Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

some kinda lunar madness
got us wide-eyed-ready
for a planned jam, so rattle out
yer words spurred on by the cosmos,
send 'em up into the mist sis n' bro...
pick up a pen and
GO!

Here We Go!

if the only two possible subjects for poetry
are love and death, I am an authority on one
and a novice at the other.
What kind of poet am I?


I've studied death through spectacles
and when I meet love I ask for ID
I have no sympathy for suckers or poseurs
I just want metaphors made of steel

like a mystical waterfall
wet drops from the heavens
saturate my being profusely
cause the cut is on the loose........

slit heels carry love
slid in broken alms
mounted
over a mouth of olives
tabled

The men's room on the third floor
is called John 3:16
it's where I laid my only begotten turd
and I know it's slightly absurd
but I'm a sucker for resurrection

they came back to the
place it started. the Go
cats once they got it
started, the deluge was
the found.........

in the psalm of my palm
my stud'e'baker cooks
wholly ghosts curmudgeons
and brittle grail

I mounted an olive once
it was the pits
I wanted to bite off the ear
but there was only a kiss
and it smelled like
forty days and forty nights

the found in bound
unties the knot
of suspension
bridges strung up
gropes roped
by entwines sup

Lazarus limped up on his skateboard
Like Porgy looking for Bess
just touch his robes and you'll be blessed
hide the skull; hide the bones
a prophet on roller blades
jumps the curb in a frenzy of salvation

found that rope hangin' there
lifeline danglin' in free air ....the
secret was to climb and climb
until ya reach the tipity top
then watch the whole unwind.........

Grapes raped into wine
we fill the jars with drunken water
and pass the blessing sweet before last call
I could tell you all, but I'll spare you the details
just remember plantations were once mustard seeds

taps the last post
calling
bugles
banging divine sprays beseeched by holy fonts
dipped flawlessin doors revolvered
by ceilings triggered
grappling sewaragcide perceptions
hooked hung sinkered

Zimbabwe has a neat sound to it
so I submitted my poems to a newspaper there
No rejection slip has arrived, so I count myself lucky

the leaves they swelled
in the garden of grape
dark purple and freed
a dragonfly appeared
and said........