MAKING WINGS
My ghost mother whispers,
“Stop playing with dead things.”
Empty eyes, ravenous mouths,
plagued filled penises, cesspool vaginas
minds like caverns filled with sleeping vampire bats;
and the smell of thoughts
move inside homeless from reality
and fragmented strangers attempt
to seduce you into their delusions;
and the smell of their thoughts
are burning the flesh you are wearing
that becomes like a crawling landscape.
So you gather your darkness
to make wings to fly into yourself
to own your darkness
that is pregnant with your light.
And not be the chess piece
in the madness of roaches
who use to have human touch.
THE BUFFALO AND ME
I swallowed a buffalo.
Okay, it was a buffalo nickel
once revered before it was catalogued
for extinction.
I swallowed the nickel
to protect its value.
Okay, I was playing
with it in my mouth
like it was going to be
candy with a surprised filling.
I was five and still rode
imagination like a dragon
with my fairy wings
before my eyes were shutdown
into a shoebox mentality.
But strangers, like roaches,
came to conquer, colonize
control, cultivate;
and a jazz note
makes me a slave
with a freedom song;
And this jazz note
becomes a midnight addiction
for strangers with neon eyes
and broken flutes with poison notes.
I am intoxicated into the color,
so I must live in the gray
tattooed on my flesh by conquerors
who distorted my high note
that is now a premature ejaculation;
and the wound is made a mouth
that hides the pain etched inside
like cave drawings and this wailing
is a high note borrowed from indigenous traditions.
The buffalo and me
are no longer a gift.
CORRECTING MY DEFICIENCY
I am still wandering in my outside selves
to correct my deficiency,
by planting myself
in places that will not receive me,
gazing into eyes, the windows
where inhabitants shun me,
put on the clothes of those
who will hang my words on trees.
My moisture becomes poison;
and my watery hidden consciousness
makes creatures from my fears
and all who gaze upon this homeless creature,
want to build rooms, worlds, prisons
to keep me from
seeking warmth from the heart.
And I, The Nothing
is waiting
to no longer keep falling into my deficiencies
and thinking
they are a place to rest my head.
And I will lift my skirt
to the One
and illuminate The Gate
so I no longer
wear the mind of my Deficiencies.
BACKSTAGE REALITY
Backstage reality
is like a long corridor
where actors are rehearsing lines.
Their skin is being adjusted
like costumes that need to be fitted.
Incoherent whisperings
attempt to read lines with you.
Curtains parting
are like an eye opening.
An entrance is made
by actors who play family members
or
lovers erupting a slumbering heart
or
friends with demonic intentions.
A buzzing sound is cascading
into a corridor; yet it has a spider web effect;
but you walk the corridors
as if you are blood in someone’s vein.
and eventually, I am standing still
not knowing
if I am a beginning
or the intermission
or the end of a drama
whose names escape me.
I am a backstage reality waiting for an audience.
Curtain rises in fifteen minutes.
ACCURSED MIND
Such a cruel mixture: This mud….cursed by the Ones
who have not known the Earth.
Shall this one remain a fragment
tethered to the tit of these Unknown Things?
Shall this cursed poet exist still
as an unborn technological tree
harboring light and dark in its vision.
This flower of phenomenological darkness
is made of thirty-two pages conceived at night
while in a derange union with madness
to impregnate the mud
with symbols and no orgasm, so the mud
can hold the wailings
the laments, the broken voices
of Things so they can make themselves
as human
and look for antennas
to catch the wave
channeled through the hand;
and the world breaths into the mud
so it would be exalted
from duality.
I am asleep in a penis
dripping me into its own
vagina nightmares.
My voice becomes
black ink on white paper.
This accursed mud rises
as scissor fingers cutting me out of clouds;
and the workings
of this cursed mud
is made into shapes and forms
for inhabitants
who are shadows
in the corner of my eyes
that cannot bring a still birth.
This mud was once
ashes of a poet’s work;
the howling of the wolf.
Ah, this cruel beastly mud rises.
