
even inside my oatmeal.

Faceless demons of the shadowy powers
who are plotting to steal the world's supply of chewing gum
being so diabolical they can appear in any shape imaginable.

But they can't fool someone as brilliant as me.
How often I have taken the time for unmasking their disguises,
abducting each of their minions
parading around as a delivery man or other form,
taking them to some secret lair
where I force them to tell all their secrets.

So clever are the ones I capture, begging for mercy,
always claiming they are not part of the they,
however I know better.

It is a noble call, purging deceived of their delusions,
grateful am I to let them rest forever,
having granted them peace inside that box I buried
while they screamed out of joy when I nailed the lid shut.

Too bad so many doctors are part of the they too,
daring to give me drugs and say I am imagining the truth,
at least till I fit them for a box.

Cleaving Shadows

Ebbing spirit's light
fractures as fading star
twin hearts feeling throbbing talons,
which clawed defiantly at day
now shorn and withered
feebly able to still pierce the pulse.

Tourniquet dialogues,
despair soliloquy in dismay
failed coagulation
for hemorrhaged of parting caress.

Eyes entwined
in decade's nuptial embrace
slowly bid their requiem adieu,
fingers once laced
fall in muted, longing's ache
across the distance of a heartbeat.

Cleaving shadows
cherished
as veil of private flashback embers
spent in silent soothing vigil
for satin sheet sonnets.

Quivering terminal lips bequeath
love's legacy,
tearful will written with heart's farewell
before breath flows to sky
and heirs left memories as good-bye.

Whispers

Dusk paints the richest hues,
park's bench now vacant
as any eye might see.

But angel sits and smiles
still remembering the whispers
a mother made about the times
she came here with her child.

Woman left,
teardrops stains still fresh upon the ground,
thinking about her child now in heaven.

Unaware how a winged offspring
had sat by her and heard every word.

Passing Go

Light shines through between the bars,
cell is cramped, fighting the fiery tugs of claustrophobia,
a thousand tales my mind does pen
in hopes of erasing memory's ink.

Sitting with a number stenciled on my prison uniform shirt
feeling it such a shameful descent in glory
from the pinnacle where once I stood like a god,
wearing my crown of monopoly dreams,
intoxicated in my lust of fiscal gluttony.

Playing life and souls as a game
striving to have it all,
people being just poker chips
one could gamble away
on my ante to win the pot of gold.

But my passion for capturing
every deed of hearts and land
turned to blindness
about the rules
one is forced to obey.

Smiling in cavalier confidence,
when indicted for my antics in darkness,
so sure my vault of lucre
could buy me freedom
and another trip
around the grid of greed.

Finding out too late
that "do not pass go"
was not just a card to be ignored.

His Rapture of Rigor Mortis

His macabre mental messages of mortality’s mayhem
can’t wait to be sent only when one sleeps,
for the caustic cerebral collage he causes
inspires crippling cranial consequences
through his poignant panoply of phenomena
possessed of every from in fear’s phantoms,
just conjured for the sake
of pleasuring his melancholy persuasions.

Into the night he’ll lure so many minds
to whisper the specters of phobias and serpents of terror
who slither inside the veins to steal any peace,
left so shaken by those visions
that even when fatal fate is still decades away
within the crippling anxiety covers the heart with panic.

It’s all the subtle black charms of his dark passions
used to shudder those in tranquil times
so they see and imagine their demise,
shudder from his wicked thrill of creating morbid thoughts
and long before the coffin lid closes
some part of each life is spent
gets dipped in death’s ashen oil of hellish dreams,
because he sucks on those tremors to the nerves
like a nectar to appease his thirst for knowing
no one passes through this life
without some visit from his fingers
who massage into the marrow the worry of passing.

This is all just a foretaste of future meets
where he delights in each time
the vipers of his bedeviling caress
bewitch in sadistic wiles to summon a scream.

What he celebrates is the past time of painting
another layer of fret on every life he can molest
as his prelude to greeting them after the last breath
when he savors the rapture of rigor mortis.

