A Tale of Samarkand

“It’s so dark, where am I?” came her words of distress
Miriam wasn’t supposed to be blind
It was a weather stricken condition she’d learned to detest
The gods of the Kyzyl Kum desert were to blame for it
going out into oblivion to escape invading hordes was dangerous
The hottest day of the year took her vision & strangled it
Heat exhaustion caused a stroke, even fleas were coughing, comatose
when she whispered pleas, walls erected –
the green Earth shut its contents… armaments of darkness flowed
Exiled to the shadows; the muted springs of nowhere
while her husband was busy stargazing, she’d sit in her oak chair
Every ounce of the visual spectrum so bare it blacked out Samarkand


An Unveiling

Cynthia, you should really try being yourself if you intend to succeed
This projection of being an impeccable tease is terrible, please
The endless, senseless deceit tends to be cheap, a weapon you wield
And a futile one at that; you may as well swing a tire wrench at the breeze
Men think you a tired wench & a skeez… for what, your archetypical traits?
I’m gonna have to ask you to abandon the glittering carriage of narcissism with haste
Selflessness… let it nestle into the comfortable bedchamber of your own psyche


The Portrait of Dr. Cenotaph

The soul’s departure from the body is prearranged; a token of gratitude
for hosting the rabble, ruse and giving toasts to the crass, amused
The rotary bladder screws were supposed to be fastened, tuned
to an engine-metal cast in a steel-cased projection
Bless these rental caps from the free-baser dentist
Meet the portrait of Dr. Cenotaph, and his real grave expression
Heel raising tension – if you feel shaken, lessen
the locomotion of death: the wheels made the flesh grim


Abandoning a Warlord for Dummies

One of the car bombs peeled the lawn, then the smog cleared up
Anton stood palmin’ a beer mug, molotov in his pocket, balaclava & earmuffs
His parents feared him for obvious reasons: contras, arson, accomplished theft
was even dubbed a son of a gun…he used on his father when he shot him dead
Aimed white phosphorous at convents & consulates, dishonored catholocists
A martyr in his solemnness with the mark of the apocalypse
Now he’s out to make sure the carcasses of Sodom writhe
Used to be a postmodern kid, but now he’s not so nice


Even sand can be frozen in time

Why does the hierarchy matter so? Calico adage flows

down from prose addled with salvaged bones and an amber glow

Egyptologist went to school off a Cambridge loan, studying by a lamp at home

What asphyxiated mantra lies beneath the sandy knoll of the Sphinx

which can’t be known through a glyph, since in summertime I fled

Is it justified to call me a necrophiliac if I elect to mummify the dead?


A Portrait of Sri Lanka

I’m unsteady, the bloodletting is tongue stretching

Picture a slum setting, unkempt with a rough heading
Tribes get involved, when nature, with its rises and falls
Entices us all to question life and its inviolate call
Sometimes even the sun catches the horizon off guard
Illuminating the land – all the mountains, pines & bazaars

Legends state, that trees grow broader in a wretched place
much like cells strengthen when ensconcing in the reddish fray


Not Another Apocalypse Biopsy

Pollen decays, it’s what it’s meant to do
we thought the mortar within Solomon’s Gate inseparable
Destructive tendencies followed a plague of seppuku’s
technologically ancient residues caked upon the lake of heaven’s crescent moon
Perhaps we’re epileptic fools – as blunt edged as a vivisection tool
auctioning off the pale horse of death for Cinderella mules
coroners raise foggy glasses of bourbon to our sprawling debts
accosted flesh, the darker depths of the neck help in determining the cause of death…



Wish I could’ve went to Stonehenge
to find what the ancient corpses dug up
I hear they’re trying to resurrect the wooly mammoth
I say leave Shallow Halliburton alone
let her rest for G.O.D’s sake… (gold, oil, drugs)

La Bonet drago la flaga signifies Domino eyepatch
Arson mode, tires flat, Orson Welles novel-owned wiretap
Agra’s wearing high hats, agnostic proles file down iron shafts
bottle-nosed Reinhardt hatch mixed in molotov wine & schnapps
Karzamakov hellraiser, hamuntashens? “Yes, Major!”


Origami Boy

He was a mindful youth, a far cry from the silver spoonfed Aryan cupboard
“It’s off to the ovens for the soulless turds” were words his companions carelessly uttered
From the bleachers observing they’d watch candidly as people disbanded and suffered
Is this the skin of a superior person? He ran his hands up his face like a serious surgeon
But he couldn’t see the assertion, he was in a dream that was hurtful
The Jewish family down the street didn’t seem to deserve this evil subversion
That damn media circus, propaganda officers would preach in a circle,
His mind said race mathematics were wrong; avoid the public throngs, leap over hurdles
But ignorance is a disease that is terminal, one that can easily purge you… READ MORE