The Humboldt Hit

Cutting through the sleet of darkness - The roar made from 500 cubic inches
snarling beneath the hood of his '75 Cadillac Coupe deVille -

(I say his as in I may have acquired/borrowed) - Exhaust tips resonating 

my throttle input down alleyways and bouncing off urban brickwork - Quad halogens

cast shadows upon the freshly plowed snowbanks at 30 miles per hour,

Dimly guiding me through the streets in the upper west side -The worn

and now frozen wiper blades passably keep the snow from penetrating the windshield -

This Sunday morning 3AM blizzard having already arrived - Promptly erasing my path 

as fast as the Bridgestone’s can carve it:

 

A perfect storm....

                                For the perfect crime.

 

Sinatra's "Fly me to the Moon" starts playing over the 6x9 speakers - I crank up

the dial on this shit radio and proceed to stretch my palms at 10 and 2

and clasp the wheel again a few times - Relieving the arthritis in my battle-scarred knuckles

now covered in the bloodstains (of the owner of said vehicle) Along with 

my white collared shirt and pinstripe tie - By orders passed down from powers above - 

The stench of dried blood mixed with tobacco smoke embedded in plaid upholstery 

forces me to roll down the windows -  

- Again -

Letting in the cold chill of November air...Punishing an already tired defrost heater -

Not sure what's louder:

 

A.

The fan struggling to keep up to the climate controls - Or -

 

B.

The hum of the right passenger wheel bearing competing with The Sultan of Swoon.

  

A right turn at the Humboldt Lagoons State Park sign leads the Caddy

en route towards the boat launch (So befitting for a land yacht such as this)

The weathered brakes squeal to a halt - Sliding/ploughing on all 4's...

Before stopping 2 and a half tons at the edge of the downslope -

Opening the cold four-foot chunk of American steel and glass

forces the hinges to screech loudly...Followed by a sudden thud upon closing -

Chicago's frigid winds cuts though my clothes like the butterfly knife that cut he,

(who is not to be named or talked about) and is currently residing in said vehicles trunk,

Was given an Italian necktie as a going away gift for talking/knowing too much -

With a wooden cane propped against the accelerator pedal and front bench seat -

Manually shifting the three on the tree to the letter D - Pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds

from my breast pocket before Igniting one with the stolen dash lighter

now kept as a memento - I witness the chrome icebreaker descend within the hole it's made

only for Jack Frost to cover my sins till spring yet again

- Still -

As the crimson lights disappear into the lagoons abyss,

I couldn't help but ponder:

  

"Man Ol' Blue Eyes really could sing....

                                                                   He really could sing."

Starting Up A Dodge Cummins In Winter.

NNNNNNNNNNo.

Nope. Nope. Nope. No.

Nnnno. Noooooope.Nope.Nope.No.

No. No. No. No.

NnnnnnmYep Yep Yep Yep No.

Yeeep. Yeeeeep. 

Yep Yep Yepppppp YEEEEEEEESSSSSSS!

Polarized Portrayal

I dare say

The Poems of today 

Are dependent upon the use of sesquipedalian words

Created by those with degrees and the accolades that come with

To induce a higher degree of learning applied to their work,

When the equivalent can be accomplished

With a more minimalistic approach -

For instance:

My portrayal of a polar bear blinking in a snowstorm

.

The Grateful Raven

Twenty six winters past; mine eyes stand still;

Hath not seen such beauty acquired then lost;

Camouflaged ‘mongst a bevy of swans ‘til -

Thy presence is reveal’d but at what cost?

Carousing, and loose morals are to blame,

And if thou; Desirae, look past black deeds

with open wings; haply trade sooth for shame;

This grateful raven shall obey thy needs.

Henceforth; erase days of yore - Didst Venus

conjure these wanton thoughts or parlor tricks?

I will forsake her celestial canvas,

But not so fond to fancy love’s eclipse.

Dost cast thy shadow upon nature’s reign;

Rise! Queen of swans; much to mother’s disdain.

Symbiotic Strangers

Out at night

Strangers stalk

Faceless but exposed

All alone

UNKNOWN

Completely surrounded

Exposed but faceless

Classmates ignore

In the daytime

Prologue (It’s been a long time)

So here it begins anew,

Years gone with none too few,

So much time spent lost and unheard,

Not prepared, not one word -

Just when I thought it was the end,

Here upon the page, lain my old friend,

My mind open, renewed, once again.

Tale of a Veiled Backside Bride

Sweaty palms, I stand suited, I stand firm,

Waiting for the church doors to turn, watching for my veiled bride,

Why has she not yet come inside?

The music on the piano starts playing – Pachelbel Canon in D Major,

Why is this song taking forever?

Doors creak open - everyone one turns to see her entrance,

But all we see is white running shoes in the distance.

Nothing but second thoughts made her turn and ran,

Dammit why was I such a fan?

Watching that beautiful sequenced bouncing backside,

Reminded me it was worth the ride…

She may be crazy yet I love her,

How am I going to recover?

And as I watched her beautiful ass get in,

I yelled out to the limo driver –

“Her favorite drink is lemon gin!”

Winter's Composure.

A shoveled sidewalk.

Neighbors plow fills it back in.

Fuck you Jim you fuck.