The Leafs Of Pride And Shame

I enjoy reading of history’s true dramas
where the author captures the facts
of some actual life or event
and reveals the truth in all its raw reality.

To scan those leaves and fathom their honesty
see those lives as they were lives
with all their mistakes and courage
every detail shared unvarnished by fiction
is to get in touch with the nature of being human
how the frailties and strength carry consequences.

We are bonded to those behaviors
etched oh the scroll of time,
it is where we find ourselves among the choices,
learn how easily life can be so fragile
the countless ways things can change
so what is invincible is conquered
or what seems easily defeated
surprisingly ends up a victor.

This is a part of the human spirit
only this is no fairy tale or fantasy,
instead it can inspire hope
as well as caution about the dangers
from arrogant assumptions.

For it conveys how the impossible happens,
dreams can truly outlast circumstance,
which helps to give our own lives
an added dimension of encouragement.

Outside the Tent

Nomad pariah couching before
sewage stains of feigned refuge's acceptance,
flung upon cross of dominance
lamb's coat worn as sacrifice
to asphalt gods.

Bearing the scars
of wind's questions
home a domicile mirage
written in taboo dialect.

Phantoms of the concrete
invisible to the conscience,
learning reliance
enforced by plots and thorns,
suffering until the wounds
are dried through footsteps,
finding pastures in the alleyways,
where transient tales
lend a song of mortal essence,
poster propaganda ideology with noble hues
a paper thin clarity,
felt in the waking strides
outside the tent.

The Next Exit

This is Los Angeles you know,
miles of asphalt rivers all snarled and jammed,
don't you worry lived here all my life,
I can tell you how to get to the nearest Arco AM/PM
for that sixty-four ounce refill using your ATM card,
understand being out of town how you are trying to save a buck.

Why there is one at the next exit,
no wait, forgot that is closed,
under construction, tax dollars at work.

So best go to the one after that,
on second thought, forget that one too,
it will only take you to that mall,
which shut down last year, economy sucks, what can I say?

Hmmm, now don't give me that look,
honest, I will get you there.
Oh wait, I just remember there is a closer one,
go back on freeway the other direction,
yeah, I'm sure there is an ARCO
if you turn to the left or um, go north,
about four blocks or is it six?
Anyway, it is there, nice one too, darn, sorry about that,
just remembered it isn't open, remodeling as I recall.

Ah, now I got it, just keep going straight,
seem to recall some ARCO sign somewhere up there,
all these places kind of blur in my head after a while,
guess that is why I never left,
couldn't find the sign to freeway heading up north,
just got stuck unable to decide if it was suppose to be
ten, fifteen or whatever for the freeway number.

But trust me, just keep going ahead,
then when you're done how about coming back to give me a ride,
need to get home, can't remember where I parked my car,
think I live not too far from here,
no problem we can figure it out, when you get back
and bring me a drink too if you don't mind
hey, you want directions to Disneyland,
never made it there, heard it is couple exits away, sort of.

You are here!

We read the words
upon the directory's map,
so redundant, so presuming of our stupidity,
but the epitome of public expressions
about the quintessence nature of social simplicity.

For how could you read the sign
without actually being there?

A creation in haste, undemanding of logic
sired to appease some instantaneous urgency,
cavorting with the mind's transient distraction,
served at a level of simian clarity.

Not telling us the reason for this place's purpose
who might have founded it
nor how it will touch our lives beyond a blink.

All summarized so efficiently predictable
in the label declaring that seconds of distraction
are horded lumps of impulse ticks
never inspiring deeper questions about time's tale,
otherwise written upon the heart or soul.

How oft we are satisfied
with those three little words, never wanting more,
than an appetizer to satisfy the moment,
instead of a profound buffet
that might last long
into the night of one's reality.

The Produce Stand

We stopped by this produce stand
to look for bargains on fruit,
it was an old building
that had been there for years.

While we were checking apples
this man appeared dressed in a ratty gray robe,
he started screaming about the end of the world,
how melons were demon possessed.

The cashier had to call the cops
as the man got more insane with each second,
they finally came and hauled him away,
we bought some pears and bananas,
but just couldn’t get inspired to buy melons.