Where Hound Dogs Bay

Lapping up liquidity—
with lipped at, clipped at, air,

“I’d mildly like to scoff at—
my last stretch of ruinous care.”

The wretched, moonless croon-time,
of sun stared, right-root motion.

The beached seed heat in cruelty—
sans sand, y si, sans ocean.

A way my body yawns now,
the whistled-at traps & pulls,

my thought-routine serene now,
those qualms as dot sized gulls.

A big stuck rake of rip-tipped ropes,
my missed-for strength all goes—

unearthing solicitous swinging winds
‘neath fish-eyed caribbean crows.

So sea-born again, in-front from first,
off and peeled for hungry kings;

dry of drought—
the blue blown burst—
hits me…

WHERE MY BRASS RAG-SINGS!

Tender

How tender I must have looked
to preying dark eyes
inhaling their own
body bud scent

My white lips were thin
but young and unspoiled
and she had met with already
so many spoiled men

I would awake a captive
with blue eyes inviting
asking direction
taking it where?

And she rotted me quick
when she finally did
carving out pink guts
leavin’ a real good waste

My straw yellow crown
went dark then to dirt
grown numb at the tounge
heavy loss ’round the gums

My robbed breath rued
her look left askance
And I stood up a corpse
for some time now

Abie The Fishman

My people fired idols, fertile crow to sell,
nickel-pure murder, they sired when thirsty.

My boys did surrender, moldings for birth,
hearing of what? What deception of order?

My wives were a-sturdy, a choice wet of lips,
coughing over to me—>the real jawboned way.

My rams cued in shifts, maintaining an eye,
made a farm hand of me, figures with milk.

My cities, my wells, wedded pink siren cells,
goading to be heard, coupling to be gold.

My legacy of hospitality, just teasing alone,
a sandy procedure and not seeking guilt.

My grandson, the wrestler, dreamt, beloved.

My God! Engendered! Dense set yay-thick.