the new gospel of john

(morning found us calmly unaware –jim morrison)

 

the seagulls soar in sunny skies

green apple seas reflects your eyes

your hand in mine we draw a line

until the angels of divine

can shirk responsibilities

our love is pure and god is pleased

 

and so i lyric to the beat

of waves crashing beneath the heat

that in the grapes of supple vines

could not produce a wine so fine

intoxicating as your lips

that even from a single sip

 

the blood will warm, the mind massaged

the heart produces a collage

pictures of you, a masterpiece

your laughter bringing an increase

to a smile where nothing’s lacking

the cliffs confused begin cracking

 

thinking his new earth has begun

when you frolic with the sun

the end will come but hasn’t yet

but in this moment you can bet

i do not mean to blasphemy

but you are all i’ll ever need

 

***

 

 

the languid layers of love

love songs on the radio leading to enlightenment

arms around, a complete embrace, linger and tighten it

it has been said, within your head, love is a trick of the mind

that’s played on you so you’ll pursue procreation in kind

i disagree, like fallen trees surely i would borrow

anyone of our yesterdays if you’re not tomorrow

 

i know that i’m in love with love, evidence uncovered

but i could not now be in love if you were another

the frost may bite, the sun delight, fulfilling their design

but there is nothing but respite in lips sweeter than wine

i’ve toured the lands, solo, no band, encountering applause

but in the moment of your kiss i found reflective pause

 

the fame of flames is not the same as love like the divine

the greeks called it agape love in effort to define

the trove of love that’s danced above, not purely physical

science on sex is not perplexed but i was quizzical

why feelings felt could make me melt in moments of your grace

and while you sleep my eyes caress the contours of your face

 

***

words women wrote

he’s a loser, such a boozer

unfaithful, goddamn fucking cruiser

i love to hate what he creates

stuck in syllables which stagnate

 

godless, faithless fucking bore

playing games without keeping score

the only thing that’s meaningless

is when he sighs after a kiss

 

he lives to write, he writes to live

a waste of time is what he gives

ignore this fool, his words are drool

reducing us to molecules

 

erase his face from your sweet grace

and move on to a better place

this fucking love he’s dreaming of

is masturbation with a glove

 

he saturates, then marinates

and dates just to self-medicate

just stay away from where he plays

frayed on the dark streets of decay

 

world of his own invention

loserville walled with pretension

just say goodbye, don’t even try

to make sense of his fucking lies

 

he sings of love, dear god above

push him away with a hard shove

he’ll fill you with his filament

within his woven compliments

 

you’ll shake, you’ll rattle and you’ll roll

then find him on the grassy knoll

assassinating what you feel

illustrating illusions real

 

just use him like the whore he is

then run away before he gives

reasons without any reason

rhyming about rainy seasons

 

***

revelations 23:1-6

a poet of profundities

is falling down upon his knees

the rich and famous long for love

contenders without golden gloves

 

a knockout came in the first round

where they are lacking i abound

my heart is warm within your arms

your kiss does not do my soul harm

 

i touch you once, i touch you twice

to touch you thrice will not suffice

my home is on love’s avenue

it’s paid in full, no note is due

 

additions won’t increase value

a scenic view needs only you

there’s nothing more the eye has seen

more beautiful than eyes of green

 

which you possess and i confess

to look upon is nothing less

than paradise, seventh heaven

unblemished lamb, bread un-leavened

 

there is no prose my winter rose

in the eden of your repose

that could capture all the rapture

in this happy ever after

in abdication i’m replete

casting my crown before your feet

 

***

 

 

 

ad omnia finem

walking around in a world of sound

lingering in the lost and found

downtown the ground’s covered in rain

i slip and fall without the pain

 

tasting tacos from a truck

no line from rain, i was in luck

soaked to the skin, not going in

i’m filled with beer, whiskey and gin

 

rain gutter rust crusted with lust

ashes to ashes, dust to dust

from street decay i will not sway

you are not lost if there’s no way

 

tonight i rhyme within this clime

your physics lie when marking time

physics too is a perception

dancing death of dull deception

 

and neuroscience doesn’t know

that contrast will not make it glow

gotta know how the game is played

rules are tools of malleable clay

 

survivor’s instinct doesn’t think

done time before in this precinct

it’s more effective when you bounce

their blows are glancing when they pounce

 

the right or wrong can dance with song

just hide until hurt moves along

only abused are not confused

we run away from a lit fuse

 

and every movement that we make

substantiates that all is fake

the lion roars, the eagle soars

and we become part of décor

 

to keep your target off our back

no matter what the cul-de-sac

we camouflage with an assuage

surviving as your entourage

 

so all this talk of good and goals

are meaningless and minuscule

we’re purpose driven to survive

and when you’re gone we have arrived

 

so back to all this late night walking

far from all the endless talking

no progression or direction

or illusions of protection

 

