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, the needled and syringed lining the streets.
Nancy was right when she said just say no
now they have grass and gas stations
in deep 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.
Fish consuming bats come out at night
In Brazil struggling fish is a sight
So scary are the long-tongued bats
Pollen and nectar give them their fats
Frog-eating bats reside in Panama
They devour them all cold and raw
Vampire bats make my shivers shake cold
Blood from animals is their liquid gold
Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
In his tongue.
Whose tongue?
Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.
What, with my tongue in your tail?
Nay, come again, Good Kate;
I am a gentleman.
—William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
(exchange between Petruchio and Katherine)
Love looks like blue skies, nay.
Today is the tango of sister twisters.
Innuendos don’t behave. They slave
over the mountains and valleys.
Twines of a forked tongue, devilishly
misbehaving, drunken in delight.
Good Kate, is she kind, his kind of date?
Will she satisfy his intellect, his loins?
Is he a gentleman, this Shakespeare?
Is his lady worthy of remarkable taste?
Petruchio, with his yellow jacket,
prepared to sting, with lover’s words.
Katherine’s falling into the Venus fly trap
as she plays along, bidding farewell.
Petruchio draws her back in
wagging his tail and tongue.
These heavy boots filled by Taylor and Burton
acting in real time and on the silver-tongued screen.
If the ballroom could produce such a tango as this,
Shakespeare himself would rise and erupt in applause.
after the painting by Vincent Van Gogh
Does she even exist? Doubting her own reality,
seeing herself vanishing in undulating undergrowth,
fading and merging into summer-scorched scenery.
But cold lurks there beneath shafts of sunlight, phallic trees...
He wears the night underneath, a fabric of dark and unease,
his hand heavy upon her arm, silver-tongued charm
smooth as the silver-limbed leafless trees,
disappearing now on a twisting breeze...
Sinuous stems suffocate, writhing and thrashing;
convulsions of shuddering green and yellow.
Enticed ever deeper into flailing flowers,
evanescing into foam of frothing flora...
Did she ever truly exist? It's doubtful.
The flower-frail faceless and nameless
will always be lured and laid, invisible,
dissolving, under bare, phallic trees.
A listless wall-clock tocks.
Pedestrians sleep-walk to their garages,
strung out nightwalkers arrive home
to unwind main springs.
Neighborhood cats want in and dogs out.
Pet-free I arise
to pee.
Hung upon marshmallow bones
I roll back onto the perspiring mattress,
Its pillows are still drunk on mind-fog.
The slamming of distant doors
tweaks fine ear hairs.
The clock stops to rethink the notion of time,
hands flop out of its face,
those hands will never reach the floor,
not until bare feet repossess the rug,
nor until my toes can hack their way through
its pile weave jungle,
only then
will the wall commence to tick,
and a thick-tongued world clock in.
4/24/24
How weird it is
All around the planet are pyramids
Yet we don't understand it fully, this makes me curious
The reason for their construction must've been serious
It makes me a bit furious
That I can't figure it out and nearly go delirious
Much of it I've questioned
Not to mention
The concept of dimensions
As well as prior civilizations with more advanced inventions
It's all beyond my own personal comprehension
It brings me some tension
No matter how much I pay attention
I still can't make the connection
In all totality
When you look beyond reality
You may lose some sanity
With the change in mentality
Snaked tongued people that are wicked
Hard to trust what they've depicted
Difficult to say what has existed
Then you got all these cryptids
All over the globe, pictures printed and writings listed
Was there ever such a thing as witches
Or is it all fiction
Like making wishes
Too many burnt bridges
Too many coverups involved with riches
Too many hearts colder than a fridge is
He learned so quickly how to not bring sticks and balls back
He seems to think when he puts his head down
there should be a bowl beneath it
Strained swell into a wells
Turning the nail
Hammering ahead
My legs stringed with tongued dog saliva
That tilt of his head where he pretends to know what Sit means I just don’t want to
Are you really gonna eat that without giving me a bit
Eyes that bo puss ots
would aawwww
His knack of wanting to go outside just as my head hits the pillow so far….
………………………… ahead
I
A
M
In another lane
Aircraft no more
It’s an ex
Plainly your not ready for this
but your humanoid alien kids are gonna love it
Am I still there
I sometimes ask
Sometimes in funny voices
If someone answers
the trickle of icicles caress along my spine
So divine
Nothing has a calmness to
A still just still
He snorts when he sleeps
And I mean all blown instruments being cleaned all at the same time by a sand blaster
Each night she left him bleary -
his mind foaming in a glass
of Guiness.
Disappointments wore her life thin,
nuptials picked to a fugue and dinge,
by his thick-tongued spiel.
“I can change him.”
Nothing changed.
Long she withered and waned.
Friends doled out sympathy
like spreadable butter,
yet her bread was dry.
Long she withered.
Daily she wiped
a vinyl calico tabletop
wet with spilled beer
and self-pity.
She got a second job.
Rhymes -normally I love them-
But tonight they seem like sweet-tongued harlots.
Cheap.
Cliche.
Predictable.
More concerned with sounding right
than capturing the truth.
A poet would use them to empower his words,
but, instead, they rob him of his dignity,
chaining him down,
clipping his wings,
building walls around his baffled imagination.
Tonight, oh rhymes, I would chase you with a firebrand
as did my spiritual namesake.
You stir me with anger,
make me wish to grab a gladius,
leap into the trenches,
and cut away all pretenses until I free her-
the true love of all true poets:
Truth herself.
11-12 December 2023
A laugh is a soul's explosion of insanity.
Knowledge of acknowledgement in vanity.
A crazed affinity with deja vu timing.
Taboo of thought in neon silver lining.
An out of body experience welcomed within.
Micro possession in a miming obsession,
with dilated dial in audible font style
and expression.
A laugh is a pseudo lust in pseudo love.
Headlining, silver tongued language of
squealed wink, grunting blink, snickering choke of drink.
from above.
A syncing of honed thinking in volume linking
the brink on.
Wave of notes confused bang of gong,
in mode-icon.
Surge of mental drowning,
with smile singing mused
connection system of its own downing.
September, sands cool.
Ghosts occupy lifeguard nests.
Blue parents waiting for
blue school buses....
carrying blue brained children
led into blue tongued lizard pits
by blue cell phone mist.
September, sands cool-
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