"Portrait of a Woman"

                             When I was young, peering relentlessly through morning windows, leading out onto pedestrian cities.  Southbound, I departed later on in life, walking the same pathways of adolescent years. Leading and deceiving myself, into believing tell-tale lies.
                             Afternoon imagery of the sultry lake
                             Willows malingering softly through scattered breezes
                             Ruthlessly, words trickled from a delicate tongue, through vague attempts at recapturing something precious in her pale frame. The whiteness in a young woman's portrayal. Voluptuous her night-red lipstick, glazing tenderly, methods of years and madness. Her breathing passed in trivial monotones. In walking, her bluesy melon hips swagger in swallowing shallow moons.
                            Dank worms that rest upon withered oak boughs, remaining still, through it all.
                            She enters domesticated establishments in non-rebellion.
                            Diamond chandeliers reflect themselves in well furnished evenings.
                            In opening screen-doors onto shimmering noon-time verandas
                         
                           Sundays in the precocious sunshine valley. Downward roads descend, diminishing intermediate interpretation, awaiting automobile premonitions, of days that ran before. Sanded dust and silken dirt avalanches beyond interstate boundaries. Early highway of desolation, bitten and forbidden, marvelous granite pounds concrete thresholds, interlining vacant monument museums.
                           Dreams of the raw cypress trees that aligned my youth.
                           Scented with presumptuous perfumes, her vulnerable fingertips, woven in feminine grace and beauty.
                           Joyfully we lingered in Southern Pacific coastal regions.
                           Then at dusk beside the fire, residing familiarity aside the warm hearth,
                           Insidious bliss poured from tenuous veins in sea-like blue.
                       
                            Red devils shot them down before the Autumn bared.

Pain of the city (Vol. 3)

                             Pondering verses through populated city stations. I wait enveloped in gray transit headlines. My studies temporary relieve me of vulturous evenings. An autumnal aftermath of brown paper bags in sordid pigeon lairs. Suburban and musky, the intersected skyline zooms in transient range. Windows lighted in fluorescent skyline, spare a cigarette, maybe some change, we are moderately deranged in translucent perimeters. Sidewalk bums in their tumultuous routines, rest in morning aftermath above filthy sewage drains. My words are temped among enraged multitudes, we cling to minute interactions in dismal alleyways, where street walkers gather loose tobacco and handouts.
                           Methadone clinics,  drooping eyes staggering towards an exclusionary presence of Honda Civics, temporarily portraying lives not worth trying for. All the millionaires reside on outskirts of dense, black, smoke rituals, descending downward off the horizon, then outward through far off atmospheres, lightly surfacing rural carpeted asphalts, unraveling around airport arenas.
                          A.M. rush hour abruptly unfolds upon windy days in April. Over  neighborhood footbridges tired feet follow abandoned walkways, beside decorative trees, solitary, adorned in exterior awakenings.  Crimson and violet, leaves bud in aspiring columns throughout township vestibules. Early stages of expected foliage artificially keep the natives at bay.
                        Nocturnal are our beliefs, in frivolous intervals of premature despair.
                        I've heard the night words as a child, being sung to me from desolate woods before dusk.
                        Dreams and delusion would find me in my teenage years dying in disbelief.
                        Eating and indulging in brutal song, pulling corks.
                        Mysterious is youth within withering pillage, hungry and alone I was and still am.
                        Take this bloody knife to the majestic throne.
                        Dig deep down into the vulnerable flesh and bone. Pull royally out through stringy sinews and tender skin-chords, circulating through incomprehensible agony and uncanny defeat.
                        Vast in boney arteries now, take the forgotten manuscript from the emperors soiled mahogany cloak.               Pumping beating fists into heaving chest cavities.
                        Expand your weapon, watch a cellular disperse scatter upon porcelain tiled floorboards.
                        He is dead now.
                        God is dead now.
      

