Pillow Pervert

he came in the night
while everyone slept
a arousing no suspicion
he went right to his craft
the only remnants of his visit
where the body’s naked remains
there’s no telling why he does it
or clues to who he may be
only exposed stuffed and stained cushions
with their skirts lifted to show prodding down pricks
hope he doesn’t strike your bed tonight
taking away the covers while you drool

a winning oaf

she is my candied apple charm
everytime she gives me that look
it feels like the fair came just for me
from prom queens to carnies
the most uniquely sweet character
calls herself my girl

W4th Cello Man

delighting in the throws of a lazy Sunday afternoon
where the ides of November invites outdoor diners
I spend my day contently relaxing in bed

in a city seemingly always in motion
one man has created a secret garden
clandestine only because it hides in the open
unnoticed like talent of a stranger
a live chameleon landscape
and like a child led by the hand
my thoughts are guided to this place
the breeze brings in his sweet sounds
a resonating melody that lulls the beast
coaxing the ferocious metropolis to lay

the trash is taken out
a dog is walked and couples laugh
some notice the man sitting on the corner
but few let him transform the scene
like magic that only works when you believe
this wizard has converted his want into a bow
that sings his incantations of peace
making his West 4th stoop an oasis

here alone in my bed
my picnic in the park auditorium
I can give thanks to the warlock of sound

Ode to George

brother
second son closing the circle
blood of my blood
you were my first doppelganger
and though I your elder
much did I learned from you
shorter of stature
and someone to look up to
I am proud of you
a beautiful tapestry
cut from the same cloth
knowing mom, she cut the bolt in equal halves
the best she had was ours
with blue Lithuanian blood
and spicy Sicilian disposition
you are vintage ‘82 a meritage
as you grow in flavor and complexity
temper your strength
I will be there
no matter what
as we play ambassadors of our ilk
side by side, my late arrived twin

disorientation

a whirlwind has entrapped me
from within its clutches I peer out
the world is a bazaar of strangers
languages leak in jumbled
unhurt and still mid-flight
perhaps I’ll land in a bail of cotton
or am I destined for rocky shores
broken, a ship that missed the lighthouse

I will worry about landing when I’m let down
for now the fight against the debris ensues
avoiding dangers as best as possible
survival, reflexes and instinct
calling for help is futile
my destiny is mine to pursue
scrapping through one dustdevil to another

lazy winter

my muscles had atrophied
their girth has dwindled away
but now the winter is gone
tilling time begs for my hand
as the cock crows in the dark
my sleepy brain functions
is remanded to only motor skills
it will soon thaw with exercise
the days will grow my strength
and protect me with calluses
allowing me to work to harvest
where then after I can again rest
fat and happily until the Spring

you know who you are

words, notes, drawings
any fool has the ability
creation implies no skill
composition is an art
talent makes it good
memorable among others
like a good pinot noir
or simply fresh air
some have worked on it
others have it naturally
but the distinction is there
and thank you for sharing

suicide

how could we tell?
the external fruit was sound
showing vibrant colors
a youthful perk in his eyes
dressed of a carefree man
but there was a rot deep inside
a moldy soul began the decay
unnoticed and unattended
in need of immediate surgery

we got the news today
the inner rot had taken its course
sadness became madness
evil’s secret agent had it’s mark
the assassin struck with stealth
suppressing the cries for help
taking the villainous course at hand
allowing youth to fall to waste
and potential to fade into the grave
infiltration of the heart by an enemy
the hand of betrayal laid unseen

Vandal

Allowed to have domain
blank canvas begging for action
beige walls and white washed brick
picket fences and punctuated essays
thriving monotone facets of mediocrity
sometimes a breath of life is needed
a rebel ushering in some chaos to order
drawing outside of the box in crooked lines
flagrant colors and images offend
yet some pedestrians admire the work
a call to rethink what we know and harvest
questioning the morality of black and white
pointing to etched images in private property
as progress rather than insubordination
accepting mutation as the birth of evolution
regardless of how long it takes to catch on
as white is repainted white and erased
the scream will be heard for longer than it lingered
for what is seen cannot be unseen
and the seed of the future planted

toil

Today I wash my hands
fingernails and wrinkles
collecting the grease of work

today I wash my hands anew
knowing tomorrow will be no easier
protective calluses have formed
handshake wide with muscle

though today I wash my hands
my word lay in it tattooed
what I committed to yesterday
stays like a worked in callus

tomorrow too, I will wash my hands
and fold the towel properly
all will lay in order for that day
waiting for a new day’s work

Thank you Bill Gottlin.