i smell salt

warm soft sand
breeze rippled smiles
across the mounds
wispy grasses
i smell salt
the seaweed that comes to shore
lends substance to the air
cotton candy fluff like
is the wind that rides tonight
soaring all of my prayers to the sky
where to diamond stars they’re delivered
and where the earth and sleepy she sun meet
they kiss releasing beams of orange glee
closing my eyes
i move my arms and adjust my heart
facilitating peace that finds me

Issue III released

Issue III: hestia (hearth & home) is now available to download! The digital download is completely free but if you wish to donate/pay as you feel, you can do so through the Donate tab. Issue III: hestia (hearth & home) explores what home means to us all through poetry, prose, photography & artwork. Contributors reveal how […]

Issue III released

serial number

the beeping and the blinking

and the math on the wires

monitors and iv drips

blue and silver serial numbers

of the medical equipment

sent tiny shocks of stress

directly to his sweat soaked head

since adolescence

the only way he knew

how to soothe himself

after a stressful situation

or how to survive

a dry period

between snorts or shots

was to savor the sensation

of his rolling eyes

to the back of his neck

after a good junk score

it started with strained nerves

abstract jittery eyelids

tiny tear drops sweeping

from the corners of his eyes

then tenebrosity

gunning through pin-hole pupils

the relief of a private world now televised

his relief

the private world

painted with garish French carnival colors

golds that were green

reds that were milky blood pink

old ship ropes and Macaque monkeys

like the ones from a Burroughs’ dream

cloister

twinkling moths scurry from the bulb
carefully knit filigree cobweb
as an exclusive lampshade  serves
they bounce and leap
a circus extravaganza
in the colors of night
old houses chipped wood
smell of old books and history
then there’s the really busy moths
with patterned powder wings
the beautiful ones
gathered up in a bouquet
innocently placed
by the spider’s gothic cloister

philharmonic

tonight
i will not settle
for chords
electrically or naturally strummed
nor radios or streaming services
i shall not partake
of what you have created
Tesla dear
tonight
i am happy with the cutting of the air
watermelon slicing sounds
of the ceiling fans
or the cricket
dressed in green and brown velvet
chirping at my cat
tonight the city bred howls of coyotes
at 11:43 PM
is what i want to hear
maybe i might decide to cut up pictures and squoosh a paint brush full of podge unto my board
the dowry for the clipping that will marry it before Fall
tonight i want to hear the groans of pleasure and of pain
rise up from sewer pipes and circulate out of the city drain
my curiosity will sustain
an unknown hunger
that causes me to sit
ever so corpse like still
and hear the birds
crackling the dried leaves
of the tree trunk lobby
during their intermission
while attending
their own mourning dove
cooing philharmonic


to Eden Ahbez

words less spoken

the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty
fists

through royal orange tinged ozone cloak

where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles

Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost

perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline

where Her proud feet stomp down with fury

on the last remaining eyes.

on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun

caressing Her hillside fiery hair

to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge

as we dive into Her haughty bosom

where we die and resurrect in divine light

out of nothing.

my Lady’s
balmy metropolitan breath

puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees

as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim

kept in mad
house storage

along Her
Wilshire Boulevard

the miracle
mile of all illusions

floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast

the mercenary birds of her entrance

strategize in unison on the stage of the moon

circling…

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