"Silken Ladies" (for Wallace Stevens)

                           Silken ladies rest vulnerably beneath satin sheets and shirtsleeves, over delicate afternoon condiments, and daytime sweet marinades. In pondering serenades upon afternoon riversides. A teacup promenade, in moonlight shadows we are seen waltzing the cemeteries. Relinquishing the folly, below grey skies,  vacant factory outlet stores, and milk brown thighs. The silken ladies proceed throughout fainted dooryards. It is crimson and velour, stiletto heels and proclamations. Upon organic hillsides and promising ocean galleries, we practice yoga routines over eggs and Florentine. We  indulge ourselves with presumptuous yogurt spoons in the quaint frail valley,  promiscuous arithmetic at nightfall. But all and all the silken ladies are all right with me.
                        
                           I remain proud and aware of my character defects.
                           Mainly due to the fact that there are so many.
                           I, a carnivorous vulture that preys upon beauty and death.
                           After all death is the mother of beauty- (Wallace Stevens).
                   
                         The silken ladies thrive upon sordid men like me. It is within the dark cave of my chest, springtime angels have wept, mourned and prayed. In dark tenement rooms that reside behind alleys. Through deep solitude and rupturing despair, I crave no other. To all mothers frequenting desolation and disgrace, you grant me anew, among morning cypress and assorted hyacinths. The dampening remote gardens approaching placid evening. Come to me mercifully in the hearth of engagement. The county fire burning for the sake of her thick loins, baring quivering meat of pale enchanting seeder. Grieving dismal centuries of lost acquaintance, it is the ancient binding of mythological booking that held us together. Stale and cardboard, I am an elderly hoarder of newspaper that crumples upon dusty drawers. I am lucid metal in the rusted foyer.
              
                              We are all mystic vestibules of indecency.
                              Riding treacherous coves deep out into the vast perimeter.
                              It is dark blue, it is evanescent green.
                              Scrupulously disheveled.
                              The misfortunes we have seen.
                              Reigned upon by marvelous eyes of silhouetted maidens, are
                              silken ladies
                              and braided baskets
                              circling
                              downward
                              before being swept up into
                              selective heavens
                              of adultery.

"She Chain Smokes Cigarettes, In a Lawn Chair Down by the River"

                             She chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn-chair down by the river. Sunday humidity, and little gnat flies circling around my dull thwarted head, swamp-like along rural walkways. State park trails unwind throughout the sultry perimeter. Walking like I walk, then gawking like I tend to- She chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn-chair down by the river. Certain thoughts drift up and through my tired cranium, as I walk aside suggested landscapes and foliage. Park benches and sordid families gather in springtime corners there and here, on this particular Sunday,  she chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn chair down by the river.
                             What are the mapped out tendencies of this articulate climate? Who framed the pastel syndicated blueprints? Every thing has come to pass in boring, melodious, rhythms today except her,  hands folded neatly upon her lap, pale thighs crossed showing some leg, in a lawn chair beside a melancholy river. I continue down the dirt brown trail, trying not to think or walk too fast. I have nowhere to go, it is Sunday.
                        I've been beaten up and thrown out. Life has been tough and winded. Nighttime has brutally butchered my soul and stained my soiled trousers again and again. Disheveled and sacrificed, my garments are  worn and withered, my jail house shoes muddy and dusty. Why couldn't things of played out like they were supposed to? Must events always lead to tragic abrupt climaxes? Then again, she appears to have everything figured out, chain smoking cigarettes in a lawn chair down by the river.
                               Illusion and delusion go hand in hand. We all grow tired of rooms, apartments, boarding houses, movie theaters, laundromats, delicatessens, washing our hands, etc. There must be an immeasurable secret kept from the likes of you, and me, or even her- chain smoking cigarettes in a lawn chair down by that damned river.   

Black Beauties

                         Heat and sweat profusely emanating, through and around her voluptuous pores.
                         The darkened night transpires as we do, fixed on each other.
                         It is the evening that I dearly love, with it's embalming charades and prospering uncertainties.
                         In the coming of night, the horizon sighs with abandoned relief.
                         Love and poverty elude themselves, and fret meticulously.
                         In her presence I am a god of unsubtle refrain,
                         despairingly retreating onto uncharted demographics.
                         It is the bleak midnight alley that conquers me again.
                          In sordid tales of tongues and legs and reptiles
                         Feel her primitive breath upon my weak shoulders,
                         Where time may elapse onto velvet sunrise,
                          Morning children will laugh at my juvenile affair.
                          They come in the valley. They come in the earth.
                          Some in the soil, some on the turf
                          Passion, is the name of my betrayal.
                          It is black, it is piercing, languid and terminal
                          The forlorn natives I cling to in times like these.
                          Washing my fatigue away with a pair of black beauties.

