Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

If I live to be one hundred and four,
I would want more time to spend.
A century of your heartbeat next to mine
Will never be enough – my days would end
As stolen hours.

I'd have been one the Scots impaled
those pale Presbyterian goodwives
or maybe my hand would have held the stone
after all, my mother survived

Allow me to offer naked images,
complete with peeled grapes fed
mouth to mouth, the recitation of wealthy
verse immersed by tongues trading
hot-emberred rhyme. Allow me to be
enamored with petite charms, words
which flirt with mistaken mantras. Allow me
to shape hidden stories by bringing them to
view, each chapter, unclothed, each paragraph,
undressed, each line, stripped from every other
line, each comma, purposely placed in order to
soak in the pause between the exhales of
Love.

i've broken away
floating down stream
with th outgoing tide

sail away

You'll be as happy as a monkey in a monkey tree
You're all gonna be an American

each comma, purposely placed in order to
soak in the pause between the exhales of
Love.

love
to turn up the heat
to attract her interest
so she wants to weave her spell about me
her cat is dieing and all I can think about this woman who means nothing to me except a pretty face and a million freckles and slender grace is to to listen to her. She smiles and seems happy to meet me when we cross paths, but it seems as if I am always in a hurry. Once I almost reached out and touched her arm but....
comma? no more like a coma for me

miztaken mantraz
chanting chakraz

old jazz
iz good

Shiva plays a sitar in my genes
they project into the generations
and take you along
like riding behind a big truck
or in the slip stream of a goose.

it's no matter if I'm the engine or the caboose
as long as the train keeps rollin'
a phantom on the tracks
helium or hemoglobin
a spiral to destiny.

t'is heaven!
I feel it!
tho alas far away....
but a closer taste
is in what you say,
when you write
cross the room,
we all
look your way,
blue skyspot in cloudy,
where angels
dare play.

I cannot break away from purpose.
My purpose is to become the tide.
My purpose is to ride a wave crest to
Fortunate communion, bathe in shore-foam,
Lie exposed to heart-rays, play words like a
Lute, violins orchestrated in a symphony arrangement,
Drumbeats keeping time with connective melodic phrases.
I cannot break away from purpose or harmony, each iota of
Me making love to a stanza,
And when I expire, when nature
Has her way by my demise,
My purpose may be recognized as
Folly or as a trite dream, lucid
As the breeze is lucid, true as my
Purpose.

To Love.
To die to breakaway undercurrents,
To promote the touch of fingertips
To fingertips, to spread a shore
Blanket, warm like
Summer, determined, as a
Sand grain is determined to pronounce the
Purpose of shorelines.

Tiny are the questions of value.
I cannot break away from purpose to
Present such queries.

all purpose flower,
adorn my garden,
melt my heart,
of mettle hardened,
so many sins
not enough pardon,
all purpose flower,
forever vine
my garden....

so many sins
not enough pardon,

how many scarlet letters have I in my heart?
there are not alphabets enough

just playin' DJ and spinnin' some tunz for the jam

here is one by my friend and partner Barry Gremillion

it's called Old Sad Cecil

and it's from his album called Hat Songs

http://www.studioeight.tv/musicpost/sadcecil.mp3

I have been soiled, buried in garden silt,
flower petals wilted without pardon.
I built a trellis from decayed and burnt
limbs, arms, legs, hands, fingers jutting up
like extensions from unfertilized virginia clay,
hardened, trampled, stomped, tamped, each
bulb buried live by fingernail digs.

It is the envy of winter still.
I await the bloom.
vines will climb with
room to strangle one another.

spring is such a
luscious time.

like a flower
growing up thru the cracks'
in th sidewalk
she said,

"Allow me to offer naked images,
complete with peeled grapes fed"

Moby peel me a grape!

What if the sun decided to
Crawl behind December eyes,
Refusing to emerge when the earth
Rotated twenty-five degrees, Spring
Never again to don a nyad gown, no
Grape skins to peel, no return of heat, the
Circular axis incomplete, never the dawn of
Equinox, no vernal gift, no iris shine from
Beneath lids, nothing but icicle stabs,
Nothing but frozen tearstains, nothing,
No sidewalk cracks yielding even
Weeds to pick, to pluck, to recycle
Into compost?

What if the sun decided to
Crawl behind a February tease,
Spring only a love-threat,
Never reawakened?

Out of Alphabet,
parched words
imprisoned in
blistered
desert mouth,
sagebrush haunts
muted,
untold surges,
silenced.

out of Alphabet,
where lions pose
as lambs,
random
wandering souls,
throw you letters,
and the whole world waits,
desperately,
for you to
roar.