Musings of a Writer, Blocked

 

I’m not as intelligent as I used to be

 

somewhere, somehow, my brain

fell off the grid of post-independence,

now I’m influenced by the vast roaches

inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,

though they call to me, whisper my name

their shame becomes all of what I used to be;

 

the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation

they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,

not for water, but for company, companionship,

someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their

whimsical little petals now weltering beneath

the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;

 

to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the

dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those

tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded

that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-

in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,

soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;

 

still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again

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When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street?

 

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street

when it mattered the most? You say

why is it that when we age

that drift of sensual exhibition seems to drift from us,

an exhibition that knows no boundaries except

to exploit what we once innocently felt,

like an impulse waiting to explode,

then implodes from the inside out.

that used to be us. . .young, wicked, dangerous, un-wise,

un-visceral, un-universal, genuine angst at its unpolluted

but somehow we have become polluted with the

do’s and don’ts, the acceptable and unacceptable,

the conventional and unconventional of age

so why should we live by those fucking rules?  You grab

my hand and pull me close to you, and far from them,

in my mind you are still sixteen, and your kiss still tastes

of Marlboro mint faintly washed by a bottle of domestic beer

just like the night I snuck out of my parents’ house

to make-out with you beneath a lighted pole on the corner of a street.    

Book Query Update & “If Robert Ford were Jesse James”

Well it’s another year. . .another year of trudging through the economy while trying to avoid being hit by the fiscal cliff, which btw, was somewhat resolved at around 2AM this new year’s morning.

Aside from another year gone, I spent the last few days preparing Queries to Lit Agencies for my new and latest YA novel, “ROMEO”, a unique derivative to the much beloved play, Romeo + Juliet only with a paranormal twist. So I have my fingers (tightly) crossed in hopes to garnishing an agent and a book deal this year. As time progresses, and if my query makes it past the slushpile of an agent’s inbox, I will post it here. Until then enjoy my latest poem.

If Robert Ford were Jesse James

He had collected a memoire of the man
perhaps one too many times, particularly around
the time the last of the snow had fallen and faded,
fallen and faded like hot whiskey cold sweat
off the brows of dense calculating eyelids
in saloons or at the table of ever changing galleys.

Right around the time the wild foxtail wheat
had become aplenty beneath his feet,
he dreamt of Jesse James romancing as
Thomas Howard, trailing his footsteps, each
becoming less than a shadow of a coward
despite a soft unpleasant voice that cracked
like bones when spoken or badgered upon.

Right around the time Zee, pleasant and contrite,
was left a betrayed and loyal weeping widow,
still frames of horses and black lacquer stenciled gold
empty rocking chairs and holy matrimonial secretes
whispered on clean white cotton linen sheets had
become the muffles beneath the four of seasons of what
the future revealed in scripture of what was to be foretold.

Right around the time wind of fire had spread across the plains,
he had lost the inspiration of who he was to what he desired;
A gentleman, perhaps; An outlaw, first and foremost, it seemed;
A trusted hand holding down the hammer on humility
or perhaps, humanity, but never a true cowboy. If Robert Ford
were Jesse James, he would have stripped down his legendary guns,
laid down his best suit coat above the muddy terrains and let
the sins of his ghosts cross into the sunset of no regret-

only if.