Labia

Most of the time there is no offense to those of whom I keep as company.

Though there may arise a case that surely needs tending, so I make my exit.

I return to my thoughts and unfold two metallic chairs in a quaint apartment , in a quiet district, in the safest city of my heart for you and I to share.

Though they are simply thoughts- they are best to think in privacy with enough space to feel them through, and enough quietness to hear their timbre.

Because your kisses are dynamic like your sighs.

And to be reminded of your stretch with arms skimming through our sheets requires space.

I’m sure the company I keep would not like a mouthful of obsidian black hair or a knee to the chest that they could not see.

I may not always be around. But I’ll keep you as company and call upon you.

Though I always find you waiting- sinking in my chest.

So I will make an exit and return to my room to finding you kissing each one of my fingers with painfully tender lips and falling asleep only to wake to the same.

Go

Do not close your eyes to those who kick sand and spit at your feet so they may be ahead of you. Defend your path and defend those with whom you walk. 

Do not close your eyes and spit at the feet of others. Wipe the dirt from around a dead man’s mouth so he may speak his truth.

Do not close your eyes to fall in the wake of a growing mob who are all blind, deaf, and dumb.

Speak your truth to raise and lead leader’s.

Daisy

Keep the faith old dog. Though it follows that all good things must be purged from this place, the world is not without its pockets of heaven. Save your graying hair, your sore legs as relics of strength. Your uneasy breathing will shift when you begin inhaling new air. My old friend you have been too good to me to lose faith. You will last.

My Native Tongue

I never understood the reputation my native tongue has always carried; it really is hot, sultry, and seductive.

It was last night that I saw a girl at a bar in Downtown LA, though, to be more specific it was her friend that I really saw first. She smiled at me for I’m sure no reason in particular when I was ordering a drink. So having just found a place outside to stand with a friend of mine I saw her with another female obscured by smoky dim lighting that reverberates off the industrial loft office building next to the second story balcony we were on. I dared myself to talk to them both.

Finishing my drink, I walked up to them and interrupted their conversation. Quickly stating my intention to both I glanced first at the girl I recognized then over to her friend which I found very attractive-immediately. Mustering up a few white lies to get the conversation moving I worked more of my attention to the girl I had just noticed. It turns out we had gone to school near each other when I stayed up north. Being quite sure she was most likely in her early 30’s or late 20’s and was probably (like much of the populous that frequents the bar) used to making over triple what I make in a year, I tried to keep my air of sophistication. My lips and tongue seemed to roll neatly and effortlessly through conversation and with quick resolve I ended it as soon as she give me the distinct glance of a woman’s approval.

Easing myself back into my seat I began to see the woman continuously eyeing me. A new man entered the picture- he was well dressed. I would assume that he probably picked that outfit up from Barney’s for a cool $1200 just to show up for the date, even though, that still didn’t make me feel ashamed for wearing a very wrinkled white American Apparel t-shirt, a pair of decent Japanese slacks, and brand new black Nike Airs.

As he tirelessly tried putting his arm around the women who kept sliding out of reach- she persisted in obviously eying me down. Though I found it flattering and reciprocated it started to get awkward when the man began trying to find out exactly who she was looking at.

My friends and I went back inside. Keeping a relaxed eye on the woman throughout the night I decided to get her number when we were about to leave. The perfect chance came when her friend was occupied with someone else and the man was nowhere to be seen. I immediately grabbed the opportunity and formerly introduced my self and asked her for her number.

Then there was a thick, palpable presence of raw lust as she replied to me in Spanish out of no where, “Vine con alguien.” (I came with someone…). Either she felt the impulse to test me in Spanish or her man was right behind me, either way her denying my request was directly contradicted by the look in her eyes and our faces coming almost too close for comfort. At this time I was praying for some kind of restraint. Her words, if spoken in English would have sent me away but spoken in Spanish it nearly replaced being in bed with her. She asked again where I was from and told me to come to the bar on Tuesday- she said it’s a lot of fun. Meanwhile, her hand rubbing up and down my left arm while the other was gingerly caressing my chest down to the top of my pelvis.

With her articulate English that I assumed was her only voice, it was in the irony of her rejection that her true wicked intent was spoken in a tongue whose absolute presence neglects anything other than lust and passion no matter how stoic and detached the syntax or nuance.

I prayed for some kind of restraint.

Summer in Southern California

Moving palms like waving hands, are like lovers’ fingers gently running up and down each other’s knuckles, nails, and creases.

Moving palms are wand-like hands that spark a breeze and guide it through life’s ether and like lovers’ fingers it lands coaxing your senses by nipping the neck, brow, and cheek.

Seven Grand

I am one more motherfucker at a swank bar with a blackberry or iPhone, wearing nice shoes and a grin. The same one buying the sophisticated drink lubing my mind into coaxing someone else with ill-intention.

I am the same man trying to fuck away my pain-fucking myself back to a healthy ego.

Where are those of pure intention? They are not those who appear innocent- those who appear innocent can be most rotten on the inside.

Those who may appear rotten on the outside can be most honest.

Purity is of intention and not stature, poise, or response.

Those that go through a rite of passage may lose their innocence and become a hyena-dependant of others for survival through feeding on weaker game.

They should be so lucky as to become the high lion that watches after it’s pride.

