The Cunning Linguist

Sabbatical

Quit your corporate job
with all it’s hardness
and sales quotas.
Quit money,
grow your hair out
fully like sunshine
in summer months.
Twirl dark curls
against your fingertips.

Kick off your suede shoes,
loosen that thick knot;
your double windsor noose.
Samba with strangers
to old black lips
scattin blues and bebop,
before the oranges
in our sunset swallow the scene
giving way to purple.

And in the night,
as the Arab
smokes his cigarette
and the Rabbi
has his wine
Fling your textbooks
from the balconies,
And send your own odes,
shuffling in air after them
rain pages like revelation.

Send your own odes
rain pages like revelation,
like light chasing shadows away.

1 ♥

Greet with Dance the Song of Day

Greet with dance the song of day,
no pillowy wisp in sky askew.
The soft parade angel trumpets play.

Meet what brings it’s gradient may
in alternations of chaos and calm.
Greet with dance each song of day.

At all times, life itself is for you splayed;
a veil over the cold glare of death and space
A soft parade angel trumpets play.

In rain sent to drench the fires in our clay
or drought for scabs which in nostalgia rests,
Greet with dance each song of day.

Hold not to your joy, hold not your dismay,
every crash is settled in the Conductor’s score,
Play on, soft parade angel trumpets play.

Whether tip-toeing to the tune or in slinking away
or appointed your music, adding to our noise.
Greet with dance the song of day,
the soft parade angel’s trumpets play.

12 ♥

Inbox me your address

because I am making it a practice to write one letter my hand a day, and send them all out at the end of the week.

Who doesn’t like getting mail?

We probably have so much to discuss?

I can’t think of any other reasons why you should right now, but there are totally others.

5 ♥

Sting

Yea, it’s true. Some of my friends
or so-called friends are convert criminals.
Like that ludicrous bunch on Ludlow
who might have got canned for scrapping iron pipes
or snatched up when the fuzz got wise. When that girl
they would send out like a minion into night,
whose self esteem might be as high
as her skirt (If only she had gotten that degree)
turned up strangled, her Remy ripped
out and wrapped around her neck.
Her horse-hair choker.

The coroner and the deputy will defile her corpse,
will converse casually about her cunt,
call her “nigger girl who must have had it comin”,
all kinds of wretched chatter
about how her limbs
could’ve snapped clean
like those mystery meat chicken wings
from those chinese food stores in ghettos
We will retire after their shift is through,
with a beer for every hand of bridge,
each of which I will shuffle a grin.

2 ♥

Underage

I found the poison too early on,
in my mother’s medicine cabinet
hidden like pearl,
behind the cough syrup and sleeping pills
she would take to nurse black eyes.

Or on other nights,
chilled in the freezer box
tucked in between two red snappers
wrapped icily in brown paper,
by hands cold as her heart.

With it, staggering through those teen years
I maneuvered The Great American Aneurysm,
navigated the machine, treaded the littered street
locked in it’s pseudo-medicinal daze;
that mock concoction of spirit and mischief.

I waded that deep end of the psyche
that wails at pugatoried memories,
waving around a bottle of madness
too bitter to swallow straight faced
until one day recognized as wine.

And after, I came to know quite well
the etymology of a good drunkenness
and probably will never look at a medicine cabinet
or my mother again without needing
a stiff drinking, the way my Dad would
after washing his hands of blood.

41 ♥

A Visage in the Wild: A Franciscan Break-Up

argylejones:

Farewell, silvery distances of San Francisco.
San Francisco whose mountains push clouds into the corners of heaven.
Whose hypethral sky opens enough to house every dream reaching up and away from dystopia, for rain to diffuse the restless blood of man, thirsty for mercy.
Every daydream of…

9 ♥

Ersatz Rose

The swift decline that holds this day
shan’t rue this gift I bear in hand.
So fleet, this Earth, where nothing stays,
which holds our light in brittle hands.

I found for you this plastic rose
which lacks a soul or scent perfumed,
whose sanguine life shan’t wilt at close
nor fade in shades at dusk of bloom.

It may not glow with light divine
as wild red buds of love in spring,
yet freed the choke of canker vines
my rose will find its room to sing.

This never ending fantasy
in fated death, extends beyond,
in glistened praise or you and me,
fashioning this fragrant bond.

Though stale, ersatz, nor half as fine,
its love hold fast and true as mine.

46 ♥

A Visage in the Wild: The Hamadryades

argylejones:

The Hamadryades are naked and fine,
idling by to a brisk, majestic tune.
Harmonies in trees; eternal. Sublime
souls venturing bare in vine and bark tombs.

I pace forth, past sinful fault of flesh
to the illumined path, where the nymphs play and rest,
where finches flitter atop the hypethral…

6 ♥

Outside, I gazed upon you.

Outside, I gazed upon you

as real as a guarantee, how daintily aligned-

were your breeze, your doves, your trees.

You draped the backdrop with delicate debonair,

where so many other scenic tapestries

lean, lax, or just lie.

Our elbows rubbed.

and your warmth was as unto the sun,

mothering daffodils to life with a light

luminous as the yellows of daisies.

So, dizzy eyed, I dove into you,

defying gravity ever since that day.

Islands-of-Avalon green dressed girl;

you lit the beclouded path in your emerald gleam

and the hypethral vista became un-seamed.

To such an amorous touch, the soul settled, like a shrine.

You soared through me like air,

You soared through me like wine.

4 ♥

Foolishness

Foolish, I who must see with blind eyes.
Foolish, I who must feel with fleeting fingers.
For in what I see, the art of fallacy lies.
A feeling, without touch, a yearning still lingers.

Foolish, I who must sniff to smell.
Foolish, I who must feast to taste.
Before this you may squint a flake of frost in hell,
yet, let me not to the marriage of thirst and grace.

Useless are my ears, if lips split firstly,
Wisdom diminishes in moments of oration.
Why is it for wisdom that I am exclusively thirsty
If wise men starve in a capitalist nations?

In the guidance of due silence, I seek personal peaks,
Money talks, Wisdom speaks. Money talks, talk is cheap.

3 ♥