to think that beyond shadows
a sun glows she dressed in gold
swatting at her lover heaven
sending radioactive flares of hot love
to think that behind those shadows
i sit silent staring at the calmness
of poppy blossoms along the hills
while the shadows shield a chaos
to think that beneath the shadows
are my remains that partake
in the Maker’s infinity loop
of clay between the ashes
just what da doc ordered on a dreary thursday LA night enjoy friends
where would i want to be in a hundred years
i think maybe at one of Papa’s parties
in Cuba perhaps with palm trees swinging in the wind
leading a revolutionary life meaning just being me
maybe setting the palm tree tops on fire with a million fireflies
how far would i be out into the timeline that strings us on forever
i’d imagine that the Pi would taste like minty limes and the Alpha would feel like velvet
the Omega would be the scent of gunpowder apocalyptic ripples left shivering to the breeze
eternally in the darkness of the light
poking through the magma of the times
my dark soul shaped like cracks and bothersome little rocks
little carbon teeth and my lips would be a couple of twigs
swooped up by momma crows to weave the nest for fuzzy babies
that will grow up and flyaway my twiggy ashes
i will not sink but float out into the ether above those Cuban skies
where i then will witness the incandescent fireflies flitting atop the palm trees
and like ash i too will inevitably float to join neutrinos helium and dust
slumber, i’m here
see by your
side 50 years
b’tween oh what
the shit we’ve
seen words fed
me like a
bird later i
met your friends
among podiums raised
to you old
man western Blvd
we walked the
Hollywood falling bridge
west scoring beer
with publishers checks
me scoring in
other ways but
i got the
gist of you
don’t try you
said i said
let me see
you liked whores
i liked bus
stops pigeons in
the night we
both liked dive
bars hard boiled
eggs at half
past nine tough
you challenged me
but not before
the ham on
rye beer on
tap my imagination
Susana dust flows
into the streets that we roam
smog canopy helps
Since the beginning, my goal has been to promote the work of poets and writers with a gift for expression in a minute fashion. I’m thankful that this reputable organization exists to help further that effort. I am very happy to announce the following poets’ pieces were submitted to the Pushcart Prize Committee. Those selected […]
The Short of It Pushcart Prize Nominations
sun falls upon hard city street
downtown day full of promise
and to think that we live
between final numbers
and fleeting tantric dreams
drank
the
wine
of
sin
zipped
through
a
fog
of
wrong
time
to
face
the
music
*thanks to Rob Banks for the cool idear
through my fingers they speak
flutter swiftly laughing
translucent and sometimes wicked dark
nonsense to me or you
yet in my dreams
the tomes of history explored
poured out the morning after
through my crooked fingers scrawled
words less spoken 