Poetry Is Dope

Un careful placed tongues    
Slipping knot poetry      
To be sure      
To swing      
And unable to hit      
     
Like a falling dream      
A dream where you fall    
Brace for it..    
But you wake in the middle      
The bottom      
It stays in the distance    
     
No bottom of it      
Of words      
Sliding out from under you      
Slipping from desperate grasp      
     
White knuckles curl the syllables      
The meaning of them      
Clenched in its palm      
Full of the map      
The born in tree      
      
Knowledge      
Intuitive like      
     
But wrapped tightly      
By the struggle      
By pride      
By counterintuitive impulse      
The likes of it      
Unholy      
     
(To most)    
   
Few would condone it      
Many would do it      
     
I often feel like saying it      
Often it enters my body like blasphemy      
     
And it rock shocks      
Grabs warm places      
Digs and I buck    
And then    
And then...  
     
I want to fuck      
Like a kicking mule      
And a gone bad woman      
     
On the edge      
Sitting pink on the verge      
Of clamped tight      
Spasm      
And its lie awake at night      
........ rocket      
     
Rocket      
     
Rocket.... 
 
Phew...  
     
I breathe heavy      
Like a time lapse photo      
Of an obscure      
Underwater creature      
Whose movements jerk      
In reds      
And shocking      
Bright      
Neon blue      
     
Pulse    ....
..... ..  
     
And ads plenty      
To dark depths      
Of uncharted territories      
The Mariana Trench      
And ungodly bottomless holes      
Found right smack      
In the middle      
Of a desert      
     
Right smack in the middle      
Like a      
........rocket      
     
Shoot...

       
You must know there are times
I will not choose you over the poem;  
nor your email, text or pouting silence
over the verse;  
  
Bulging zippers will not sway me  
nor swollen suitcases by the entrance.  
If you want to be first in someone’s life    
you must know, it can never be mine.    
  
I'll never be the faithful wife  
skinning vegetables at the sink;
a gimlet eye’d grandmother supervising,
starched apron and recipe splayed
submissively across the counter -  
contents spooned carefully;
the roast, flayed, awaiting its wake -
attendees of potatoes and carrots
following into the heated pyre.    
  
I'll never be the faithful mistress  
in a négligée holding a drowning olive  
after a cocktail party --
  
alarm at attention so we don’t oversleep
alerting your wife to your late absence.  
  
I'll be in the tub with the poem instead;
gluttonous ink splashing imagery  
over its porcelain skin with each spit  
of candle and stroke of pen.    
  
You must know, in bed I'll fantasize  
about the poem, how it carried me    
shielding my isolated survival
from extinction, while hunted
by laundered mindsets
firm in sects of belief.  
  
You must know the poem  
is 'One Hundred Years of Solitude',  
a plantation abandoned by death;  
it’s 'All the archived Names'  
without Ariadne’s Thread;
the Life that Pi actually dreamt    
'The Shipping News' reporting anthologies
modern American beats underground;  
it’s 'Water for Chocolate' torched  
by match heads; it's 'Midnight  
in the Garden of Good and Evil';
it's Romeo; it's Juliette.    
  
You must know, that if betrayed  
by lies or entrapment I will escape    
elope, even commit suicide  
before captured alive;    
  
we’ll die together, deeply inhaling afterlife  
as Plath – taping your sleeping existence
away from us, towels caulking the frame;    
  
and you, you must know  
you'll wake lonelier than you’ve ever been.    
~  

I’m a prose fiend
   It’s my dopamine
I inject it with a pencil  
     With the potential it will give me a high better than any amphetamine
Then my brain reigns supreme
     Hiding a larger scheme
The stencil is essential
     With a beast mode better than the average if you know what I mean
 
I’m a poem addict
     It’s a vicious habit
I insert it with a pen
    When I make the time to do a line and rhyme to redesign my wildest dreams
It’s bulging in my genes
     Splitting at the seams
Wanting a good bump
     Then jump at the chance of indulging in composing like a writing machine
 
I’m a verse junkie
      Like a banana to a monkey
It has a certain…appeal
     But it’s a real obsession no one questions because they haven’t intervened
And so it seems
     I can slip by unseen
I’m the type of hype
     Who puts it in a pipe and quotes it in smoke signals since I’ve been quarantined
 
I’m a rhyme user
     A compulsive abuser
I’m doing it now with puns
     I’m so spun on having a ton of fun because in the long run I might never be clean      
Sorry I caused a scene
     Just look at your screen
But I feel write as rain
      When the ink courses through my veins unrestrained because I’m a prose fiend

I’m attracted to poets; I feel you should know this

Your very much like me, but so different completely
It’s like you get me, like you know how to get to me
How you pull words apart, and place back together
To mend my broken heart, time and time again

