The mountain lion looked around

in search of some kind of treat,

he knew not, from where it’d come

he just had to have some meat.

It seemed he’d searched for quite some time

hunger starting up a trauma,

when finally his eyes did find

a healthy piece of brahma.

He caught his meat-and he did eat

‘twas even better than a deli,

he ate up almost all his prize

and severely gorged his belly.

Proud of himself, and of his catch

he laid down on the canyon floor,

I was visiting
a Central library once
a young gal was going around the library
in circles....
I volunteered to help her
in case she was struggling
for something special
and this is what she said to me.

'''Sir my mom told me
to go around
to a library to see,
how many guys come looking for me,
as they would think,
I'm as knowledgeable
as the librarian
and would propose to marry me ...''

Sir will you now help me?
What to marry thee!

ABOUT RESURRECTIONS

We all suffer and endure
a crucifixion
of one kind or another
a hundred or more
in a lifetime.
We bleed through the heart
and the mind turns
on itself
in brutal insanity
Into dark places
we must fall
for there can be
no resurrection
without the soul’s near dying.

when he was called back Home I hated You
for stealing such a treasure from my world
I screamed at You and begged it be untrue
anathema I, to the heavens, hurled

ashamed, I ask now that You will forgive
my petty, childish, human ignorance
in questioning the reason, Your own motive
in making me abide within his absence

for since assured acceptance has begun
I fully understand I should not whine
because deep down I know he was Your son
long before he ever came as mine
.

The smell after removing soak sweat panties
cock before the room of only two eyes
her full summery incense
beads along the small platform breast
dewdrops freeing the hole

legs apart slow shaking
vintage Bebop
flip flop two cheeks
fanning summers heated tushy

stay . . . manifest
upon request
descriptive thorough blue note
on back of signature jacket of Bud Powell

her summery scent now pronounce
by tangle whips of humid air
from an open window low puffing voile
cast an usual aphrodisiac

This tale is woven around legends

It will be peddled around for decades

Historians will use it as a point of reference

It will be told to kids as folk tales

This is the story of the man

who raised a band to fight an army

Am afraid that is not the plan

If you find that alarming

It was he, they said carried death in his pouch

and his birth the mark the beginning of an epoch

Strange one, Abami!

Oh! … You should know the woman he calls Maami

The lioness of Lisabi

She was the great Amazon

A sturm of flights
Geist dressage
seeping tear stained
beneath the shroud

Here is lightning
laced as silk
through jagged
runs
the pivotal hoops

and thunder
stark like a Gods
cough

to open minds
to seek horizons
beneath the comfort

Dead Zones of acclimation

where even elephants forget
in mists where shadows
depart

the breath of the great sleep
the perfume of
it

slipping like a drug
beneath the occupant
heart

These tall and somber gray pine trees,
I won't begin to guess how old,
whose tops, only, are moved by breeze
mask tales of memories untold.

The pines end where the slopes turn steep
change marked by ancient oaks and beech.
where squirrels play and tree frogs peep
on land unmarred by iron plow's reach.

Now and then a locust post
stands wrapped in an old root's embrace.
I've seen them once or twice at most,
it brings a wry smile to my face.

Well, here it is
two years after
the Kama Sutra;
we tried all the positions
bending towards this or
that, hands shackled to
thighs and mouths hungry
for the want not-waste not
religion
of flesh.
Not even wet sheets came between
us.

Not even one mountain we climbed
was less
than ten miles high
but you and I can't measure the good with the
bad as if we could
surgically remove
the coming death blow:

HOWLING in 2012

(dedicated to Allen Ginsberg's Howl)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by money, striving,

hysterically faked dragging themselves through fascist streets to

pawn their soul for the elusive buck

angelheaded hipsters losing the ancient heavenly connection

to the starry dynamo for the the machinery

of might.

Whose poverty and tatters are deep inside

Vats and cups smoking in sterile fluorescent whiteness

and jacuzzied condos beathing frost as they chop empathy