All In Vain.

                             Rooms and doorways, I have presumed delicate flowers of marvelous grace and feminine beauty in. Dust-filled hallways and stale furnishings, upon domesticated settlements. Along winding roads I have perished, making veritable pit-stops. Chambermaids and Innkeepers greet me as a sordid migrant. My aged hands firmly placed into the fragile lining of my fluorescent windbreaker.
                             Modernly, caressing sunlit afternoons upon laborious perimeters. Stationary, the pillars assemble remote corners of the establishment. Incandescent light beams of medieval descent. Pouring a stiff drink, then lighting a Parliament.
                              Frivolous clowns seen pondering enlightenment in village jungles, obtuse triangles at the neighborhood plaza, made up faces embellishing seeing-eye-dogs, stalling on park benches beside city fountains. Gathering spare change in torn angry pockets, hear my language perspire from the roof of my mouth, tongue unfurled, speaking sordid verses and phrases of pointless lust and monotonous love affairs, all in vain.
                   
                             They were all in vain.
                     
                            Marveling at the proximity of humanity in paragraphs.
                            My epitaph shall read "He preferred to be cremated but nobody listened".
                  
                             We still walk as if there was a reason.
                             A reason to share something, a reason to find out
                             if anyone was paying any attention to you.
                             knocking on Satan's door,
                             waiting patiently
                             for an answer.

Mona Lisa and the Frail Moon

                       Night gently scatters,
                       as autumn leaves descend from withered branches,
                       silently carpeting the gravel asphalt, unraveling.... .
                       throughout city outskirts,
                       where roadways brandish streaking traffic signals,
                       and sleeking sound-waves
     
                      Decay and poor posture, I've walked along deserted urban streets, a victim of simmering heat rising off cemented walkways. One too many evenings along forsaken corridors of panic and architecture, conversed in the village over outdoor seating arrangements, slept in abandoned condominiums beside the artificial fireplace.
                    
                       I've awoken before noon,
                       some of the time.
     
                       In the terrible hearth of desire I've lingered. Cruel fingers smoothing out interwoven intervals. I've felt forlorn premonitions, something dying in the vacant mausoleum. Tiled with porcelain, stained glass windows and repertoire. Mona Lisa and the frail moon. The Louvre in Paris, whose wept with Van Gogh's forbidden flowers, in linoleum banquet halls, the reign of Davinci disassembled, through abandoned libraries and centuries.
  
                       I've grown tired and introverted, mounting the velour staircase in perpetual sorrow. Remotely staggering through meaningless statures of disillusion, profusely sweating out toxic amphetamines and alcohol. Her and her graveyard antics, and promiscuous demeanor. Between velvet raindrops and leather interior, the scent of new car seats (straight from the dealership). A bottle of Christian Brothers below the grey skies, she clings to a steering wheel in the antique parking lot, whipping the transition into neutral, cruising down Fifth St. past the liquor store, and onto the brooding interstate.

my girlfriend's alright

                             My girlfriend is alright in telling me things,
                                            I didn't know about myself,
                                                      in a dimly-lit motel bathroom
                                                    as rusted water leaks from an old metal facet
                                                       onto warped linoleum tiles.
                         We sit next to each other commiserating through pale dry morning hours as
                            pawnshop cars screech from midnight parking-lots,
                                  we stare into each others faces ascending
                                              into cool embraces upon
                                soiled mattress covers talking,
                                              evolving,
                    transcending crooked anecdotes our predecessors had to face while an
                            out-of-tune mini-fridge hums along with a hidden radiator parallel
                                        with on-going conversation we are not audio recluses,
                            romanticizing beside sunrise windows,
                                  below flickering ceiling fixtures spreading
                                   dingy shadows along crimson carpeting and
                                    sordid manuscripts piled loosely atop sticky coffee-tables,
                                     a sickle moon's luminescence encompasses an
                                           outdoor establishment's perimeter
                    
