poetry blog

handful of visions

handless_man_painting_21st_century

This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land

 

 

Modern Poetry

the way of the wayward

Failure
was the ace up my sleeve
my get out of jail free card
my existential loophole
having failed
I was out of the race
competing only with the skies
my midget adversary – ambition
too afraid to follow me into the wilderness of the wild
I am free
to make any nook on this earth a cumulous heaven
make a straw bed for my sleep-drunken poems
on any day of my open-ended agenda
to make a living on the question:
               is this all real?

 

Modern Poetry

mythological dilettante

Whiteness poetry

To lay hands on the molecule
to cut the strip that separates
     life from rock
to circumspect the unfathomable
     poems breeding in test-tubes
the height makes nauseous aftertaste
to be human is an old prank 
     played by the algorithmic TV
sidewalks my city veins
to be headway but no meaning
soon to be becomes
mind the vessel of heaven
            to
                    be
                          godlike.

 

 

Modern Poetry

weirdo nail clipper

I’m biting off nails
spitting out tails
wagging at the dog
to wring out the fog
my emotion a sort of doppelganger
adrenaline in my poems when anger
is fire of the beast
I’m drinking out of your breast
like sex in the hands of God
isn’t it a century too goddamn odd
when things have no set end
and we’re always mixing a blend
of the most undrinkable guesses
my guess is that we’re like cocktail dresses
ready to be taken off
and then the real fun goes on
the oblique shadow of the skyscraper
waiting for sun to guide the dance
what a waste of wastepaper
this was my chance
to be
me
eating pieces of myself
while the day annihilates itself.

A view of happiness

Child Happiness

Happiness
is the fly
on the tip of my nose
that with the slightest
twitch
flies away

 

Happiness
is my beard
made of many individual
studs
always shaggy
thus never uniform

 

Happiness
is rebound love
a one-night stand
after I met Joy
before I knew Grace

 

Happiness
is my tongue
quiet and sparing
but drooling
for the divine

 

Happiness
is happiness
a rare antique
from my childhood’s
sleep.

 

 
Modern Poetry