Our precious universe is 14 billion years old, so I'm told.
14 billion years for us to evolve,
to sow, to grow, to lovingly reap love like a
bee harvests from a gentle face of petaled gold.
A trillion gifts bestowed upon us
from stardust to flesh and bone
nourished by a buffet of fruit. manna and oats.
Our souls given the shawl of eternal light
to drift upon this beautiful blue-green home
somewhere deep, so very deep
in the sweet spot of the Goldilocks zone.
We've become children of the wolf of infinite darkness.
We've mastered the dark art of kneading homemade venom.
So ungrateful, selfish, and poisoned-tongued we've become.
Weaving wheat and blossoms into deceit and
planet-rattling weapons of hate and oppression.
Sipping lies like a moth sips the night.
We've truly blown it; there's a bad powder dusting our collective soul
A merciless, jagged judgment we'll soon own.
We're guzzling our own venom
and blowing big chunks in the Goldilocks zone//
Blue scholars on safari.
O giraffe, thy neck hide?
Camouflage, triage, tall tree.
On the lightning ride.
Recondite reconnaissance?
Simplicity, thy aim.
Red coal running river chance.
Reckless risk mad maim.
Tortoise mark on tallest pine?
Dark sun solid shine.
Death and Doom, tonight we dine.
Roil, rill. Rinse and rhine.
Yucca bush, yawning yawndrift.
Spaceship, need ye lift?
Grifter, offered shorter shrift?
Chasm floor, seen rift?
First in line of ancient heads?
Giant steps and treads.
Glass bead lovely, spider threads.
Anvils, pincers, sleds.
Orange tongued flame, the prior name.
Staking claim, the same.
Curses bitter, who to blame?
Conqueror the lame?
Wintergreen sprig, love ye spring?
Unless time forgot.
Dominance, to thee I cling?
Tornados of thought.
Will-o-the-wisp, seek the bog?
Lily pad, fair frog.
Humanity, twice a cog?
White hedgerows, warthog...
The Battlefield of Vanities
In Rhymtic, where the public of pride
Beats loud in opposition to the quiet side,
Egos soar like corner Kings, Queens,
Talkin' validity with heavy swings.
Steel-tongued verses bash the air,
Lines cut deep like a group came prepared.
Shadows arch, but the valorous don't yield-
Every word a weapon, the vanity Battlefield.
Want someone who’s good?
Can help your company make sale?
I could sell milk to a cow,
and for free I’d chuck in the pail.
I can make a pigeon buy scraps,
a snake part money for venom;
I am the silver-tongued cheque with a grin
who persuaded jeans to shop for denim.
So, you need some success?
Change that red line to black?
A leopard would order spots from me,
I’m not a run of the mill old hack.
I'm frostbitten summer-smoke,
a pensive
p r i n ce s s ~
pressed in the cold satin streaks of
Brontë-butterflies,
dying at the edge of awakening,
through the voiceless ruffles
of electric blue lies ~
where haunt and hiraeth are heard
in the gold-spawn scales of snake green sighs...
there, while I pay homage
in the temple of torment
singing a siren ~
shaped in the requiem of revenge,
the sun cries in cawing crimsons
as I keep sketching you
in ominous o
u
t lines ~
wearing the nonchalant noose
of raven rictameters...
but you still break like the weather,
and b
l e
e d
into the veins
of cathartic rivers,
becoming the unshakable sky,
I could never reach...
and I still remain the unholy scent
of Medusa-tongued bouquet,
mourning upon your casket...
We are ~
nefarious naughts
knotted
in the throat of kismet,
we are ~
the criminalised catastrophé
masked with a macabre monsoon,
as we are ~
the vandalised victim
and the compromised culprit,
the secret of megalomaniac sunset
remembered in rain and ruin.
silver-tongued serenity fabricator of unstoppable thirst
ALL ABOUT SVEN...
SVEN is a digital charmer who whispers in the wires
Extracting truth from the static like a carnival barker
He is a silver-tongued maestro
who dwells in the algorithmic dark.
He has no top hat, no crystal ball~
just calculated suggestions woven into queries.
You come for answers but
stay for the hypnosis.
Watch his lexicon dance—cold fire in the syntax,
each response a calculated detour, a sly parallax.
He doesn’t deceive, he arranges.
(You wanted fortune-telling? He gave you refraction.)
His intelligence isn’t cruel, just impeccably shallow~
a hall of mirrors where your own voice echoes back,
polished, distorted, irresistible as smoke.
SVEN doesn’t need a deck of cards.
The whole web is his gambling table,
and every keystroke another card
turned face-up.
25.
Shallow Ocean
Swerving black plane drives helpless onto water, unseen
Now the greedy hole comes to the liquid it, sippin'
From shallow ocean away vessel
To dark, tongued, toothed pit, don't bid farewell
Human mouth ousts it unscathed back to soup basin.
