MOVE ON UP
Who needs a Supermarket in California?
I can see the tomatoes and cucumbers from the slant in my bed,
when the steam on the stove makes music and the sun is too much to have before closing the blinds is an option for optimistic ideology.
I can’t tell whose butter belongs to whom?
I haven’t bought any ever so the game is easy just have to think fast.
Footsteps to floor creaks below the florescent shadows.
of stale tenement whites and red light specials in the day.
You would never see the Adonis of Montana at Safeway!
The haggard stare of hungover prices and get it while you can’s have no match of the dazzling lament of film talk and past time jargons with accents in fly over red state
here,
the strawberries couldn’t handle the season! And the lettuce is already turning to olive!
Someone tell the woman in the window this show isn’t for her and to please refrain from social comenntary
When a look becomes Time moving slowly in souvenir laminated candid on the counter to honesty of attention and subversive to the condolences of something else than just mornings on our own blue isle.
"It happens when the blue sets in its ways"
AUTUMNS ADVANCING
life is sweet
Too often in the belly of a beast the cycle of soars make sun light the prison
That cast down the heat of passions twists and cloud, scorching the tales of wishful thinking and chance over matter
That upside down has no memory of doubt to pitfall about face to dreams and waking smiles
Who brilliance of breath had snuck between the cracks when the city of problematic sleeping did palpitate in like
Who sleeve of dreams in daytime needs hold truth to plea and word are the bonds you see
When nevermore became the resist, from frontal lobe depictions of mammalian intrinsic
When creases to cheekbone rest during eye closed testaments of Sunday mornings in the shade of dials
Does kind the wind in blissful notion to crown the part with majesty
In thoughtful touch between the shards of shocking back and forth
"That upside down has no memory of doubt to pitfall about face to dreams and waking smiles"
IN A SENTIMENTAL MOOD
The creases in these walls hold my head to disbelief not at the oscillation of Time itself but the way in which she has ordained this season to pass at the tip of serendipity clung to the silent spear who cousins of Cupid hath jousted into the l'air familière with sinister thoughts of idle heart and rural charm.
Blanket to the plum and sparse brights that two palms draw themselves for at least two avenues with fingers etched in the between of the in-between who lance the idea of mute belongings and thought left to dream, in egg shell crack on the kitchen floor that traced the steps of been here 'yes' but never quite like this to make shutter the alarm that passes on street corner under nighttime fable type lamplight.
The shards and sparks that line the mineral roads above the skies here in Alphabet City feel more like clouds than concrete. Ivy green frames capsuled in every stride circling the dream with more than a pinch of truth and half a teaspoon of innocence and a healthy pour of curiosity within chalice unparalleled.
Dancing in forward ties making Chinese checkers of space and remembrance who imagine no country where this could have ever been illegal and no you may not grab my sovereignty by the hairs of its feral shrieks and soup cans going clank in the night. I have a right to pattern the soles of my shoes to sounds of after dark and overpriced everything so lets just go home and get stoned, maybe the flight will carry us to the place where we can both relinquish the bonds of cardinal rules and social decency.
Keep turning your key and my hand will stay right here. I like it where its is and I don't want the door to open just yet. You see, the hallway doesn't look like the sidewalk nor is the light as flattering to the rules being broken while the shadow of opposition is away. Like the natural ways of horn toots and Jazz blows I've grown accustom to the mornings of just us and not all of us not in a way that moves glass houses to ruble just getting there early enough to see the sun make prism brilliance in the creases of its walls.
I have much to those who bare their brains on the ascension downward into the sea of concrete and neon,
Shoulders about face to grimace
Knees knocked to sway the tube in cyclical candor of the rhythmic isolation
It's showtime ladies and gentlemen whether you want it or not, it's showtime ladies and gentlemen! I've got you stuck from stop to stop.
Required are we to sit and stand and silent glare, to the floor or through the window, past indigo stains of downtown day dreams interrupted to sound the trumpet who rocky walls do jungle and snake through city end and back from which it came.
I was reminded of the power in the raven
in the shards that dust the claim of winds change
did these wings so long, black and candid wrap
who brought onto me the touch of skins crawl
to the best of natural expectation, left nothing
no sour taste of pebbles thrown
neither regret or disdain to the sun
only the flow of gravity who pulls
etching beneath the clouds a new wake
where the brilliance of each flight make wise
in those moments above cemeteries of dreams
have these roots climbed to new heights
and became new they have given shade
fostered by the hope of hearts on sleeve
to the last days of fading nights in new memory
did such a bird begin to sing in the swallows
where still movements in Manhattan winter make warm
against two strangers whose skin knows well the touch
and if only forgotten, to be reminded by the raven tap, tap tapping at my window.
BRAZEN HEAD BOOKS
"POUNDED TO THE SOUNDS
OF NATURAL JAZZ"
LITTLE CHILD, RUNNING WILD
Mornings are for lovers
the way the sun peaks through the eye lids of time,
making memories of the passing tides and gains of apollo.
