Guyana's Small Golden Flowers

He had spoke of life ...
in an equable way,
not as an elusive recluse
atop the hill, but as white columns
embedded amongst colorful scenery.

They liked his realty,
buying into the view
that Eutopia was property
they could own, and Heaven
gave the best open houses on Sunday.

Cyanide was needed to bring to the surface
his streets of gold,
the shine that lined each garden row
listening to his sales pitch.
But the little ones only saw fullfillment

on Mondays in bowls of saffron rice,
looking like their malnutrioned teeth he used
to speak of Death with ...
because he knew it divinely,
that Hellish element found in nightly hoods.

They trusted the white man.
because goodness, and truth were white after all,
or so that was the new lease on life
they had signed, like their social security checks
he pocketed along with forgotten tenants of morality.

He spoke of that all-powerful ...
in a revolutionary way.
The little ones went to sleep
to his militant lullibies of how
cyanide would bring out the light.

Blood crumbled human stone in Guyana that day,

leaving small golden flowers
to map the landscape,
like little chemical hands
polishing reflections
on agents who speak in terms of God

about deals made with the Devil.

Shrinking Cassandra's Anger ( The Cassandra Accounts )

Psychologists amuse, and yet annoy me,
with their cutting deep a heady feel,
implementing mythological scalpels.
Way to open all those reasons
with keys of unreasonable delusions,
diminishing anger into romantic sadness.

"Complex" are the complexities these days;
Greek in appearance, and heroines
are reduced onto mindful stages
where Gods direct human tragedy
with a clinical eye. You say she is lovely sorrow,

shrinking her rage into something
more managable, and appealing
to the audience. I say,
"Have you ever asked her
what is bringing the curtains down ?"

I suspect she would tell you
She's pissed ...
about the ropes you insist on binding with,
the newest twist of classical threads
to twine about her furies.

How can you expect her
to respect your characterizations,
when you have no respect for her character ?

Propel Her to Heaven Loudly

Propel her into Heaven loudly,
on brazen bikes built with
base born steerings where we rode
Sun, Moon, and Star trails,
turning them cyclic.

Her face is length, and breadth
to me. The air strewn from she, and I
is a tandem of Elysium comet ribbons
young girl's fingers dance between,
and it seems her crosscuts

were always yellow , and orange
like a new morning...

Propel her into Heaven loudly.
(Not that she doesn't know her way)
Once she lead the pink, and green winding dash,
silver-dusted spolks of shine
in noonday light,

where we believed
that the path was clear, bright,
un-obstructed revolutions, and I
brought up the rear
as if it were a position of glory.

Others may find many wheels
within this story. But for now,

I will propel her into Heaven loudly.
Baskets full of loop de loops
that only we could rhythm;
our chain of events, our sparks golden,
and I recall her hand upon my back

guiding me till I flew alone...

Her Vade Mecum

This library was a necropolis,
glossaries of grimoires layed out,
seemingly salted, and lymed.

She never wanted to jimmy
stacks of catacombs, leaving
the skeleton keys to rot

away in her mind. But his curriculum
rested in peace
those definitions of hell,

and she could tell you of a well placed window,
the framing of a kiss
upon her cheek, communicating

it is not time yet to open this book.
She'll define a scolding finger,
and the crooked grinned look

of an old man's vocabulary not ready
to verbalize missing sentences.
He never needed to speak...

with his intersecting language
of expression; a readable vade mecum
road-marked upon her.

" I will always be with you. "

Turning the black
encyclopedias back to conjure him,
he glamours her spellings,

so she might find a page more alive.
Some will scream, some yell
it is her own lock's spinning sound.

But they do not know
the background of him in her voice,
his inference mortaring the vault of each syllable.

This is a Father's daughter

where closed eyes,
and a concentrated/consecrated mind
pronounces life in letters,

giving shape to the bulk,
and bulge of word-mounds
found amongst the booming outcome of voice.

Within this morpheme Da lives, and no demons

can manage the polis of he, and she.
Within this morpheme,on streets of blue eyes,
markers of recognition are placed.

" I... will always be with you. "

This library is a nursery now,
glossaries of gold gild,
new interpetations of old signatures

breathing fixtures open,
and pulsing her flesh
with skilled research

to bring about the right conclusion.
He adopts her city where she traffics the dead
in strong vehichles of speech.

She is his... applied appendage,
alphabetized, and organized
into synonyms of antiquated references.