                             Her plastic purse jingles (when shaken) loose change and car keys.
                             My girlfriend is alright, we don't care about the weather or what time it is.
                             We cannot stand television with its endless charade
                                     of futile fiction,  its embarrassing attempts at
                                           creating non-fictional pastimes
                                             
                                Another weekday evening transpires through silhouetted motel curtains into
                                   the placid dusk of routine disposition
                            An abandoned warehouse blearily clings to a junkyard horizon in
                                    sallow evening foreshadowing,
                                   where a juvenile sun presses its grim tongue into crude awakening
                                          sultry minutes of predawn fornication,
                                              as night crawlers crept and wept in
                                                   desolate alleyways of old rustic deity.
                                                    Hungover faces cringe incessantly,
                                                            enduring a moments panic,
                                                               through abrupt realizations of
                                                                    how lost and empty reality actually is
                                                                                 when you're sober
                       
       
                            My girlfriend is alright, she doesn't have to know everything.
                         

"Evangelina"

                       Nothing and everything lingered in deep windy silence, between dark green eyes. Crimson hair fell all around her shoulders, a firm brassiere neatly tucked away under her pale ivory blouse.
                      Her demeanor slick and prevalent, briskly flicked away with condescending gestures and antics. Black mascara and looming eyelids would have transcended time.(by having means).
                      Leather on dry leather, or pajama soft in the coming of freight train nights, or velvet curtains luring beside open seasonal windows, where soft breezes would trickle up and down her frail bare breasts.  Conjuring up dry drinks in a loose silken nightgown aside the suburban refrigerator.
                      I wish to god I never met you. I wish you never invited me upstairs into the hardships of adulthood. That evening transpired through brief vulnerable intervals, assembled onto an unjust timeline of abrupt teenage climaxes.
                     Her thighs were pale, thick, and milky, like the evanescent moon, or it's delicate influence on rising tides. A telephone call made at the finality of one drunken endeavor, in sleeping moments of residential neighborhoods, the soft weeping and melancholy of truth found in perseverance. Dreams descend slowly onto  slumbering pines, swaying quaintly on luminous horizons. Beneath broad shaded skies, deep brooding clouds disperse with Autumn winds. The sordid landscape exhales it's vast tranquil breath onto wide flattened Midwestern terrains of Northern America.
                         Evangelina what happened with the abandoned courtyard?
                         Evangelina, who ran off with your childhood?. I know who took your virginity.
                         Evangelina, I heard you chop hair off the sandy perimeter of farm boys along the Atlantic coast. Is it true?
                         Evangelina what happened to me, what happened to you?
                         Evangelina you are a monster.

"Today is not the day"

         Today is not the day to go digging up old dreams in vast dismal mountains covered with snow. Nor the day to go revising lost ideals in primitive remote cemeteries. Today is not the day to wait at local bus stops, between scattered raindrops, beneath darkened clouds, going ruthlessly gawking at naive adolescent schoolgirls, amidst city clocks monotonously ticking to endless noons, approaching luminous dusk and fluorescent moons.
             A residential-alarm-clock-radio rests aside midnight drapery, our souls adjacently hang from damp smoky curtains, piling cigarette ash, and lampshades in furnished windows, carpet scenery encloses sandy-eyed-dreams, of lost-derivative-phonetically-challenged-home-schooled children. Through faded peepholes of time and forbidden lust, the clutch of velvet scenery looms deep progressive prerogatives. Pupils and schoolteachers in an underground labyrinth of forgotten trains and abandoned penny-arcades.
             Unraveling-neighborhood-telephone-wire stretches tight around the urban outskirts, between factory buildings,while below,  the scavenging food-stamp natives cling to cheap livelihoods, in an inescapable puzzling maze. Pale awakenings of decaying agriculture at the township pavilion, aligned with rotting infrastructure. I've learned accumulated lessons in state institutions, where multitudinous evanescent windows lie between thick brick of concrete mortar. Tumultuous, the symmetrical courtyard wall resounds machinist vibrations, leveled out through the remote echoing and screeching of regional tramcars.
              Today is not the day to place love and desire on a towering pungent pedestal. Nor the day to weep over delicate poignant fantasies, or surreal realities of complacent satisfaction. Today is not the day to go seeking unfathomable rainbows of unkempt legacies and unfeasible myths, misplaced upon the translucent shelves of centuries.
             The evening continues to transpire upon rupturing streets of disheveled barrooms, the roaring and clinking of pint glasses, creates a fluctuating wall of sound that drips with stale beer, frustration, and perspiration. In the forthcoming night, angry pigeons scuttle between silent gutters, aware of their surroundings and an underlying theme: whatever wakes and dreams must die, in the perverse lucidity of tranquil indigo, and youth less geraniums.

