South. East.

filthy avenue, hum drunk streets and shake brick buildings

metal doors, rattling venomous serpent boxes

sex slave wage laborers and johnny tom cats wondering

pennies and pussies meeting closed doors, and sedans

idling, hide contempt for the cunt peddler, johnny

all wondrous, conquering the pussy meat

vending machine, no deposit no return

key to entry in the snatch is a dollar

wage weighed in groceries or dope

the pussy keeps pulling the bar, bar, cherry

on the slot machine reel, getting fucked

comfortable, to buy the milk and meth

so daddy don’t beat it, when he comes

in her mouth, out from jail cell whores

waiting, for fuck and dollars and reports

of stall door morse code, levi rivets and

belt buckle fucked against, the cheapness

of aluminum panels erected permanently like

johnny’s pink brimming pride, illuminate

the stall walls can’t speak, but they read

their contempt for, the niggers, beaners

whites and chinks, and presidents and popes

and  solicitations  for rendezvous’ for

ass fucking and dicks in mouths of

men and women and stall door closes

dirt, sugar, water

I don’t remember it clearly at all. I recall a new tattoo and you had become emboldened. Clearly I was in the wrong for some past distress that I had reminded you of. Always unsatisfied with what you got. In the end another one to the list of, “what you could be.”

Like beating off on your SAT, it’s messy and probably won’t bode well so what do you expect? I asked her to leave and she told me, “you’re no Mark Arm”

I can't find my peace.
I can't find my country.
I can't find my piece.
I can't find my country.
I can't find my night.
I can't locate my naivety.
I can't find my piece.
I can't find my day.
I can't find my piece.
I can't find my price.
I can't find my eyes.
I can't find my eyes.
I can't find my eyes.
I can't find my eyes.
I can't find my peace.
I can't find me piece.

I've taken a lover, these hills

your cold breath across my face and i take you in. half naked and toes in your snow, me alive in you. creaks and moan your iold bones in the breeze
i desire you, like a lover.

hold fast my soul as i bed in your fir and pine. kiss my neck in your warm supple spring. reveal the bounty beneath your white blanket.
you devour me.

walk with me hot inside you. your kingdom of heaven and gold grass where hard parched flowers lay.
i thirst for you.

cools night again fall on your shoulders. grey age in your face in your shortened days. poised in your slumber.
i dream in you.

sin palabras

a feline rose and sung to me this morning
with no chorus, nor words, she spoke song
the sun parted her body, half of heaven
half flesh as mine, sighed beside me, roared
in this den you bed, laid beside me
you come to me, i followed, home

a si en tu casa, o la distancia, suenos
y si me encanta tu cancion, nos casar
y te gusta mia, cantar juntos, sin palabras
amantes, amigos, juntos, cantarnos

ay chinga

Due to unspecific threats on my life I have been driven to post something to my blog. While still and always working to better craft the madness I have not posted anything since Mexico. Something must be done to remedy this situation.

Awaken to the thick heat and my own heavy smell I jump to the edge of the bed. cigarette.now. My face feels inside out and I swing from bedroom door to bath in awe of my smooth transition I step to the pot for relief. A step too close I'm afraid, "ay maldicion!", the pain shoots up my toe and through my foot. Relieved. The cold water and soap on my face is a pleasant distraction from the throbbing pain crawling up my leg. Scrubbing on seventeen days of scruff, I scour and scratch deep with the cigarette half cocked out of the left side of my mouth. Pulling my bottom lip in to angle the fag down, using my thumb and index fingers to caress across my mustache and pushing my lip back out in an exaggerated pout to reverse the angle. Coming to the chin I pay a little more attention to the recent organization of grey hairs that have been gathering there as if they were aware they must have a show of force for me to pay them any mind. I count them, quickly, twenty-eight; "that many you bastards come and I can wash my face and smoke? How many more can I trade you to knit? Age, you fickle bitch, do or don't, but don't fuck with me I haven't the time nor patience."
Starting for the door I glance in the mirror those little grey bastards and my blood shot eyes still half full of wine from last night. Hangovers are meant for grey days. Out the door the sun somehow  bouncing off all four of the white walls and blinding me, I stumble to the street to make my way. The wine swishing in my head I sway rather lazily onto calle 30 feeling every time I lift my left foot the toe hit the rubber interior of my shoe where has been placed a ball pein hammer. My mind wanders, swimming in the ferment of grapes and sex and this damned swaying feeling. I imagine that crazy drunken Italian from the bus ride with what's left of my wine in one hand and the other on some rudder controlling the direction of my swaying head. Singing and blathering on and on in a mumbling drunk swirl of Italian, Spanish and French. I want to drown him.