Van Gogh Doggie Style

Van Gogh Doggie Style

There are stars embedded in the painted black sky, and we are there in love, dinning, in the black stomach flu, of van Gogh's mother's death. "He" is not allowed. He is too crazy to be here in HIS own painting. So we nibble the edge of HIS severed ear, while we hear OUR love, poetry out-loud, my love and US sipping noodles like Lady and the Tramp, getting closer and closer, but our lips never meet in the middle because they belong to someone else. We can't even love the movie because it has already been loved. She loves that movie. She loves that movie more than you or me. Even if, my little girl self and your little boy self still love that movie. This woman loves it more. She loves The Tramp. They are in a sexual doggie style tie, facing opposite direction on the front lawn of Disney Studio. Visitors are complaining. This is why SHE's dressing like a princess on HER Facebook, with a knife in her hand, blood running down her eye, and we are all parked here watching, in stagnant emotion, from our computer chairs under the starry starry universe of THEIR broken heart and OUR broken emotions.

 

Pupil on a Dream

Pupil on a dream

 
I am a small circle on a circle, a pupil on a dream. I am a pupil on a horse's eye, in a dream and again in art. I am a fractured text, intentionally designed. I myself painted that horse, the horse you painted. The horse he painted. The horse that waits for sleeping beauty to wake. Some days he's a cartoon, some days he's at war, others he is in the safety of myth. I ride the horse each time, his chiseled face carved in Roman statue. I rode him to the Vatican, his black mane, silver hide, like stars blinking, winking in the darkness. We are connected, this horse and its pupil. We know Michelangelo. He is the glint God put in my eye. I saw his dead rider, fallen. The horse alone, standing hopeless in a piece of art. Dried paint on drip cloth, scaffolding a bridge, a rainbow. His painters, still in their youth, always, always catching light, his pupil leading him out, into the space beyond art. Galloping, bucking, playing the cowboy. The cow and boy separated then put back, the cow horse, arena roping tying his legs in time. I never saw Snoop Dogg ride a horse or heard him sing about one either. This horse belonged to a prince, sleeping beauties prince, lost in dreams. I am the dead prince before his death. My spirit returned, to polish the glass case, the chamber where she sleeps. My blood is the artists brush, the song of Dali, the cube of Picasso. My music is my princess and she is awake. I run the track, while my spectators place bets.

No Paraphernalia Needed

No Paraphernalia Needed


With only a couple boxes left on the shelf,
I decided I'd better grab mine
a bowl of hemp oatmeal
to start my day
high the natural way,
no genetically engineered organisms,
chemical herbicides and pesticides,
and never any synthetic preservatives.
No paraphernalia needed,
just empty packet into bowl
add 1/2 cup of water.
Now baby is bouncing
up the right path,
whole grain with a hint of brown sugar,
tasty too.
Endorsed by George Washington himself,
who once said:
"Make the most you can
of the Indian hemp seed
and sow it everywhere."
Thank you Lord
for directing me to Sprouts
and Nature's Path
Hemp Plus.

Pathetic Poetic

Pathetic Poetic

Her arm was broken before they could hear
an infant that never wore a cast,
a sidewalk dumpster bumpster baby,
born in a dadaless wonderland.
She mapped madness and melancholy,
through a pair of John Carpenter sun glasses.

Her nursery was decorated with
Dali psycho schizophrenic illusion,
a distorted holy vision, she drew
along with a key to a golden city.
Her first words, gaga'd
a Sistine Chapel salad super,
hell tickled holy city.

She's the baby that didn't see,
her dietitian forgot to prescribe tea.
She learned her way underwater.
A tile cross on the wall, marked
where it all began, swim skinny sinny bones
seventeen laps by a dog's tongue.

She's a pathetic poetic horror flick,
vanity vanished a foot, off the path,
then back again. Sticks and stabs may slit her abs
but music keeps her breathing.

Her wasteland fed scavengers,
crows asphyxiated her sweet syrup love story.
Now she's sippen slipper juice
alive on the stone, a sequel,
dada come home,
She's a hip-hop baby revival.

Cling

Cling

Tree roots

cling to mounds

like the artist

clings to canvas

Like Madonna clings

to Jesus,

and a song

clings to ones soul.

lawn fairies Tanka

Lawn fairies delight,
raising neon bulbs of dew,
a safe landing light...

for plum blossom wind surfers
that glide on springs waking breath.

A Poem in Rome from Home

Oh beautiful City,
we find love.
Pigeons shuffle between our feet,
a fairy tale,
a composer of music,
history,
walking.

Green grass grows
on an empty lot
and a single flower,
white on white canvas,
unpainted.

Simple faith
for girls without a teacher
and a big bad wolf.
Stones,
windows for shopping,
pillows for dreaming,
God always knows the truth.

Follow the puppet,
never tell a lie,
have lunch
inside a whales stomach,
swim.

Books.
Education.

The roof is a mountain
for a City
and a woman- alone
with only key
gifted from angels
and a fountain of wonder.

Each soul has it's own mystery to solve,
the context of our life,
faith and blood
from birth to death.