Tag Archives: prose

space frog’s return home


a mini creature, green with squinting eyes beating with emerald’s fury
sped backwards through a wormhole, purplish hues of crystallized time dust
spreading, encircling as it circumnavigated around foreign globes.
cyber snapping turtles blasting behind it. spinning, it shot back
sending shells back to the 74th dimension of its mind’s refracted eye
and then it sped on, into its own space dimension, where a lily pad impatiently awaited for its return. “i will take your weight…the weight of the world,” said lily pad. and so, with pen held tightly and with every letter word formed, a creature who could charm evil out of a demon, landed home. ribbit.



and in a hazy turquoise stare, she sighed heavily…waiting as she lifted dusted blinds. her ancient eyes ablaze…blue-green fires burning to a hidden rhythm only she could hear…and she danced. her feet, carrying microscopic jewels in sand wedged between toes…her white skirt flowing upwards as she continued spinning…spinning as if she was herself the music and as if she controlled time…foolish time dripping into a desert, evaporating before it could leave a trace. moments come and go but this moment stays and then a hand slowing her down…and another bringing her to a complete stop. foreheads touching, beads of sweat mixing into a heated aphrodisiac…and then he said it, “dance with me.” her rhythm swept into his and their music rang through a shattered universe.

sunday morning with ginsberg


lying in bed, embracing a poet’s solitude. sorting out visions from last night’s meditation. sitting by a stream, peaceful. vibrant, deep hues of lush bushes and leaves. so green as if in a painting of an irish landscape. a butterfly, sparkling in sunlight, deep-ocean blue. i follow it to a steep mountain. suns’s glare blocking peek from sight. hand over eyes, shielding, attempting to see. and then him, appearing like a vision in a vision. majestic. he stood, looking down into me, beyond eyes into angelic soul, beyond skin into a river of connectivity between my art and my thoughts. his head blocking out glare. taking my hand, steadily walking up steep mountain as if his presence lessened burden of task. we sat on mountain’s peek which opened into a grassy field and stared out at foreign cities and forests ablaze with cosmic vibrations. my heart to his and his to mine, touching, speaking their own language and us, just smiling, knowing. and so, reaching out to ginsberg, swallowing his words whole, sweet juicy peaches, sunday morning. what thoughts i have of you this morning, naked friend, staring at me from your own mystic visions. father poet, did i inherit gift from you? does madness i embrace echo your own? share some grapes with me. we can discuss supermarkets, blake and sunflowers over the sun-rise dynamo in machinery of our enlightenment.

cosmic soul kiss


been wondering, wondering why. a kiss on your forehead is so unlike me. why would i hold your head in my hands so perfect like an unbroken promise? a kiss, and another and another. my soft lips taking you in, organic, uncontrolled. and, as awareness sometimes does, it hit me today. it’s your third eye. the gateway to your soul. the you that you hide. and so i’ve determined, as one cosmically conscious does, that my soul connected to yours and wanted yours to know.

ode to a dealer

the way he came to me. just would show up. from los angeles. in a gang. always wearing blue. he played pool like a peacock, strutting his feathers as if to draw attention to himself like a foolish man who didn’t know how to walk a high wire in circus act gone terribly wrong. i knew him right away, as one knows an old friend. only he wasn’t a friend at all. he was a dealer. but i knew. which would say what about me? and he kept coming again and again. knocking on my door. presenting himself as a gift. y’aint nothin’ but a motherfucking cockroach bitch. leave me alone. i would scream to walls as though a friendly spirit watcher was there to protect. there was never protecting…never a man on my roof humming sweet lullabies. only me. alone. sniffing, snorting, smoking. and i didn’t care. he did though. i was a consumer and he pried me open, capitalizing on my needs. and i needed. or wanted. sometimes i’m not sure. i cried when he stole my ’03 eclipse. i would yell at him. you look ridiculous driving my car. do you get hit on by many men? sometimes i’m surprised he didn’t kill me. threatened me enough. put a cold blade to my stomach once. and i told him to do it but he couldn’t. pussy. and the last night before leaving forever, he came one last time with a gift – you know the kind – and he asked if i had any regrets about him and i as if he was actually wishing that him and i were a we. i said yes. i wish you had a teacher like me.


in a hipstamatic postcard of us from a different time in a different realm, i want to sit behind you on a motorcycle. an indian perhaps. vintage. i’ll wear all black with a long pink scarf to cascade on wind like a ballet dancer being thrown and spun by her partner. you’ll probably have one of those comically whimsical helmets on with green flames and a grey and white mohawk. i’ll hold your perfect muscular torso tight, breathing in all of your breaths. you’ll be talking, as you like to do, narrating our sunset excursion, deep inquisitive eyes squinting underneath dark biker glasses. you’ll have funny things to say and i’ll laugh as i squeeze you tighter. the highway will blur to our vibration. other cars will come and go as if in a mushroom trip, trailing vibrant dayglow colors shaping themselves into shadows of us. blades of grass will sway in an orgasmic orgy. your heart will beat with mine, forming an ancient drum rhythm familiar to only us, our secret world only we know. primal. eventually, i’ll rest my head into your long spine, nuzzle for a moment, reveling in a silence of a perfect moment of two lovers journeying to a tomorrow of many unknowns.

just a cynic’s view

every cynic
sizing up day’s political wins and woes
is an idealist whose hope
is coated in a sarcastic noose around throat
tightening words
into fireballs of satiric wit
every cynic’s heart beats with fury
with love of country, love of peace, love of a ‘happy ending’
and the idealist in them
though hidden
speaks volumes in silence of a cynic’s smirk