DON’T MAKE KISSES BIOGRAPHICAL
Don’t make this kiss biographical
-just fuck me
and leave me
before I want your name
inside me
and not just
eating the emotion
of the orgasm expressed on your face
because
it is a phallic gesture.
Love
is not there
but the beast
rises
howls
thinking I am a moon;
and
I love without having a name
no memoir
etched on my body.
So many doors are slamming;
and I am something
that oozes into other doors
when strangers sleep
so I can take
their night drippings
and make strangers
who want my name
as this Lilith eats the emotions
rising from their face
that has only mouths without eyes.
SHIT COLLECTOR
I flush him down the toilet.
I hope the toilet doesn’t back up.
When strangers conversation
bore me which is usual
than
I am finished;
and I flush these unfamiliar feces down the toilet.
Don’t need
to hear shit
being philosophical
with self destructive tendencies
thinking I am a cavern, their personal male mother
to house them in some matrix game format;
or treat me like an experimental drug.
I am bored with these posing vomit personalities.
They have done nothing for me;
and the sound
of a toilet being flushed
reminds me
I don’t have to
listen to things I don’t like.
Sometimes I can change channels
in my mind
but when I can’t find the remote,
I just start flushing.
Sometimes I pull a knife
out my heart and slash
the stranger into pieces
and make those pieces scrap paper
for poems to be carved on;
but it’s better to flush
after every use;
that way I don’t have to look
at the shit again.
And you know everyone wants to talk shit.
And I’ve said this before again and again,
I am not a shit collector.
A NIGHT WHEN A POET CAN’T GET IMAGINATION UP
Porn images flickered on his skin.
The half empty beer bottle was snoring.
Blank eyes had roaches looking out of them.
His ashy fingers were cracking.
The pencil in his hand was impotent.
The sound of a neighbor throwing a trick against the wall
sounded like opportunity knocking.
He didn’t answer the knock.
Who ever was pulling the strings tonight wasn’t tugging much.
There was nothing original swimming in his mind.
He couldn’t afford bait; rent was due.
His mouth was dry; no one had sat inside for awhile.
And he didn’t even pull himself out the pants
to conjure a youthful memory.
And his mind pretends the sound of the refrigerator
was a train ride to somewhere else
because nothing special will happen tonight.
I MADE HIM
I made him
out of old clothes,
discarded memories,
wishes I conjured
when an interesting stranger
crossed my path.
I made him
from parts I imagined
I have taken from lovers
who left me stillborn
with their kisses
clinging to me like aborted fetuses.
I made him
from the sweetness
of a man’s smell,
from the bad taste
left on bed sheets,
from the hairs
that I’ve woven onto
my bald head
from pulling the roots
that were screaming for
moisture to root into
so that a part of them
would crown me.
I made him
from the bitter salvia,
from dried semen
that I imagine as snowflakes,
from the anger
surfacing as cancer,
from diseases conjured
from pictures of fears
from my demon side.
And I made him.
My lover and we lie together
in the in-between.
I made him…my grave.
PIGS IN THE ALLEY
He is an acolyte to materialism.
He dissected me.
He had to make me an animal - a prey.
He wanted me to be the hunted.
I was to be measured.
“Slide one in me. There is no space for emotional entanglement.”
“If I can talk with my mouth full ‘you’re not the one.’”
“All I want to hear is yessir as you bend over and please.”
I was to be analyzed.
“I can’t give you happiness but you’ll enjoy your face kissing the ground.”
“No one cares for you so open that mouth to receive your blessing.”
“There is sin when you can’t own your darkness. And I am a sin eater.”
I was to be dissected into bodies
for him to rule with materialism.
“I am a nine inch slut pig.”
“Fuck me and leave – no heart is required.”
“If your face isn’t to be seen in public why talk to me?”
So strangers, my roaches, place me in restricted categories.
I become a dog in their machine
as roaches break me into fragments
that are cruising parks, alleys, on line porn sites
looking for the hand, the dick, the mouth, the ass
that will resurrect us;
but until then,
we are animals
motivated by control responses;
and become no more than pigs in the alley.
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