A poem

is a thought

of flowers

near frost,

dangling stiff,

bitten by

the vampire teeth

of late fall,

hanging desolate

near dusk

from a pot

on a patio porch

a yellow light

bulb beaming

conspicuously outward

over-chilled yellow

green glazed grass.

Snow now, the Aster

deep purple,

falls last.

A Migrant's Empty Cup (V2)

This quiet Sonoran Desert.

The sun is going down,

touching my burnt cow

leather skin for the last time,

with death-piercing final touching.

There is no water in this migrant's cup.

Ideate the power, the image of my soul.

The only mystery that remains.

Decamp me from this lasting hell.

Hear that Turkey Vulture cry,

carrion flesh mine—

My intelligence was once vital

now lapses into last fantasies of red

blood-covered in guilt scenarios.

My stolen Niki sneakers from Salvation Army,

Chicago, multi-colors—

traveled multi-states.

So many meaningless miles.

Ashamed, I bloat, decompose

bones to stone.

Memories:  Venezuela, Chicago,

New Mexico, California, and Arizona. 

Nighttime Glitter (V5)

I have seen through the nighttime glitter

of wild women, the ways of their words,

the deception of their actions, the slang

of foolishness, toned down monetary voices.

Chop suey, 24-hour restaurants finish the nights.

Those late-night bars, cosmetic faces,

Early morning kitty calls.

Touching the males on the high thigh

plain places as a starter plan,

chopped through the thicket

hairy brush, of privacy

reflected on my journey briefly

and thrust straight forward,

mask of fools, no jewelry

simple smile, subterfuge face of a clown.

A night journeyman working in the trade.

Lady Melissa,

all those who fell flat before you

praising your prayers, my joys.

They follow fool's gold, the folly.

The lack of worth in the secret cave.

I have grown fond of the closed-in

tunnels where darkness resides,

moisture drips, and cave walls drop in.

Our minds, those minds, their minds, are catalysts.

I'm no longer the private collector of midnight trash.

No trophy, man of lady undies, tucked jacket pockets

on my way out.

I no longer see closed mine shafts, dreams of clouds,

those deceptive prospectors, gray beards,

gray hair, ageing, lonely, and poor.

Drop into an undeclared cave of poetic

wonder only to find iron pyrite.

Come join me, ex-lovers.

The rivers of my mind leave the gold panning behind.

Torch my guts open again with Valentine's Day.

Confectioner's sugar celebrates the night.

Hunter of Deep, Calinda (V2)

You, Calinda, of wood and metal, are an oyster pearl of the Greek sea.

You are a drunken disco dancer of beauty with charms around your neck.

You are a solo storyteller on the platform of ocean waves.

Your stained imprint leaves crossword puzzles

on the performance of strangers.

You only show your dynamic hula-hoop movements—

shapes, curves, when fishing boats pass by.

Calinda, you took your sensuous sex nature, barbed,

cemented in the skin of sailors' testicles.

Then comes the morning purge.

Your salted tongue wedged in the wounds of every victim.

Then you wonder why, wonder why again.

In half silence, you cry.