My Father’s Best Friend

My Father’s best friend died the way he lived- running from the law.

He spent half of his adult life behind bars and slowly came to the conclusion that he had not the will to reverse the effects of years of grime and mental decay that accumulates on top of a man’s soul within the confines of penitentiary. He had a son that he did not want to follow in his footsteps.

Luke Dyce was loyal to my father and was at his side when he had fallen.

I am proud to have his son as a brother.

Without a challenge there is no accomplishment.

In his passing he like every man or woman has become a notch; in a person’s passage their life can be seen to damage or construct.

The passage of a human being can become an added step to a staircase or a ledge from which to dive.

May 11th

I find no description of free that surpasses my own experience.

I’m sure there is no freedom outside of the cerulean blue forever outside of my window-

Resting carelessly on fluffy white duvets daydreaming in present tense with no one to share and no promises to keep.

I am lost in the now, free to explore matters of mind whether inner or out.

One more to my bed, would be a cloud to my sky, would be a care to my mind.

There is no freedom that exists outside of the soft touch of my bed caressed by the warm hand of the sun reaching in through my open window today.

Lift your Blinds

When the blinds of eyelids lift the warmth of sunlight can bring about miracles.

But what is it that is sunlight? Are they rays of light from a near star or ideas and mantras from oneself or another?

What is it that is warmth? Celsius? Fahrenheit? or the spirit of being itself? Consciousness and hope.

As I fall asleep sing to me the song that life may dance to in hope that I fall asleep with purposeful existence floating throughout my dreams forever and ever.

This one’s a keeper :}

 

10 West

If I could I’d own a well-built jalopy. With strong doors to withstand the center divider. Its color would be scrapes of paint from half-conscious nights from when I, a graceful lady and a few steadfast lads would approach a shoulder and meander through small valleys fathered by quaint hills and green swells that are read by coy trails that are merely sweet nothings of an ever expanding path of Californian bliss. 

 

{homeward bound from Joshua Tree. March 19, 2010}

Tranquilo

With expression we write our biographies, and our prayers. Paint and draw our ideals and our fears, play and record our whispers and screams however vocal or internal. Visceral is the paint that drips from a brush on to canvas and desperate are the words that spill from our mind through pen and ink onto paper.

Above all we are driven to create our own cures; those that soothe or instill what we may lack at any given point in our lives.

3 March 2010

I feel in love.

To you, you, you, and you

I give all of my love

I give all of my love

I give all of my love

I give all of my love

.

My own advice to myself

I try and be the best that I can be. I truly aspire in every sense.

But I need to give myself more credit.

 

I’m patting myself on the back from now on.

Bitches are still objects

As a child- a very young one at that- I used to sit in the shower and imagine that the world was full of dominant beasts pushing me down. I developed a complex form of inferiority. I grew to adopt this expectancy of oppression and began thinking of the futility of living in a world like this. But this was all imagined. I was always troubled by a world that was never present- one that I had projected.

As a pre-pubescent and adolescent I imagined the dark world of adulthood. The weighty problems of being over 20 and able to bring life into the world. The complex issues that these individuals go through caused me grief to say the least. The sticky, dry, overly-sophisticated and political laws of love at this age baffled me. These archetypes lived as dark shadows and mysterious unfinished-unresolved stories in the back of my mind.

I imagined the tenacious grasp of true addiction among a lost 25 year old. A desperately lonely twenty-something female. The hopeless romantic. The depressive girl, the stoned couch-potato, the still undecided grown boys and girls. Above all: the let-go.

I’ve seen the alpha male in all stages. The most dominant in the physical, mental, emotional, spiritual.

Bitches will follow the most dominant.

I’ve been torn down by the fear of unconscious live-ers.

I’ve feared a world that does not exist.

I’ve surpassed all that exists on real-time.

I have sharpened my sword in preparation of a battle too large to be actual.

Real opponents cannot compare to my imagined foes.

The Real world is full of dominant beasts that cannot push me down. I am above them.

They may pull but will never succeed to submerge.

Let the whole world know my name.

A little more about myself.

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating."

-Pearl S. Buck

 

thank you thank you thank you…

My Wardrobe

I have changed attire and dismantled- no wrecked my model life.

I have changed shades and form.

My old skin is folded to be donated.

There is not an ounce of “fun” that I seek or remember.

My wardrobe has changed.

My fun is less fun and more joy.

The colors of Monday are no longer black and Friday no longer sits

on plush velvet fabrics in ivory dens.

All days are beautiful and no time is taboo.

Friday is not for debauchery and neither is Tuesday.

My good time remains not in clubs and bars-for they act as such.

Bars before my reward and a club to my head.

Show me a bar without a fight.

Show me a man without false pride.

Show me a human that does not lack self-love.

Introduce me to a woman who is not a cunt.

My heart at spring.

Tonight it is spring.

The time of mourning my dead flesh, mind, and heart is short this year.

On this night spring is here- at the dead of winter.

Tonight a breeze meanders between my legs during the widest steps.

It follows as I look skyward to see vibrant palms and trees- they quiver with my pleasure.

Framed by a clear violet sky they appear as grand paper silhouettes; black.

They gauge the nearness of the stars.

I aspire.

aspire.

aspire.

I do lose my focus- the stars are nearer than my palms.