It happens when the blue sets in its ways,
dormant in dazzling effect
pounded to the sounds of natural jazz
that the pipes have nearly burst and the tea is ready.
When kitchen stance make idle thought
as tangible as the eve who lost the fight to the morn.
Fancy pots and so many spices!
His & his all together for the guests to see in question,
that curiosity is the reason for waking,
taking the first steps toward the lies we tell ourselves to fall fast asleep,
Until then, we will always have the morning.
NOTHING IS THE SAME
The shores that have washed now surge in surface to the rim and for once it is a sip to this chalice I shall not take,
In opposition not to love
but to lustful engagement do my days of yesteryear plague me not evermore.
Where the toes beneath mine own shadow have waded in the wake to shallow hues of cerulean dreams did so the Georgian remain bear silver edge to the terms of endearment and light touch of holy palms that pray with instrument speech closed.
In one stoke of multiple fractions it would dazzle that wounds of the great dual be now scorched to heal towards to bonding spectre now sanctioned to be remised in tearing the banner and breaking the sword.
That no man or steel can make pure the character of its own truth
to nose and heart in accordance foundation stood firm in stance and hopeful to lavender
tomorrow.
Paris (2016)
"When I was a kid I would sign my journals in blood so no one could ever take credit for my emotions"
APRIL IN PARIS
The new had me talking on stoops to myself in late summer heat to unknown waves so felt and so visceral to intent did the touch of tongue to the teeth in conversation make hairs dance and twist in fingers that daydream during date
Leading to the end of possibility and the commencement of choice do the leaves change from fragile frame to Pollock name in discourse structured in ideals that shared the parallels the in-between, joined to cheek the notions who plague in victory to be the foe within the norm
Willingly lost to hear the voice of mouths precision to opinion and the percussion of calm excitement over the drum circles interior to the tangible sitting and staring back at me while swallowed in sound to nothing but that as all else fails to penetrate
THIRD PLANET
I speak from the bowels of my urges where purges
be but sin in truth and wealth in vigorous youth
My hands are but remnant figments of divine travel
through time in dreams do rewind the scenes of yester truth
Eyes who two alike do through themselves
the third shines bright can sight be held nude
I taste for salvation after salivate did drips on the plate
make ungulate melted like fate on lips mood
These fingers do dabble diligent on quests of intrinsic
did such touch be but never too always two crude
Ears mistake clamor for natures heard
banter with nurture to all who nestle news
But these truths be just ones shoes
who many a soul have dwindled here
like a child's tooth
when all who lived
see saw each others ruse
did the end of line give no pun
pin point exact as you knew
“At the dark street corner
where Guilt and Desire
are attempting to stare...”
STRAIGHT SHOOTER
I was already trippin' so taking a turn didn't seem so indigo , the calm resolve of stacks and stacks in binding truth to old manhattan hardwood where roaches make the atmosphere much more tangible made from the things of dreams, so I kept going,
In idle remedy to late night lamp light high talk with old pants, once storefront to windows these books have seen on first print to the ode of Time; He sat firm in a dark wash mode of grey and crossed his leg like he had known what they were talking about, and sat with them while they talked about it, who danced to jazz with them, who searched the streets and found the mohammedan angels who were in fact mohammedan angels-and from this meeting felt the calm to the revolution thanking his jewish forethought.
Who illuminated the moon drenched satin of mothers milk, and spoke the holy word of lilac, in favorite poem recount did he say the word again, forging the hairs to alert the eyes and notice the tongue in every the way it could be said
What then had curious made well did whiskey fill the gap. To make senses the pupils that studied and knees knocked to sway still-the insufferable demise as conditioned by the same three eyed shrews of fate that plagued the Adonis of Denver, or gave the rivers of lethe a reason for him to swallow. The same same disney classics that made rivers bend seem marketable and pale skin redeemable, the exact distinction between alabaster and marble, scarlet and miniver, and yet the point had not diminished, nor left the room.
He sits in open juncture to tazyms that history of literature among men does create, taking me up in blue where just the idea of a stroke chimes the bells to bottom beat along past "I should have left 10 minutes ago" and trying to hail a cab near "let me finish this drink and one more dance, Chet Baker is actually playing and I literally love this song".
So I dance and he watches me, but he is not alone nor together and they have all been watching all along. And there lies the truth to the point. Easy to touch the ends of the pages that have been folded before without question in line to stumble and balance between, while still churning fantasy with the fabrics of interest, imagination and a room full of boys talking about books.
Photography by JUO Photography
The air was cold, as our bodies lay dormant in the midst of feathers and sweat.
It was only the second moon these eyes have seen yet the flow of the gods was all but resting in the crazed touch of new skin to skin.
In the huddle of arms throw and torsos thrust, pleasure was made.
Candid in the wet, saturated in the need and ever present to bring about reactionary measures worth any dream of Adonis at the brow, beaming with wings so wise and wide.
It fell somewhere between breaking new strides to end all regret of past foes and gaining speed towards the accession of gravity;the unknown substance of us all-the haunting remainder that we are all just human-the reality of the big apple and it's fall from grace.