May 2014

	May 2014 Panhandled Extremme Predudice Love, UPS The Fist of these Days Wisdom, Page 1 of ... Breathless In August Love in the Time of Greed Your're Late, or are You? Roadwork Ahead	Panhandled I can feel your wings beating the night as if you’re peering, suspended tasting the air. I sense you sipping, sampling our digital breath, sniffing my balls, checking for a sham. A great warmth in your gaze, a savoring grin. I feel imagined at your table for good wine and risqué repartee.
Extreme Predudice What dropped you in the midst of flight, your wings extended in the golden light, your heart free, you past accepted and loved? You fell as if a sniper took you out, as if a kill switch went red. I couldn’t shore your fall with my breaking heart. The carnage was bloodless, a fait accompli, numbing. A countercoups, severance by attrition, amputation with extreme prejudice.	Love, UPS Studio doors lay open to a soft midmorning sun, Iced tea sweating down a pitcher and tall thick glass, a fresh canvas, a cigarette smoldering stubbed, still burning out like another soldier discarded. He waited - called out, starring at the easel, the blank canvas a window open. Long minutes passed as a silence enclosed him, a pressure of light and time on his skin. He lifted a brush stabbing at a palate, - a long serif of black left him, then a scarlet crescent of eye, a pursed suggestion of lips… then sienna, sunflowers in dust blown dirt. She leapt through him in hot splashes primary, urgent gashes of Phthalo green, a translucence of bird shell and ocean pearls She ran down both of their faces. He didn’t know the color of sorrow, yet the brush filled with smoke, then mauve and canyon shadow blue. He smeared them in a swish trailing off to the edge - into the room. She lay spent when the artist returned, colors huffing in the soft midmorning light, his package on the table, the canvas signed: Love, UPS	The Fist of these Days You took yourself away in dribbles, long swallows, then with wry wincing grins, into tender silences, and bottled up words, rinsed out before they could stain. I’ve no wisdom to add to your well of remorse, no pithy nor clever remarks. I’ve only my heart in your corner, and love swollen from the fists of these days.
Wisdome, Page 1 of... It takes a few decades to know the right amount of salt - of sun, of alcohol - of fool, of caress - of healing, of empathy - of chortle. The right amount of portmanteau. It takes a few trips around to know cracks on the highway, the soft shoulders - the curves ahead, when to yield - when to merge. Your Penny at work!… keep Right. Do not enter - Slippery when wet. The snick in a lock of a hairpin’s turn.	Breathless The soft quiet of you is healing, each breath mends a crack I can not see, but can feel with each hour in your arms. It rained today. Not a rinsing but a sopping cloak of repression, landscapes trapped in beards of tears. The fissures in me opened, empty of you, breathless.	In August In December dawn comes here spilling from a bright crescent slipper, a slit of tangerine neath Bahama green sheets, the occasional pillow wispy as a coffee with too much cream. In April dawn comes here with urgency, muskmelon and beets, a simmering scarlet mirage as if hungry for nature’s illusions. In August dawn comes here brooding, irascible… prone either to tempest or languid clot. It was august on your cheeks, impressive, our dreams cradled in the sky of your eyes. I feel its pressure in the shadows a dark violet pushing at the reeds, the hairs on my arms, the beaks of the birds, a seminal pulse, cloaca crowning in song.
Love in the Time of Greed Love in the times of… shadow, heads hiding in their verbal sands, the thick curtain folds of their stage. Bashful couples clinging to the hems of Fox News, or suckling at the teat and truth of Vice. Love in the time of Ebola, of planetary swamp and toast. Wary couples: peeking out at the truth, afraid for their children. Were I twenty-five again, would I look beyond my door? Would I see that the Bahamas may be gone in 50 years? Would I see Greenland an iceless rock of granite and ragged basalt. Were I twenty-five again, would I rail against this genocide, would I see Singapore splashing, Manhattan thrashing, Miami paddling for Cuba? Would I see the pipelines bursting, more train cars combusting, more quakes from fracking, more Fukashima in my blood? The Gulf of Mexico a dead zone? Were I twenty-five again, would I change the channel? Would I ask why this greed? Why Wall Street’s bottom line was never part of any god’s plan.	You're Late, or are You? I have been waiting for you, mis pescados españoles, to land in my ill tended net. You’re late, mi carino. I felt your spirit alight, spitting epithets of protest, and Neruda’s love - his smile for dawn, for stone, for the sea. I may love you as you may love me, the gentle warrior in your shadows, an almost in your once upon a day, the times when life was passion, a time when a fish had her way.	Roadwork Ahead Life was simple once, not easy, but simple. One foot then the next, sun up, sun down, windy, not hot, average, cold. smile, flirt, second base maybe third. Country roads - small towns. Breaths get busy, in presentations, explanations, deeper sighs, not easy, but still simple. One bill then the next, business up, worry down, horny, not, hot, routine, cold. smile, apology, second base, maybe later. More traffic - suburbs. a deeper congestion, rales and rhonchi not easy, no so simple, one breath then the next. Phlegm up, liquids down, erection, not hot flashes, average, bone cold. Smile, blanket, no game today. Maybe next year Cubs. Big city - big traffic - bad roads.