i come home from another day of work

to this little rinky dinky apartment

of which has one bedroom.

sometimes it ticks me off

when i think of having

to sleep on the couch

for what seems like countless endless nights,

because the bedroom is for two boys.

but i have to be thankful

That I have a computer with internet capability

to be able read lit journals online

to stir me to continue my thing

and somehow follow

a pattern of living life like a poet.

maybe it was intended for me

to reach a form of skid-row

and be like bukowski

to fully understand-

it’s not what you have

that makes you what you are.

so I’ll keep this little apartment

rather than trying to impress

others in materialism.

because, well, the best way

to seek inner wealth

is right here to strengthen the foundation

for the poetry student

in the classroom of life.

today is a new day.

cosmological traditions

are known amongst the people

in the sentient forms

in all the influentials

that possess the ultimate power,

like that of nanabozho –

the renewer of life.

i take this flint –

shape it like sparkling ice

as an independent creation

as if to create life in others

of whom may have had plenty of misfortune.

it is here i fine tune  it

into that of a small heart,

then mount it with the bottom facing outward

on an arrow and prepare it for flight.

this time when i send it

on its way, it will be in the nature of all naturals

and transformed in all the soothing customs

that multiplied through the air as if magical.

little by little the arrow points

began to leave the fingertips.

it was like as if spirits

in tribal music and chants

rejuvenated affection in all the joys,

as if somehow the heart

had something yet to offer

when it landed upright in a poetry circle.

the owl high up

on the tree makes the sound – hoo.

i look up and say – it is i.

all of the sudden,

i hear a voice, and turn toward it.

quite surprised, i see the the face of jim.

he interrupts, “not so fast poet,

you must circle this tree

in dramatic steps to feel the tempo

to understand expression and its ecstasy

in the form of movements,

and try to emit articulate sounds

in the language of the spirits.

everything is done in a circle

to feel its power.

at times, alter your voice

from the soft spoken …

then get real loud.

poetry is like a rattle,

for sounds far outweigh

what comes through the eyes.

art is timeless …

it is to be a rhythm maker

intoxicated with feeling,

molded in the perspective of dionysus,

the god of wine and championed

by all out expression in frenzy and spontaneity,

while learning to stand outside oneself

to understand harmony and the creative element.

over there, you must look into the fire …

sense the intensity of its embers of flames

as he points with his finger.”

he closes his eyes

and starts to spin to whirl around the tree

numerous times in exhibition,

like that of a warrior.

a short time later,

he snaps up his head and shouts,

“the poem is a ritual …

it must seize the mind and be free of the world!!”

all of a sudden,

i hear the flapping wings

and i gaze upward to the owl

leave a momentary imprint in the moonlight.

though the owl flew away,

and the voice of jim disappeared –

his spirit remains.

(simply a humor and sarcasm piece if you get my drift).

in the tabloids –

the unbelievable…

just gets better and better.

effort is important,

and exaggeration is an absolute must.

that eye-opener appeal

must be instant when the headline is spotted;

especially when one is in the checkout line.

lets give it a try and see if it does the trick.

in large type the caption reads:

NORTH AMERICAN MAN HAS TWO EXTRA NIPPLES

it’s unique – crucial

for a specific clientele.

it’s like leaving a dog a bone

to lick and chew on –

it doesn’t take much to please.

being a poet with the capability

to create images or lines…

seems to have potential for the dollar.

exaggeration without doubt creates attention.

it is here

in the domed lodge

that mental concerns

be cleansed of negative blockages.

there is complete silence

during the construction

to the spirit world …

the sun, the source of all life

is all about the light.

you weren’t the only one.

other poets gathered

to be a part of the ceremony.

it was all about gratitude

and following the etiquette

while being together.

a purification and healing,

and yet a respect to tradition

of each poet to the seven stones.

this is where it is known

that warriors fight

as a last resort,

but sacrifice first.

it’s no wonder indian heritage

has a connection

with the poets.

they sacrifice first –

then come to write.

like dante, let go,

the hostile one

of crimson and slush,

and build a philosophy

in great pleasures

to heal puffed lips.

in this world,

you have to run

with the blood hounds

in their hot trails

to sniff out a great line.

but it is here

that the heart

must be like a forge

to run the words through

to make them glow.

when they’re hot

they will leave a brand

from a maverick runner

hell bent in a purposeful ring.

my mind, full of sarcasm;

a crutch seduced to laughter

of all that mocks the bear of life.

isn’t it such a burden?

look at the devil!

the danger of such faith

to get to heaven.

what a golden egg!

like the scorpion that stings –

wake up!

that poison – a terrible thing.

stop the heretical inflictions;

escape it, for it takes in the fool.

be brave – take revenge;

change is drastic.

don’t fear your own soul.

detours are everywhere!

It is the will

of one

To express it

The only way

For the sake of

Making a point.

A little style

With an ebb

That sets the tone.

The word fuck-

Does indeed induce

All sorts of connotations

And nuances.

The sound of it

Alone has assonance.

It’s an agent

That carries maximum properties

That at times

Exerts with such conveyance

That it adds

A little firepower

With such voice

To captivate the mood.

Do you like the resonance?

(this will be my theme piece for my blog and my next book. i  think it says something)

once upon a time

delirium hung in the rafters.

like streams of ice

running of the roofs

of tall buildings and pounding

the pavement below –

logic completely off balance.

all the inner tones

corrupted in life’s

disarrayed frictional verses.

it takes time –

a fight with god’s thunder

has left the wanderer of the peace

clearly in the dark oils.

recovery ensues …

life resumes little by little.

the dark oils

re-unite with light oils,

and the blend

churns as if in pistons

as if on a long trip.

then it happens –

ebony and ivory,

like a mini falls of a good rush.

life is all a scheme –

kiss existence with two hands.

educate a little with poetry

that bi-polar voices matter.

good things

do happen once in awhile.

in the nest,

the inklings of vociferous beginnings

were fed over a long period of time.

when they are young,

they have to hide from intruders.

eventually the eastern voice

began it’s little chants.

after time, maturity set in,

and the chants

became rapid in succession.

there is a mixed forest –

scouting of pleasurable experience.

this time it was like a whippoorwill

up atop the hills

singing the song

where the flowers bloom.