She Had Blue Hair or/ Robbing Peter to pay Paul to Fuck Mary

                             In mid- August rhythms, within the moist bosom of pulsating lilac, and fern trees. Lucid green nostalgia permeates deep into vast heaving landscapes of soiled greenery,  pushing pleasant breezes to the sordid outskirts of the township ravine. Breathing brunette and crimson hymns near dusk,  luminous and sparkling towards evening. We do the jitterbug in twilight,  as mayflies descend to the grassy surface. Smoke rings assemble in dark trembling clouds,  surrounding the park pavilion arena.
                             Indoors as the hours progress, we mount firm wooden staircases on tiptoe. Our feet scurry drunkenly past casual landings, floorboards creaking, stained glass windows provide scattered beams of light, reflecting off incandescent- metal- light- fixtures. Following you out to the backyard garden, it is now that everything is somewhat okay.
                             She had blue hair and long legs. She wore her clothes eloquently. I walk these dirty- narrow-city-streets in search of something I cannot find in words. When I first saw her,  associating her with this languid laborious ideal, then towards the end of my endearing routine, I reluctantly turn around,  making an abrupt pit stop at Seven Eleven,  purchasing a pack of cigarettes.
                             In the stale-breeding-city-sleeping- Summer,  I get lost trying to find my way home. Towering-black-smoke-thoughtlessly rises from the rear of a neighborhood delicatessen. I get thirsty, I rest for a brief interval over a 40oz. in a maroon-cushioned-corner-booth, peering through long-iridescent-afternoon-windows, meticulously replaying the days trivial endeavors, recalling vivid-lustful-imagery,  between my fatigued and beating temples. I recall her wide windy strides, crossing the busy trafficking intersection,  her and her blue hair.
                   

Blood Oaks or/ Go Fetch me a Tumbler.

                                           In calm lewd reasoning of brisk foiled seasoning, table condiments mildly disperse in rally. The forthcoming evening. Chicanery of brown parchments, in deciphering crude abandonment. Whether dismal folly or diapering lolly. Harsh flavoring  between a brass violet bowl of tart pears. Keep your passion heated onto frail climaxes. Lilacs in early awakening of Autumn. Who walked the well-lit hearth of furnished hallways? Damp rupturing soil that intertwines the withering root of  blood oaks.
                                          I've touched torn lips, tongue to salted tongue. In obtuse flesh bulbs, cypress leaves press toward indigo streets in knitted seams. Sew your lace in thwarted streets, your thrown sash in coiled heaps of broiled greenery.  Beatitudes, carnivorous daughters, barefoot and crimson. In the marrow of the morrow, shed bone, then muscle shell. Skin, and cartilage, a promiscuous marriage.
                                         Mouth girls, pale and disheveled, your lawn is sorely leveled. Ancient fornication remains precise in ivory corpses,  embalming fluids ascend up your scarlet blouse in the simmering heat of domestic chivalry. I mount the marble staircase agitated, irate in majestic undertones. Flower boy, your seed is sourly and nimble. Stop gawking at the young doe, remove the thimble from your upper-lip. Go hang yourself in the morning garden, adjacent to the quaint and remote courtyard. Dress for supper in masterly chambers, adorned in the sovereignty of well-decorated garments.
                                       With her teeth in her mouth, and my hand on hers. Appallingly misplaced in stale attics. We went digging one midnight through dirty and dusty cardboard packages. Cobwebs and spiders lurked on the fiberglass floorboards, then a motherly Navajo, with maternal and homely turquoise beads assembling the width of her tender throat. Midnight passagways to China. In somber moonlight, we gazed out onto an iridescent playing field of glimmering verandas, antiques, and terraces. India is succulent and vulnerable, now go fetch me a tumbler.

