Count Your Lucky Stars
Guilty with good
luck, I fall in bed again
Where
chocolate-sueded dreams spiral weightless
As refined swans that
rise from some wild lake.
The coarse blankets
crackle with bright blue sparks.
Far-off stars jingle
and the moon floats
Near-weightless, like
crushed ice in a dark drink.
My dreaming mind
recalls past impressions.
It sees again what has been seen; it hears
Again what has been heard, enjoys again
What has been enjoyed in many places
Seen and unseen,
heard and unheard, loved
And unloved, the real and the unreal.
My thoughts at peace,
I can now move onward,
Not looking back to
the myth of freedom.
Other nights I hit
the panic button
To stop this spinning
of the globe named the world.
Only that left me
standing underneath
To wonder or ignore
the delicate
Vines of the mind all
garlanded, smoldering,
Tangled until it
becomes whatever they cling to.
Burned so, the mind
sees all; the mind sees all,
alive in the
forgotten tree called language.
Gettin' Down at Sugar Creek
People linger over the joy good love can bring
and glasses of cold beer at Miss Judi's Passion.
Sexy and surreal is the best way to describe the
aesthetic
as the 1880 Kanabe grand transcends all global
barriers;
With antiphonal, centerpiece vengeance, Bishop Don
Juan
dives beyond the reefs and scrambles across vast
lava fields
to provide just the right inspiration for
firewalking.
Seventy plus and still kickin', he's paying tribute
to everything
from crawdads to massive spliffs as swells of
hypnotic rhythms
explore the wait for love.
Content to sit on ass-worn sofas sipping gin and
lemon,
several women showcase themselves.
With an assortment of fine jewelry and evenly
placed teeth,
men slouch back and inspect for the unexpected
highest bidder.
The playas ogle behind G-strings and in front of
pearl waistbands
but never lose their cool, simply pat their
embroidered silk lapels
or tap gracefully with 18-karat walking sticks in
approval
for some pair of dark lined eyes singing of envy
and silken dreams.
The party gets jumpin' by a rail-thin hustler
in a butterscotch suit and coffee lace-up wing tip
shoes
who leaps from his chair singing a song everybody
knows:
Sons of
bitches and whores alike, I've come to town to party tonight!
He’s named Harper Jay and he shakes down until the
women squeal
from his hip swivel that could make a nun switch
religions.
Exhibiting gorgeous tonality from St. Louis to New
Orleans,
The pimpin’ productions of Iceberg Waters and
Johnny Cakes swerve
with midnight horns of spacious, erotic energy,
rockin' it like an adulterer's spouse at a biblical
stoning.
Sweat and expectation covers the tight bodies
ready for the curves and hazardous work ahead.
The ones with low-lidded eyes crave a fresh
humidity
coming back each night buttered with money
to party down in the room suffused by Christmas
lights.
Dreamy and creamy are the cleavage cleavage thighs
and hips
rippling in shades of cinnabar, calfskin and
toasted macaroon.
Even the preacher's daughter is hot and ready and
deep sweet:
All I
wants, she screams, is a sugar daddy and
a candy apple caddy!
Proving again that everyone behaves badly given the
chance.
