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POEIA
He walks in midnight thunder;
the bzzz from electrical wires
drowns out dawning thoughts;
his sleeping ears hear the wind
whapping at his belly jacket.
He ducks into subway chasms;
the tip-tip-tip from the ceiling
leaks into his floundering shoes;
his crewcut persona feels shadows
whooshing for his silent grips.
He finds himself alone, lingering;
the shush touching his shoulder
reminds him about the sun-night;
his pounding stare looks like grace
who-wa-ing at his exposed dream.
STOLEN FINAL CHAPTER
there is a road the fortunate walk down
when the dirt turns sour and the rocks
penetrate the virgin flesh of love's acres
in olive gardens and droves of tasteless sex.
young women smell of watermelon valleys
intertwining the overtures played by fingers
following the ripped beats of hearts
creeping around shallow poverty pools.
away from the village reside fucked gods
whispering through the bushes that poets die
when the road diverges into seven bridges
with each leading to a different state of hell.
losing our underwear to grace the flesh
with enough volatile forces to produce
one child to cradle in the arms of a man
who has never kissed the pages of a book.
making sleepless love to a woman is like . . .