If the arts of
White-girl-goddess
Were lain down
On paper

Lovers leaving
Little black marks
On the bedsheets
The wing-powders
Of butterflies

Would we remain holy
Our bodies emptied
Of every vessel of lust

The wine is violent
On the senses
First beloved
Be not too violent with me

Captain Bravery
Texts me: Are you ready
To work again
At the airport
That lets you in
With no ticket,
And every passenger
Has a first-class ticket.

As I let Fear board,
I can hear Air
Traffic Control
Warning us about
Intense turbulence.

The captain—Bravery—
Has taken this flight
Multiple times.
This time he feels
Queasy after eating
Too much candy.

The overhead bins
Won’t close
As Hope falls out
Of the luggage.

Without you
I've felt hollow
A deep sense of falling

But Just. Like.I.didn't. ask. to. be. born,
I can't ask you to be my crutch.

I'll never love myself.
But,I can't keep loving you either.
You're a false substitute,
For a broken individual.

We both deserve better.

He was responsible
for pinning men
to the wrestling mat.
He was responsible
for fathering two girls
into two lovely women.
He was responsible
for writing several
award-winning articles.
He was responsible
for teaching me that
true love is real.
He was responsible
For saying the words
That broke my heart.

Paramedics find
your friend
on the floor,
in respiratory
distress.

As he’s
rushed
to the emergency room,
you hear
a drum set
in your chest.

You hear them whisper:
“He’s not going
to walk out
of this place.”

Your mind
races faster
than the doctor’s hands
trying to bring him back.

Nurses run—
“He’s crashing!”
The room begins to shake
like a seizure
in slow motion.

I twist the tip
Of her queen pawn

She makes graceful
Movements astride the board

Her eyes inviting me
To whichsoever fate

Her beautiful throat
Flowing into her blouse

Those erotic mounts
Between the hidden Vale
Of Venus

Our parents laugh
At the mystery:

"They're playing
A children's game"

Though tempted by the silver moon,
the sigh of waves along this shore,
I hesitate to rhyme too soon
about your features I adore.

I long to kiss those lustful lips,
to hold your fevered hand in mine,
to burn against your sultry hips
and feel the earth quake up my spine.

Yet, here I stand, alone, beguiled,
with only this last thought of you
to temper these words, boldly wild
while facing what I know is true.

You are a dream, a wish I cast.
My poem, thus, remains my last.

The following account predicated on partial fact and a healthy dose of prevarication with an attendant overactive imagination.

Trying to REM ember the waking stage of an emotionally tormenting dream

One week later
still dog-tired after jarring telephone ordeal
(seven days ago from April 30, 2025)
with fake government employees,
yours truly still emotionally haggard
trembling and wretched
closely following on the figurative heels
of FaceBook account of mine getting hacked,
whereat my psyche got hijacked to Cuba.

Java
A morning drink
My scent and taste I love
Reminding me to set my goals
Coffee

O Dionysus, breaker of chains,
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—
But for the wolves who howl against the night,
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!

The poets now are eunuchs, lisping hymns
To hollow gods of equity and dust—
But we, the few, drink deep the blood-red wine,
And laugh as cowards beg for kinder chains!