silikon90

Guantánamo Bay! Such a name in my American dog mind          should choke in its own corrupt decay! O that the hallowed wardens of democracy and freedom          should bind with chains and flog with brains                    innocent human lives! There, locked behind a fence of coiled wire, glinting          with the sun between its million teeth,                    nameless bodies wasting                    in a prison sty! O that those misjudged and unconvicted souls          should suffer any heart-stripped torture, caged                    without a window to allow                    one hopeful light! Suspicion! pa

          Nebulae, mantras,          irregular rhythms,          curled lamplit bodies,          coupled as a single brass                    soprano saxophone                    reverberating groans,          chafed on, until          that sunlit hour          split the night like a mirror cracked into a doubled image,          window glare,          gleaming lightbulb, the twofold faces backlit staring at either wall, smokeswirls lifting from a cigarette— such pressure would snuff the filament dead, dimming the room with a red spark, and the dried Merlot, beaded between the thighs, smeared with every awkward s

     Prick with a pin the thickest vein. A butterfly, albino, sniffs the skin with serpentining snout uncurled to sip the silken sanguine pearl, to sate, with crimson hue, her wings.     Now see, the heavens flutter pale and papery, swarm the trickling fount, and Yes! the sun illuminates the task— to pock this body limp with bloodied vugs to glut a million throbbing compound eyes!

Comedian, Staggering out of the bar. Crickets, crickets.

Her gifts were a car, Champagne, and one glass necklace In red running ribbons.

Fake, fake, fake—explode— Dynamite blast to his bone. His kid still loves him.

I paid my debts and offered charities, I lent my foes forgiving hands, And still, They loathe how I subsist, They who chastise, not gently nudge but Shriek against my will, thus against my freedom, With pointed fingers, tongues and staves, invoking the maw Of Their heavenly God, He who is holiness, gentleness and grace, Swearing the crucifixion of my soul should I not offer up to Him my burnt heart, Abandon my old ways—strange and wicked ways They say—which merely seem to be Reflections of Their ways, for I have lived to love my neighbors and my foes To inspire amity, not by brandishing a Bible like some flaming sword, No, but by

Today more than any gone day, A bullet could explode Through my lung; And I, falling In a backward arc, While pinkening          white dove skies                    envelope sight, I could chuckle yet, And sigh.

Even stranded high atop a redwood, Man will never surrender his fight. What twigs and leaves, threads and rags He can scrounge, he'll weave himself A makeshift nest, not for ease, but set it In his opened mouth.                                 He'll sit there, Gaping, on his heavy branch, waiting For hours, for days, for weeks until Little finches hop inside his jowls. Though starved, he won't eat the birds; He finds their feathers bitter. No, he'll wait longer yet,                                 Till trees shed Their pinkening leaves; till winds slow Down to a cool whisper; till his heart, A prisoner, shakes the bars of it

Pale Mary-Belle, in just her floral widebrim, She pressed her lips against the sea and turned it up in vapor, over and across the horizon line. And below, great chasmic craters exposed, crags of jagged, slick basalt agape in sunlight, and whales and porpoises and manta rays and sparkling fish-schools floundered down into the sudden valley, far, far, flip- ping in the sun- light, never lit before, till all the sea was spilt with phosphorescent beads. It's a sight most beautiful at night when a passerby would gaze mistaken at the faux reflection of a starlit summer sky.