there just before ten
the stars twinkle
just for a second
then they go and move away
from my sight
my back tense but tired
longs for touch
for the afterglow of one
with heart and courage
to withstand the broken glass
and shards shooting from my soul
seeping from eyes
he will catch the rain
and kiss the thunder of my thoughts
Poetry
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
spread the WLS
FREE VERSE REVOLUTION III
Out now! Please check out all of the amazing offerings.
spread the WLS
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
spread the WLS
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
spread the WLS
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
spread the WLS
finally at last
sometimes randomly i ask the light
whisper through me it might help
dear light
have you ever been prayed to
i would assume so
and if not that means i’m the first
finally at last
spread the WLS
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
spread the WLS
to Eden Ahbez
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…
View original post 116 more words
spread the WLS
eating my words xvi
