Patron benefit
that pigeontoed apropos
moment of silence
bubbling between both
buffers,
pretending innocent insult.
But I can suggest
that it pardons dissonance.
To be consonant,
I am not
protesting (4) ignorance.
No,
patronizing doubt
is assuredly
not without
iTs moral distinctions.
It bleeds anger
like ink smudge
and girlsmut.
If you drop your
egocentric
melody,
you can put up
"enemies"
and put out
(4) sin.
Your righteoussmartmouth slipping knows
the only place wherein
It lies
is
the doubt
of not benefiting from
your moans.

"I am"
among
hiphop bookstore poetry

Borders on hyposcrisy.
I am smelling
of cheese dip and the fresh crack'ling of first peeled pages.
The beat of black text tounging has pulled
the
irises of my eyes wider than the
long lines-short lines of written boredom fire
and pressed this sheet out of my girlpants
pulled down against the floor
letting me out more.

But despite my compromising
location of
inspiration
I am embracing this scrap and the shelf
to which I am glued, bookbacks to my penbone.

MY WORD is that of covers and judges
that are rubbing off on my
little torn bit
of literary
tick.
And I cannot end
these furious scribbles
will shake themselves
inkdrop
by head again
and
again.

You childbearers of this day?
                I meet none but
Insolence! and Complacency..
to have eyes in your heads like the baying-mouthéd cows.
Rather than gnawing viciously on your inferred bonds
you would be herded as such -complacency!

Even throughout this, your implied imprisonment,
you trip slackjawed as though you had and held your mettle.
More which you would hold your own cattleprod,
your insolent barbs!
[Aside]
Were you perhaps the height of man, offense would be assumed,
and arms risen to some purpose.
[To Subject]
But you are deeded as rabbits,
blathering and chattering and breeding..
biting your own hinds!
What use is a populated colony but to rob the community's garden?
Nay, being not fit even for public,
lest you think yourselves like praetors,
you no more tirade than prey.

Dinner is on the table,
shining silver splayed across,
and white napkin legs hanging over.
The Man from Russia takes a knife
And serves himself.

You can see his house long down the road;
it floats with a faerie-glow demeanor.
You could walk a month by night
and not touch his knock sooner.

The Man from Russia flips the cloth,
And hoards stolen chills.

His mistress is a shadow on the curtain,
fair and far away.
Her intentions flit from day to day,
quieting to his pleasure.
His attentions play past rather
than administer to her leisure.

The Man from Russia strokes the keys,
And elicits shivers of laughter.

He is coquettishly pleasant
on sensual topics;
his guests of knees and nailpolish,
his sensitive subjects,
oblige to his blemish.

The Man from Russia seduces the lights,
And dinner could not be dimmer.

All it takes is a breath of desolation
and bended wrists across another;
delight deteriorates to muscle memory,
and the climax is no more than a point
between the fingers of promise and accusation.

And the little shrouded bits of doubt
swallow themselves in the placentaèd brain,
bearing a hush in the fabric of dialogue,
compelling distances to rush themselves--
leaving burden, calfing mothers landlocked--
herding barren conversation between "Ah.." and "-Oh!"

Hyperventilation in loud, protective fantasies
fortresses asphyxiation from orbiting silences,
the shadows of towers growing longer each sunset.
Each nodding white worm of solitude
is crushed between determined teeth,
and lined palms say, "smells like home."

Profess.
Time tells
praises answered by ineptitude,
sliced the core outta the wood block like a carrot heart.
Soft and spongy,
intended, sure!
Applauses only impulse your human plane,
the immortal lying useless underside your arm.
The certainty mouthed by your ignorance
stuffs the urgency of the point, and
us pushing up below your tongue.
If you just flayed your eminence enough to suck the worded key
to the marrow of our souls,
sawed modesty to morality…
profess our weight to the irreverence of society.

Come

- a dash or two...

quite the quintessential hullabaloo.

Bach would never have sat here.
shoving his cheek into his eye
and drooling at scripted sex.
That salivating representation scryed
by my figurative bets.

He screwed the piano instead.-

now,

- truly I wouldn't second guess
your definition of "oh," except
you insist.
Leering at me with
accusing hints of "nevertheless,"

I'll do when I do,
but we're not doing this alone.

I'm not screwing myself.-

haven't we had

-All you ever wonder about
is stuffed in their pants.
Your hormones are search parties spotlighting
every inanimate, melancholy sucker.
It's easier to enrapture them if
they are sitting still.

And if they roll on top of you,
you lazy bum,
you can't stop their spill.

So.....I forgot to put yeast in the bread
guess you'll heave and rise
some other night.

Screw up some other's plight.-

enough?