Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

lust is a drug...
short circuit neurons spun around
cerebellum felons in circles
of naked want,
a taunt...

lust is a love
a sliver of compassion
a dagger, a slice
lust, sweet lust
a taunt, a come hither
it burns a hole
in my soul...hah!

crow woman
shrouded in black
she picks up shiney objects
puts them in her pack

crow woman caws
alarm! alarm! alarm!
danger in the forest
the desert range
then she laughs
casting an beady eye
askance

crow woman lives in flocks
flocks of crow people
she knows the water
she knows the sky
she knows the earth
she fears the fires
that keep her warm

crow woman flies
a wing and a prayer
crow knowledge
crow tricks
crow paths cannot be followed
for the sky holds no traces
except the sun and moon
light and dark
crow woman cries
crow woman sighs
crow woman laughs
and flies...

i disrobed with love,
lust, my nude companion thrust into
short circuited neurons, clawed with
nails veiled by paint, the saint
of a crow woman caw, the law of
the landscape!

wake me up from the beady eye
askew truths, rude like nod eruption!
shake me from dumb corruption, lust
aquiesced with a crested plume
of ancient innocence.

i heard the crow caw shadow dance
beats in bass repeat, the women's laugh,
a soprano swell.....

i fawned, i feigned
i remained in a brain
filled with capa city's
lights aglow in snow
in tow the row of the know
now at rest at best i
limped towards the west
at rest in the nest
of crow womans...

spider woman weaves a web
intrigued...for what she might catch
encircling the world with a mighty light
webs of neurons; photochemical,
phasmogorical, intensical, bop prosical
light...

spider with her strings plays a tune
on Gleason's Honeymoon
smiling at the bus stop

spider woman crosses barriers
with a squirt and a wave of legs
long ass legs...

spider woman meets crow woman
and have lunch. Hah!

excuse me if I interupt the flow
but this is a document
a virtual wonder
I am honored
just honored
to be here with you

dinner for two
joined at the lips
she looked deep into
the pair of blues
seeing the news
as i lit her cigarette
and watched her smoke
rise high thru the night
skies sequined with stars
and we below coiled
like serpentine souls
frictioned in unison

capacity history, feigned slights, white
snow sucked up by nightlight insights,
paranoid ploys, towed doilies on mahogony
tables, legs carved in arched detail, each
reach of a rung sung like bosanova
delta chant..... plants on a fragrant balcony,
spider rests fluent in an arc.

we sit in the dark
and talk of crow women.
i gather twigs for a nest.

blessed is the capacity of history tests,
flagrant rows, crows atop poles, doles out
of various opinions.

i realize the eye of hurricanes.
all i can do is remember her names,
mine silent among young crows,
feet complete with adversity, mahogony
benches unpolished.

skies littered with witnesses...

crazy about Mars
a slight gaze at the stars
a moment's drift thru a wormhole rift
sketch its rotation, incantation
note the possible, cosmo-logical...

why chase
moribund space?

Rosie sat on the barstool
smoking a camel or two
wondering about jockeys
and the guy over in the corner
with a mystery shrouded aura
a bit of the blues, a shred of red
greenish about the gills
but overall, purplish and smokey

Her drink was cold, frosty
as were her lips, a pale pink rose
he moved his legs, uncrossed them
she noticed that he was watching
well, he was looking at her, not
really at her, just sizing her up
like she was in a car lot, shiney
fenders, bullet headlights,
and all slick and leathered

Rosie was about to meet this
man of mystery...but that is
another story...a fantasy
care to come, with me?
Come with me...

stand by for a public service announcement
tom waits is performing on letterman tonight

't'will be poetry, i be sure

his closing time is far away
but rosie and martha are near
the weather report
left me emotional
like a rain dog
in time
my gun street girl
out on that ole 55

rosie pink made him think
times of when, where, there
were the touches and tastes
the place in space where
the face erased the waste
and left her spaced with his
remakes against the breaks
of seas escapes under northern
light giving sight to this blind man

rosie was a cheap slut struttin' trust
on the flipside of a two dollar bill. she musta
twilled too many gins with a sin mix, blissed in two
by which crisp synapse of a snapped in half legal tender
would render itself valid on a thorned vined.

i, for one, was inclined, not to take her seriously whatsoever.
but rosie was a clever sorta gal, her high collar valedictorian ways
totally confused the blues circuit.

a blind man who plays it by feel...

he was dissheveled, unkempt,
loose mop, stubble rubble,
rumpled tee, denim hole in the knee...

when he heard the first note
blackened hard soul, no rote,
he tied his shoes with the blues...