Once an orphaned phrasing,
This was a Father's daughter
now with wide eyes,

and a concentrated/consecrated mind
pronouncing life in letters,
giving shape...

to the bulk, and bulge of word-mounds
found when de-composition
has to be un-earthed.

This is still a daddy's girl,
curled in the lap of new punctuation now.
This is Her... vade mecum

Birds, A Piece of Humble Pie, and Weighty Sky

The sun,slick in oiled smooth rainbows -
those country fried flashes of when we cooked
along the edge;
female dishes called revelations.

Gravied with poor man's laughter,
and thickened with powdery, floury hope,
this is how we birds did it,
always feeling the heaviness of being alive.

I will enshrine/ shine... always
the substance of blue jean Goddesses
shimmying the heavens and exhaling
mountains of will; Hands outward, offering

their hawk,who protected the pride
of our home-cooked bread we force-fed
demi-humans declaring us Bacchi,
her own meal of Light.

" Dance with us. Show'em how it's done! "
I shed pounds of gluttoned humanity
on a healthy diet that I have never been,
nor ever will be the main course on this universal table.

We were part of a delicious banquet,
prepared with spirits drunk on breathing;
the simplest recipe of salty skies, peppering another day
to nourish you, and I - until we beautiful birds

can dance these horizons together again.

Fishing Dryed-up Holes

You stocked her stagnate pond,
leaking green bribes she retained
when feeling less than full.
We never seem to notice cannons blowing
while submerged in mandrake tail/tale.
It is a denial
of instinctual behavior to not
come up for air.
What did it feel like to die in the blast
as she baited her hook coyly
with sticks of dynamite?
Was it easier than that hard gasping flop
required on muddy banks?

Gunslingers

Just one more notch; a mark
defining by your lack of impact,
as you sit with your back to the wall.
Because no one could possibly be as cool as ya'll
and you need to defend that aim.

It's just his name...
and holds little lead for you, but
has enough powder to spew that you're the best.
This steeling of your ego
fires off self satisfaction.

The wise old sages say
it is hard to kill off someone
when you call them out with a personal touch.
But they have never stepped
into such an OK Corral as this.

Where curved draws are considered
skillful blasts,
and the last man standing
is always the one truly afraid
to take the hit;

Looking mysterious,undressed
in a vague black, attacking from behind,
so no one can witness what they sling
as the bullets go flying by.
I have never shyed

away from duel or decision,
looking someone in their eyes
with an honest precision
before I say "hello"
or shoot them down.

But that is old fashioned I'm told.
I wonder what the good old boys
would think of us now ?

Look to Ireland

The Irish got up,
wild, and un-Romanized.
Only for an Ersan sun/son
to set upon a cross-
road of civilized faith accumulated
on the tip of an uncivilized sword.

" Count your dead ", they scream,
their two cents
of Belfast stones,
markers to be added daily.
An arithmatic with no
final sum to rest in peace.

Cease-fires have become psalms
to a hindrance in mathmatics, and guns.
What price, this fanatic dogma
of any cost is winning
of priceless exemption
when there are so few left to cash in ?

This religion of...
" I will subtract my countrymen,
and die before I will live
to speak of unity in a breathing equation;
what is its worth to men who now know
only the accounting of blood ?

Picking Bones

Trying not to brew, in this roux,
rolling it with crunch, and crack,
she stews within this brack of bone,
carving the soupy parts out of her cup,
till there is nothing left but muscle.

Replacing one stiff utensil for another
is simply sticking forks in the tenderness
to see if it is palatable yet.
Crying over spilt milk makes it all nice, and juicy.

Damage must be set aside,
cast amongst the Kitchenware.
But that's all packed up now, and she
has no idea how to cook with out her tools.

The Way of a Myth's Death ( Cassandra Accounts )

A little longer Cassandra.
Myths die in the crackle of disbelief,
and Apollo's back eventually snapped
like dried up laurel leaves
under the foot of your "No".

In this after-life, after-him,
there was a quietus
to every living thing. You made
your exit past corpses,
never being able to convince them
they were finished.

Who could have imagined your end
when you euthanized a God
with treeing downfalls of
" I don't believe in you any more. " ?
And how did he repay
your merciful autumn ?

By leaving you
to the ruin of a faithless copse,
just beyond the stone markings.
A little longer Cassandra.
The last of the mourners are falling away.
Release will crumble you soon.