his charm is a soft blue moon,
reflecting with the secrets of our sweet stars,
an exquisite work of art,
enchanting happiness, peace-love;

his heart whose center is the spark,
treasure, a poem,
crystalline embellished glitterwords
feelings gently mirrored;


day by day
slowly, surely
into decay

oxygen leaks out
into ether
replaced by toxins
replenished by waste

the existential conundrums
as we hit fan blades
event horizons
in time-space

black holes,
our own egos
coming to pieces
at last

resistance is
ripping atoms
in ecstasy

pushed over the edge
of the universal hotbed
we were birthed in
here –

– we are at Home
in this galaxy of lights
glistening at the
far ends of other

wormholes, warm and
whole, suckling at Mother
Milky Way’s breast and bawling,
“but, God! I’m the one

who tries too hard
because I don’t know how to be anything
but an authentic and sincere
sad son of a bitch”

how beautiful it is
to be cared for
and contented,

nowhere to go
but to grow
up and out
and into this

At the Momentum

It wasn’t so easy,

Being too soft.

She was the kind of song a

Warrior warbled, boastful,

Certain about what’s

Being left behind.

She might not have been

Successful enough to qualify

For any accolades, but, still,

She was gold.

Big, bigger, biggest yet:

The battle of buckling down.

Technology was talking

And told, through her, fanciful untruths.

This new irreverent sense

Of everyday life

Still showed all –

It was more acclaimed

And began to explain

The “Here We Go Again”

Nightmare on Busy Street.

Between babies bouncing to the beat

And the jump-off of daily routines

In effort

To evade the most important

Freewheeling terror ever,

The Everest

Of becoming your own father or mother,

That bacon and bread being brought home

With words alone,

Flipping rhythms

Of our internal, eternal selves,

Striking chords

And exploding in a million

Slings and arrows.

He’s special,

A King

In the limelight,


Dismantling fakes and labels,

Shrugging it all off

But the ancestral chip

Of his namesake

Tattooed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade,

Nape of his neck

Heavy with sweet sweat

From carrying a world of violent streets

On his broad brown back.

Real want,

Real mad,

Real fun.

Intensely critical crown –

Open stream –

Founder and protector –

His idealism is not to be dismissed.