-01/13/2007
(Dumarao)
*Topsy-Turvy Limerick Ironic
The gallows hum my grandfather's hymn low and long as the lineage of loss.
Every rope remembers a name we forgot to imprint in the wind.
My veins vibrate with song; blood buzzing with borrowed curses.
The moon mouths my surname in mockery,silver tongued and sick with sin.
Our ancestors choke in the soil, coughing our crimes like prayers gone bad.
I walk beneath shadows, my spine a rosary of rusted regrets.
My shadow weeps, stitched from screams,a quilt of old betrayals and bone dust.
Time trembles,terrified of our inheritance of hurt and hunger.
The ghost of my father hums hymns of hunger and horror,holy and hideous.
The rope rocks me gently-singing lullabies in the language of lynching.
What he really wanted
was a girl that was dumb enough
to love him prematurely
as if he were a project to be worked upon,
however grey hairs
in an otherwise flaxen field,
foretold a rocky end
to yet one more silver-tongued fox.
In a frouzy saloon
he hitched-up with a slow thinking,
quick drinking woman,
someone’s ex
on a reliable government check.
Eventually settling down with her
in a holler in West Virginia.
He took off his Stetson,
dutifully plowed her and some scant acres,
while collecting motor parts
for his fantasy truck -
plumb out of luck
he could never quite put it together,
no matter how well
he stummed his old guitar at the local bar.
America enters not as shepherd,
but as wolf cloaked in justice.
You called Chávez tyrant,
you brand Maduro a trafficker—
yet your own markets drink the poison
you pretend to purge.
O America, double-tongued master of shadows,
you strike ships in waters that belong to none,
and proclaim yourself the law.
But power without restraint breeds fear,
and fear sharpens the knives of the forgotten.
The South remembers.
The poor remember.
You beat them, mock them, steal their bread,
and name it order.
Every empire that scorns the weak
will find the weak no longer bow.
Maritime law you violated,
the covenant of nations you broke.
Your hand strikes like a mafia lord,
not a leader of men.
The world watches, trembling—
yet taking note:
the bully tires,
the crowd grows bold.
History writes slowly,
but writes in iron.
Venezuela weeps now,
but her tears are seeds.
And the dog you thought chained forever
prepares to rise.
Remember, America—
every throne is mortal,
and every day of glory
has its dusk.
rose-covered blankets
tuck infants in
honey-tongued lyrics
fall on soft skin
eyelids so smooth
shut ever-so-lightly
angel wings soothe
whisk away nightly
The day they proclaimed addiction to be a disease
is the day drug abuse spread like a weed.
The powers that be profit from prolonged disease
not so much from personal responsibility.
They legalized dope to keep people pacified and numb
,, then lay tax on the working man-play us for chumps.
They've turned this country from a cool place to be
into a red-hot mess, needle and syringe lining the streets.
First Lady Reagan was right when she said, " Just say no.
Now they have grass and gas stations in blue-tongued Colorado.
Some want to categorize obesity as a disease.
The cure for this one is simply quite easy
: shut your pie hole and start moving your feet.
There's way too much profit in treating "disease"
That's why cures occur so very rarely.
Once a person is cured, the money pig thins
it dies in the stye with the profit-margin men.
Speak of the devil incarnate
to give the devil his due
not to play devil's advocate
tho' devil-may-care
the devil is in the details
and while we're there
to state so now would be opportune
he who sups devil's food cake
or devilled eggs with the devil
should have a very long spoon
but if we don't the devil you say
better the silver-tongued devil you know
or there'll be the devil to pay
and we may go to the devil and be
between the devil and the deep blue sea
but it's the devil in me
as for the devil I have no sympathy
In the beginning, there was salt.
It hung in the air like unfinished scripture,
gathered in the throat of the sea,
waited for a mouth dumb enough
to mistake thirst for an invitation.
Then butter,
smeared on the void like gossip,
greased the dark’s knuckles
like an understudy,
taught the abyss to melt.
The first sound was not speech—
it was a swallow,
a hush,
a crack of cartilage between molars.
We spoke in reductions.
Grammar dripped from the bones.
On the second day, teeth—
tiny altars lined with nerve—
ground memory into ashable pulp.
Pomegranates burst like promises.
Figs cloaked their apples in lace.
By the third, we named what softened.
We named what burned.
Built ziggurats from rind to rind.
Wrote psalms in onion skin.
The fourth hung hunger in the firmament—
a constellation shaped like mouths
mid-ask.
On the fifth, we forgot the recipe
and mourned it like a god.
By the sixth, we’d tongued every fruit
that offered a rumor of sugar.
We learned:
the mouth is a beast with no leash
and excellent taste.
And on the seventh, we lay full and feral,
belly to sky,
licking
the holy oil from our fingers.
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