The Ill-Fated Raven

To she, whom she knows, but I dare not say:
A dreadful morn hath past the hand strike ten,
This present makes haste; and the night turn day,
For this lovers love, and hers? may bloom again.
Try as I may but cannot win this doves
heart. For the fox hath within his grasp; Takes
her life, But not her love - The one she loves;
and closely guards, is the one heart she breaks.
The vain reckoning of this ill-fated
Raven; Is proclaimed by the heavens above,
Restrained by loves shadows, Cursed by cupid,
Cannot be resolved. True: These tales of love
could have ended in a different way,
But crushed that heart of mine to my dismay.

The Envious Raven

For what is this love, lest it be my fate?
Sweet Nancy, when I look unto thine eyes,
Vanity, possesses my conscious state:
So I swear on those stars Romeo defies,
By my bosom's lord, I'll lay hold of her,
'Cause to live a life without her is but
to live a life without love - a tender,
If be denied, cannot heal this heart cut.
Soft! A winged messenger of heaven
hath stumblest upon my secret vow -
O fair dove, Kill this envious raven,
Doth let love's heralds cry my love for thou. 
Thy beauty is too dear for deja vu,
A mirror couldn't cast such a swan as you!


***My first Shakespearean sonnet 1998***

A letter to Leo...

To you, who makes haste at the softest glow,
need not run a leopards pace, or buckle under
the point of seizure, which, being pressed and
smitten with animosity changes his spots.
Lay low he, so not it be ensnared swiftly -
is victimized, suspended off all fours, is
unwillingly trapped, merited by its design,
situated in her favor, camouflages loves
hemmed barrier, snags an unsuspecting cub.

Lend your attention and heed this call, be
that of the jungle or not, for she be of the
female kind, wild and untamed, cannot yet be
domesticated until the scent of you is
becoming of her, then, if be allowed,
nurture and protect her under Mother Natures
wing, with a steady paw and watchful eye.

P.S. Not to worry, if trouble is amiss, a
tainted tail cannot control the body
attached to it, you command the direction
and thus, its followings....

My Dream Chameleon

I cannot explain the image of which
my eyes have not yet seen,
A woman that bears no name to me,
But awaits me in my dream.
I wish I could say her eyes were sky blue,
green, brown, or even grey,
But her hair colour too seems to change
every night to my dismay.
Twenty three years later she's still of age,
A perfect wife for me,
But the years go on, and so do I,
The less likely she will be.
Who is this woman, this chameleon?
Were we meant to be?
Is this some sort of practical joke?
A false hope of reality?
Even so, when she speaks: It's not my ears,
But my heart, nameless one,
That carries your tune - my one true love,
my soulmate, my dream chameleon.

A Widows Wake

Dawn.
Another lonely awakening to the mornings dew,
Another breakfast for but one, not two,
Another sleepless night and restless morn,
Another one less suit with tie not worn:
For one suit that still remains on he,
Is on my love who sleeps eternally,
Swallowed by the hand they call the sea,
Off the coast of Dead Mans Plea.

The birds hath not sung a brighter tune,
The dogs hath not howled under the half lit moon,
The trees hath not sway to natures song,
The road hath not taken seems but twice as long:
The laying of flower petals off the misty shore,
A step off the bow, sank to the ocean floor,
I find myself a knocking on heavens door,
To join my husband, my love, forevermore.

Acrylic Archangel

All was in Darkness...
Then, within the midst of blackness -
a perpetual light deprives the hollow spawns
kingdoms of Depression and Loathsome envy.
Buried amongst sleeping pictures,
A noble renaissance figure arises in valor,
only to finish that, what has already begun.

Etched in sandscript, an Angel,
Branded by Edens beauty and Cupids good fortune,
Opens up her apocalyptic wings, spread-eagle,
And love unleashes upon Berlins barriers,
Destroying the lost realms beyond all conscious comprehension.
As silence bestows over the parted debris,
Tranquility infills the cup with satisfying deliverance.

Ai, my heart, misshapen in petrified wax,
molded by the color spectrum of time,
separating Zodiacs signs with those stars of the heavens
that encircle the Earth, belongs to she,
whose painted fingers grasp, and brought to purse lips,drinks to our eternity.

A Feathered Image (The Imaginary Eagle)

As upon this page,
I can think of a cliff on a mountain top,
The fluttering of wings takes to flight,
As the cold chill of the wind's air
Breezes past the feathered body
That coasts along the ocean floor.
It soars into the heat of the sun on top of the clouds above
Watching the ocean seas as they drift along
In small easy waves.
Is that the eyes of an eagle
Watching through those clouds above?
Then within a flap of a wing
The eagle disappears into the clouds of imagination
Never to be seen again,
Unless this poem has been read once more.



***This was the very first poem I had ever written back when poetry was first introduced to me by my 7th grade English teacher Mrs. Lambert back in 1992/1993 who recognized my work and inspired me to write more, and I'm very grateful to this day that she did***

The Caterpillar.

So I found this caterpillar today and I couldn't help but notice if I was staring at him

Or him staring back at me then back at him?

Could he look into my soul and see what I cannot?

I may always be a man but he will always not be a caterpillar.

He will someday spread his wings and leave this place onto bigger and better things.

I too, am jealous of this transformation and reflect upon my own life on this matter.

Can he be better than me? Is he really happy?

Instead I squashed him.

There's always gonna be some jerk out there that’s gonna ruin your day.

Lesson Learned.