Our inside jokes, the way you say without saying,
So beautiful the game on words that you’re playing

As if your words were a tender kiss on my neck, your aim so direct
That’s one of my spots and you know how I get…

I admire your techniques and skills, your delivery sends chills
You know I’m a sucka for literary thrills

You know how my nature feels, how my sexual aggression builds
And when I try to run you suck me dry, leave me high, relieved and paralyzed

You know my joy and my pain; you know my pillow tear stains
You pour into my veins, your words lock into my brain
Totally confined by your vocabulary chains

I love your honesty; at times it’s too much for me
But it’s always what I need; at least you never lie to me

As if you think my thoughts, bleed my blood, and breathe my air
So much like me, can’t escape the similarity
I’m attracted to poets now that you know this
We’ll always have poetry but there is never enough chemistry…

A friend called me a poet-aholic...    
   
They aren’t wrong    
you won’t find any denial here    
Just call me an addict    
and no need to keep it anonymous    
   
I drink up people’s organized words    
like they’re on tap    
sitting on my favorite bar stool    
eagerly waiting    
for my beloved  poetic barkeep    
to poor me another round    
   
Shot after shot    
until my head is spinning with imagery    
and my liver is drowning in metaphors    
Stumbling all over myself    
yet somehow seeing a clearer picture    
and an illuminated path through darkness    
   
Sometimes they come in a tall glass    
allowing me to take my time, and savor    
the flavors in my mind    
Other times, I snort short lines    
of crystallized truisms    
chasing the dragon of a creative surge    
   
I can’t get enough of this intoxicating ink    
I want to mainline it into my veins    
Embracing the high, feeling the rush    
of emotional conjurations followed by    
feelings released    
Providing escape from my realities and    
temporary sedation of pain    
Finding validation in shared experiences    
and gaining insight from fresh perspectives    
   
Itching and scratching for more    
the come down is real, my friends    
needing another quick fix    
I am at the mercy of my benevolent  dealers    
   
So many poets sharing their musings    
serving up wisdom from tattered schematics and broken dreams    
exposing their vulnerabilities for me to behold    
Allowing me the the privilege to lurk    
Respectfully, curiously peering    
Into their hearts    
becoming acquainted with fragments    
of their soul    
Some allowing our demons to entangle, providing a much needed social reprieve    
   
I’m a junky for poetic truths    
that hit close to home    
for the moments you feel connected    
to a random soul    
who is able to articulate what you feel    
better than you    
For those brief moments you’re reminded    
you are not alone in the vastness    
For the poetic lifelines that keep me from drowning in seas of misery    
   
And the moments that shine light    
into my darkened soul    
providing me hope    
and courage to fight on    
giving me the extra bump    
needed to press on    
while the sands of time quickly pass    
   
It’s an addiction that indeed messes    
with your mind    
But instead of taking life it gives animation  
to words and ideas    
The goal is to spread beauty through both    
the light and the dark    
the poet is not here to boast or kill it’s host    
And unlike the hard stuff    
that eats away at your soul over time    
   
poetry feeds mine  
 
CHEERS! May we never come down...

Fishnet tights, holes of your complex
Times crosswords on the commuter train  
the points that rattle through your brain  
that mother fucker  
that cock sucker  
the healing weed you grow  
with each unwrap and feel the glow  
 
Each incest , temptations scribe  
that high riding skirt that pulls your eyes  
the cocaine up the tube it goes  
the hook and line of witty pros  
and smack your soul, smack your muse  
 
Shelf stealer, will plagiarism feed your habit  
LSD the elephant sized pink rabbit  
pure Columbian 100 %  
the fairy dust of poets read  
 magic mushrooms be that line interpreted  
 
A tourniquet of rhymes  
systolic pressure begs the phrases to beguile  
come the puncture and the rush  
staunch the needs  
the inky incandescence  
 
Verses drafted, needs golden sonnet  
hermit in the creche of each new sentence  
dependency; You want It  
a silver spoon with pain and tonic  
addiction that is not plutonic.

Try to stop, it reeks just vengeance

 
This poem is not for the faint hearted nor the brave
It's not a poem about revolutions
Nor about heroes and heroines..

This poem is not about man are trash
Not about what you and me can do to save the world.
You won't hear names like Mandela, Luther King, Biko, nor Rossa
It's not about Black or White,
You won't change literature with this poem
Soon it'll be forgotten in a long list of poems...

This poem is about nothing but something
It's just words,
Words flowing from a poet
For those who love poetry
For those who live for it
It's not about me
It's about every writer
It's about deep underground
About those on a corner of the street trying to put on some words
It's about those with scars turn into poetry.
For those who came before us,
For those who will come after us.

It's about the art,
The love, the life of poetry.

This is poetry..