Shock Poet

 
a swallow leaves as pages of palm trees brown.
hardly drinking,  the sopping fish  
no longer around.
It’s winter now upon subtle grounds
and swallowing difficult when one has that
itch and feel that we might be missing something.
 
Bookmarked the uncertainty, the mainstay  
we do despite the weather,  
friends are left behind.  Invite to come along
creates a journey of slow to no growth
and  hence to feather in between the pages.
 
Still
There’s the climate and climate change ----
Relationships,  
reciprocal warmth
saliva worn stamps  
curling off of the
empty envelopes.
 
Beside the point?
 
Point is. . .
Education
Indoctrination
Maturation
Preservation  
Montage - Collage
& Perservation…………
 
The personal journey
is to no where special  
but somewhere
beyond  
our selves.
 
Green pages sprout and spring
all the books returned
Bookmarks removed
still  remind
us of how far we’ve traveled.
 
Trust me,
You will know  
the when
the how
the before and after. . .
 
However,
the why
perhaps  
Is an eternal path
buried somewhere
within inuendos
of the Living Tome's
pages.
 
Sometimes
I wish I had
bookmarked  
those  
damn  
places.
 

I think, therefore I am
I am, therefore I feel
I feel, therefore I write poetry
I write poetry, therefore I get criticized
I get criticized, therefore I express my opinions
I express my opinions, therefore I offend those who disagree
I offend those who disagree because they know I am right
I know I am right, I think....

No I am not now nor will I ever be
Within the circle under the cliquing tree
Mirrors reflect the asses being kissed
By the ass kissers on everyone’s list
Who aspire to be elected to an imaginary office
And vote in praise of an all too real orifice

I find it all so distasteful, so full of it
Instead of a kiss, I'd rather get bit
When I offer up my thoughts of critique and of praise
As in my poems, those thoughts express my feelings in a phrase
To cast my vote, join the party and tow the line
Would tie the knot around my neck to be a part of that grapevine

O my fucking God!
I scribbled another piece of shit on the parchment
And when the monk returns from the city
He’s gonna kick my ass…again!
 
I am a brain dead scribe - still...
Still jotting down shit for a monk in a dank cave
In a mountain in Tibet.
I AM NO MONK! I am not even certain I wanna be (pompous Fuck!).
I haven’t been formerly trained and this fucking monk
doesn’t show me shit (damn selfish bastard).
 
Perhaps, my lack of correct syllable
Comes from way too much drink!
Hah!  As if that monk saw through my dribble
Of which I continue (to think).....
 
to scribe.

such an inebriant  
alarming aperitif  

Stiff cocktail  
hard drink  
thirst quencher  
chaser  
 
hooch  
liquid refreshment  
night cap  
libation  
 
fire water  
moonshine  
slammer  
sauce  
 
One for the Road?

I cannot believe, it's so surreal    
I have wanted her for so long  
damn, she's hot    
And she's mine    
    
everyone notices us    
I can't wipe this grin away    
yeah, she's a badass    
wait until you see her sway    
   
tonight's the night    
I know it is    
I've practiced and practiced gotta get everything right    
   
Oh shit, the clock is ticking!    
now's the time    
Fuck! I'm in her    
Damn, she's hot!   
   
come on now    
hold on, Don't    
you got this    
make it last    
   
heart pounding    
hips grinding    
here she comes    
Oh, Oh, mgmmm,    
I can't hold out anymore    
   
Damn, she's hot!    
This is it! Here it comes    
shaft flying,    
perfect synchronization    
   
Oh feel the adrenaline    
the rush of heat    
blasting through your body you're pushed back in your seat    
   
you're vision is clouded    
and you smell her aroma lingering in the air    
you pull out if her slowly    
wobbling to your feet    
   
every eye is on you    
Oh shit, what do I do?!    
then they erupt in    
catcalls and praise    
Damn, she's hot!    
   
your smile returns    
as you realize    
you're ready to go again    
and so  does she    
   
   
 

       
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.    
~