Lips of Sweetness

Sweetness of lips talk nothing but kind words

as if you were reading verses from the heaven

when those lips draw near me in bed

I hear the echoes of lovers from the distance of moon

Back to desires, you are the first one

blue-eyed lake in dark, like your eyes all the times

I enjoy the rain because it spreads

your taste upon your skin below the red dress

This universe has moody seasons

people whisper to stand against our shields

close to you and my secrets become the

shadow to protect you all night

For you, I will drink your wine

and break all the bottles of sorrows

For you, I will inhale your scent

and damage all the pack of grieves

Even your perfume has a promise

to seek you with the beats of my heart

hopefully, I will turn myself into a

candle to hear your voiceless wishes

Continue reading →

Stories From the Home Road

The escort was working with folks that had been ordered into a program for sexual offenders, and this is what they wrote:

Three Works By The Escort and Friends

Four kids from Brockton High decided to go to the haunted house where a family was murdered:

They decided to break things, until an old woman with dirty hair that covered her face and wearing a tattered gown, confronted them

Back in ‘89 I was lost and a little high

In the sky I never thought I would come down

Twisted mind, spinning everything

Clap, stomp, jump to the moon

Feel kind of dead, kinda loose

Kinda strange, drinkin’ my juice

You know I went loco

On my own like Al Capone

Fly low to the ground, died in the dirt

To die last or die first, heartburst

Creepin’

Continue reading →

Old Men Walk Funny (V2)

Old men walk funny with shadows and time eating at their heels.

Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, then most die.

They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home,

and forget their social security checks bank account numbers,

dwell on whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers;

did they put their underwear on?

They can’t remember where they put down their glasses,

did they drop them on memory lane U.S. Route 66?

Was it watermelon wine or drive in movies they forgot their virginity in?

Hammered late evenings alone bottle up Mogen David wine madness

mixed with diet 7-Up, all moving parts squeak and crack in unison.

At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears,

they are flapping jaws sexual exchange with monarch butterfly wings.

Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair;

sagging pants to physical therapy.

They pray for sunflowers above their graves,

a plot that bears their name with a poem.

They purchase their burial plots, pennies in a jar for years,

beggar’s price for a deceased wife.

Proverb:  in this end, everything that was long at one time is now passive,

or cut short. Ignore us old moonshiners, or poets that walk funny,

“they aren’t hurting anyone anymore.”

Continue reading →

Portraits After ‘A Likeness’

I don’t own an image, any proof that you lived: not a poorly drawn sketch or a blurred photograph.

There is no framed canvas in vibrant oil colours, the master of the place. No portrait to take pride in.

There are no stormy eyes glaring above the fireplace, that would judge my every move, every loose strand of hair.

All that’s left are memories, sullied by history. Your face cracked by your words, its art stained with their black tones.

Hearts may ache after leaps, but a canvas can’t be kept in order for one to live. A likeness will never help.

Continue reading →

         Sport
He always was the odd duck. He preferred a good conversation to senseless noise. He read books over choosing to sit endless hours in front of a TV screen. He always spoke like some throwback in the old black and white films. He called all the boys sport. Most didn’t understand him and I simply didn’t care. He drank scotch and would ramble for hours over the taste. The subtle hints of this and that. He was a talker with little to say. I gave him a book I had written . He looked at me as if I had handed him a pile of shit. “You write Sport?” “When not drinking I believe that’s what most people would call it bud.” “What sort of things do you write?” I took a sip of my drink and crunched an ice cube. “Well my friend looks like you will have to read it and find out.” He thanked me and took the book home. I saw him a few days later. He never mentioned the book or said another word to me.  A small sacrifice for art. I was happy either way not to be called sport anymore.

Continue reading →