Touristic Attractions (previously unreleased b-side)

                            I, the coastal treasurer of abandoned parkways and spacious condominiums. Air conditioned and rural are my fictitious beliefs. A domestic landlord whose crocodile- skinned shoes dig deep.... deep.... way down into the embedded soil of the rupturing Atlantic . I drown in rural swimming pools. The voluptuous daughters and I appreciate honesty, in gracious linoleum banquet halls, lacquered in adorned statues and grandiose artichokes. Lamenting organic growth is an amiable prestige of ours.
                           The reptile kingdom is in awe of it's subdued subordinates. Salt rimmed margaritas at high noon. Complacent grandma tips her glass beyond recognition. Self inflicted nostalgia coats the suburban perimeter of ivory shorelines, shimmering waves crash stagnantly loud upon sandy surfaces, Mesmerizing in it's languid iridescence, the sultry landscape resides remotely through cryptic lenses of touristic binoculars.
                            Bikini boy caught a snake in shallow woods north of the resort. To go beyond state lines with a bootleg bottle of booze, cruising the unwinding southern freeway in a-hot-red firebird convertible. The barnyard crow with it's graveyard ethics and poor posture. The illiterate horseshoe society, neighboring inbred hooker communities, and antique agriculturalists. Highway nook shops gift wrapped in artificial flavors and plastic souvenirs. Check your license plates at the screen door, to midnight casinos and stale beer, where elderly bingo is interchangeable with revolving skepticism and immoral defeat. Puzzling, the Mexican boys in the hotel lobby are immune and non-responsive to the brochure kiosk in the fluorescent foyer.
                           Lust issues, well I've paid my dues to society now all I've got left is an unopened pack of corn nuts, and a stomach full of homogenized milk and citrus acid.
 
                         
                      

Promiscuous Greenery

                       What endeared the dreaded solitude of stale lingering nights? Early morning laundry heaps in the remote corner of a jaded room. In days of necessary labor, assorted mops and brooms clanking ,the sweated eyelids of civil servants in swarming multitudes. The sun in it's afternoon chamber, the folly of Autumn foliage in well thwarted landscapes. Disheveled in cement and semen, presumptuous borders of the daytime courtyard. Evening bedspreads and lampshades reside beside an embedded coffee table. Grave words trickle monotonously from grey- open- mouthed street merchants, assembling narrow city passageways. Trickling walkways unfold throughout the center of town.The hard earned dirt and grit that clings to the pale soles of middle-aged business women's shoes, scurrying their way to sordid work occasions. 
                      Lifeless and embodied. Golden archways and shallow moons. Tea cups and assorted feathers cloud awaiting speculation, of embalming fluorescent noons. Gathered in deserted parking lots, the chilling cycles of wind, unforgiving breezes circle in approaching themes. Rush hour is carnivorous, toxic is native refuge, tired and conspired against. Grasping dead flowers from a translucent vase. She waters rhododendrons endlessly in the complacent garden, incandescent sun rays languidly reflect off green house mirrors. Clear in it's simplicity, the novelty establishment in it's sultry glory. Sunbed of dirt and moisture, agriculture in it's soiled grief and seed. Monuments of floral embroilment, adolescent children in the hearth of their needs.
                     Tea time lovers, reclusive in oblivious leisure, recline outdoors amidst ancient scenery, above a carpeted surface of perspiring vegetation, the browning sycamore, an evanescent table of glass. The garden has reached it's flourishing climax, through the darkening heights of towering proximity. Mother took us to a theater social. In an August of pears, and promiscuous greenery. What statues align the structural plaza, in the harsh realm of continuity. The graveyard community has peaked out onto winding marble staircases, concrete corridors, porcelain sinks, and shimmering edifices.
                        Rest your head on the silken pillow at dusk. Relieve your distress beside the furnished fireplace, where scattering embers descend into dreams.