a thousand bullets gone astray

black coffee pounding
def beats through my veins
a jazz rift drifts like dead flies
against the newscaster’s sand
blasted voice scratching head
lines across my brain.

senior prison officers pimping
passes for pussy, didn’t see
that one coming, male guards
female prisoners human beings
in denial of their base instincts.

ann abramovich knows the score:
‘i wish u peace, love, and health.
blah, blah, blah, fuck that shit. i
wish u sex, alcohol, bare orgasms
and hope u win the fucking lottery,’
she says.

refill please…

my coffee’s cold like countess
tolstoy’s love for pugachev, ditch the
news and dream dreams instead
sorry love no cream keep it strong
bitter, and black like these sound
bites on a sunday afternoon.

III.  in search of peace

I searched for peace
but could not find her
on the troubled city streets

I climbed a mountain seeking
peace in the clouds, but saw only
gun-smoke rising from heated barrels

I listened by a babbling brook for
peace’s soothing song, but heard only
the drowning voices of the thirsty cry

I sort solace in the desert sands
but found only the broken bodies of
those who died for the promise of peace

I hid in the jungle seeking peace amongst
the humid leaves, but found only the guerrillas
in the mist fighting for freedom, not peace

And now I lay my head down to sleep
and pray to God my soul finds peace
if not here, then somewhere beyond the grave

It isn’t nice
to be naked.
Two live wires,

hot, exposed,

to dangerous
to touch together
under the night sky.

Dark, unyielding,
no moon to light
the way toward
salvation and bliss.

A kiss delivered
on velvet lips
awaiting the
morning dew

to deliver parched
lips from a thousand
nights of thirst.

Process notes: I wrote this piece after reading a poem by Langston Hughes called March Moon. In it, the moon is naked after having been undressed by the wind. Hughes ends the poem with a question:

Don’t you know
It isn’t nice to be naked?

I turned the question into a statement. This made me think about how some people are ashamed to be naked and prefer to hide their nakedness from their lover under the cover of darkness or dimmed lights.

P.S. I picked up the idea of adding a short commentary behind the inspiration of my poems from Dana Guthrie Martin over at her blog My Gorgeous Somewhere. Thanks Dana.

Her breasts bounce
in step with each
step on the step
master they bounce,

Like over-filled
water balloons
on a string, they
bounce.

Sweat drips slowly
between her crevasse

We lick our lips
like on a hot summer
day, standing before
a merchant’s stall
of freshly cut water
melons, full of thirst

She steps.

Process notes: I was looking for inspiration this morning.  I saw the word desire and thought why not write a series of poems about our base emotions.  Leaning back in my chair, I started to day dream about desire and immediately I thought about the lady I saw in the gym the other day working out on the cross trainer.  She was wearing a very low-cut white tank top that concealed very little.  Now I would be less than truthful if I said I didn’t steal a peak like every other guy that was there at the time.

balance = masturbation + black coffee

you opened my vein this morning and my soul poured out; now I can’t stop the bleeding.

A blend of spoken word and music.