***

 

 

ants analyzing their assholes

i was at a party

but all the men kept talking about

was beer, boobs and ballgames

and the fast and the furious movie chain

 

i left, bereft of nothing

 

american culture is a vulture

consummating with corpses

 

cream rises to the top

even if it’s curdled

out here on the streets

there are no hurdles

 

just a smooth sailing sidewalk

upon which i walk

while watching the illusion

of a sky with no stars

 

thinking how i would probably

have been arrested

if i had tried to smuggle books

into that party

 

laurel and hardy had

nothing on the comedy

of cosmic creases

 

where nothing increases

the wastefulness of what

we think makes us relevant

 

till all i can do

is fake the flu

so i don’t have to forage

on the floors of your forest

 

whenever anyone talks

all i ever hear is how

i would be better off

being like them

 

but all i see is a disconnected brain stem

broken by the barriers

built to barricade

any challenge to cohesiveness

that’s congealed into comfort

of carnal cravings

 

even claiming they are attaining

true spirituality

quoting chapter three

of a culinary chicken soup

 

thinking their truth

is worth a dollar at a kissing booth

come and sip the wealth of their lips

 

their existence alone

is what this world is worth

 

never giving birth

to the conception

that the ultimate deception

is the perception of their thoughts

 

because no one is ever taught

that neurons are necromancers

a tease and denial dancer

who will let you buy them drinks

so you will think

that with each shot you have a shot

at fulfilling your desire

 

truth does not make you a liar

if the flames of your fire

do not conspire

to raise you higher

then a heimlich designed to expel

the morsel upon which you are choking

 

***

 

 

 

poetry on the precipice of perfection

         (or why my most recent manuscript will be named:

          the dark streets of decay and other possibilities)

 

taking the time, another rhyme

more than beauty, also benign

a band is three or a quartet

our harmony is a duet

 

i waltz with words you inspire

you’re the seed which love has sired

all poets’ angst would draw a blank

if for your love they could give thanks

 

so taking time for tender rhymes

from dawn’s decree until bedtime

is why this poet has a pen

to say, “among the race of men

more than beauty, also benign

her praise’s the why words should align”

 

***

 

of wedding bands and solaced hands

overflowing, my mind’s going

to the love that you’re bestowing

dream fulfillment in your kiss

when we’re apart i reminisce

 

your picture in my shirt pocket

close to my heart like a locket

the death of less is born again

with my fingers on your skin

 

my fingers tangle in your hair

where all else fades without a care

pulling you close i am a ghost

who finds the light by the guide posts

 

of your green eyes that satisfy

this hunger i cannot deny

to touch you then touch you again

till every touch that’s ever been

 

is just a shadow in the night

only your beauty can ignite

the flames of love that turtle doves

will sacrifice to God above

 

so many kisses go astray

but your kiss is here to stay

while others paint the rose blood red

my wild rose needs no instead

 

the passion red upon your lips

won’t wipe away with just one sip

i hold you now and know somehow

this flame cannot be doused by clouds

the sunshine of your beauty sways

the promise of un-cloudy days

 

***

 

my father’s artistic son

My father was born in Austria. Germans are very austere. After WWI Germany was decimated, but within less than two decades, through hard work and self-sacrifice, the German people made their nation a world power once again. I was raised by such a man, but ultimately I was a disappointment;

 a poet who once wrote:

 

aliens on acid

i could have been a contender

but i was distracted

by dust on a fender

 

easier to lay about

drink broken sunshine

scribble my pout

as rhymes guide the line

 

***

righting the wrongs of righteousness

(was she was told when she was young that pain would lead to pleasure?

          did she understand it when they said?

          that a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure

          will she still believe it when he’s dead? – the beatles)

 

have you ever seen the ocean sing on sunday in september

or danced with orchids in the spring until you can’t remember

 

we make a goal and worry so

seeking diamonds, pressing coal

we say diamonds are worth the sweat

complaining daily as we fret

 

the moment’s gone but we press on

sacrificing, being strong

 

but even if the goal’s achieved

we set another, roll up sleeves

and preach a perfect paradise

accomplish sweat and sacrifice

 

the moments pass until at last

the moments have their final gasp

and in a eulogy it’s sung

how you were always tightly strung

 

my moments are not sacrificed

i’ve said it once i’ll say it twice

i make the moment matter most

to its presence i play host

to make the task that i am asked

a costume ball without a mask

 

***