292

Posted on October 24, 2011 by urbansonnets

I am not normal; I am not human.

This is raw and real, this fragment, this arm
that might either slap or eat you. Say, man,
your dime is juicy. I will do no harm:
I've never been on a cruise ship before;
Have you seen the crystal waters? Scuba'd
and frolicked in it then chilled on the shore?
Did you light the fish? Or raze the schoolyard?:
The bonfire danced before the sacred
conjurers, and the drumskins tum-tummed
as ethylic eyes glossed with herbal hatred
at the shreds left in the firepit tomb:
At least this beach wasn't here way back when
the Caribs were fashioned – pure nature men.
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291

Posted on October 11, 2011 by urbansonnets

Ex-stranger before the throne: "Who sits there?

Is it the monarch clad in purple robes
whose benevolent threads will wear and tear,
exposing the frailties of the heart's throbs?
Is it the seer or the doer's downed see?
The activist's cathedra, sanctified
in an unguent of sweat, blood, bile and pee,
or the performer's pew of pranks untried?
The staid academician whose desk chair
wheels around in lieu of realized movement?
Or the eager teacher with stylized hair
who sits on a dime due to unpaid rent?
Whoever it is, I'ma sit there too."
So said the martyr who dropped on the loo.
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290

Posted on September 29, 2011 by urbansonnets

Quick flame and quicker lives. Ha ha. Get it?

The edges bifurcate like perdition –
a series of choices, as you read it,
danced past your eyes as the last division:
So you're stuck, on a flame in a wax lake,
blue like the depths of the undreamt ocean,
new as not new, tame as not cultured; take
your solace in that you will live again:
Perspective and color,  the first things to go;
they twist in the breeze as they fade away,
as they fade towards the line, fade like fresh snow
besmirched by warm fluid; You stay away:
The quick and the dead – time runs as in laps;
you breathe the salt air, you smile, you collapse.
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289

Posted on September 19, 2011 by urbansonnets

Vagrancy. The page spills as I tear it,

the ink trickles and I cannot hear it,
though I see it. I dream it. I wear it.
The page fills as these old words get near it:
Dot dot dot. I’s and T’s, hooks and crooks and
hope to die. This hope too high to verbal
eyes; Look up! But don’t mistake the quicksand
that flashes drunk in riptides of purple:
El lagarto, el camino, alli-
gator, Alcatraz to Cupertino:
Jupiter’s stash makes its home in Cali – 
We are the curses, we are Bambino:
Insular and insulated from wack-
ness, the monster is its very lack/loch (-ness).
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288

Posted on August 21, 2011 by urbansonnets

The hidden things that make life worth living:

the visible pulse under golden skin,
the empty stomach from years of giving,
the quiet eyes as new mindframes begin:
All that vision, dream, impulsed and invoked
by the glare of the sun upon my smile;
She looked at me blankly, she quipped, she joked,
"You're all I have and need; your faith's on trial."
One can hear the air think, if you listen
to the shadows scrape the grass with salsa
steps, and turn the leaves with hands that glisten,
and float planks over seas like a balsa:
I lost a lot of time just following
thoughts, but I can dream seas by swallowing.
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287

Posted on July 22, 2011 by urbansonnets

Mountain seer seeker thinker lover

searching for funerary whites and blacks
thinking of comfort and times that revel
in comfort and times, in minds that are lax:
Steady stutters, mobbing through knots of chords,
strings of fury and expansions of sense
over self. Get it? I planned that the words
on the wall would splatter like a past tense:
Nerves of satin, there's a fog that's next door
and a pageant within the squalls and swells;
It's really quite simple – we are here for
your love, your faith, your culture, and your smells:
Yes, boss. Good day to you, too. (You bastard.)
I'm waiting for them to bring the mustard.
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286

Posted on June 6, 2011 by urbansonnets

The chest compresses as the air titters

A thousands sparks as two fingers were snapped
The wind hangs low for the highest bidders
A snapshot of natives, now nude and mapped:
Fistfulls of water, the deep green fountain
Classic juice on the floor, so unopened
Creeping crepitations – necks knived in sin
A stream of humid thoughts tripped the bookend:
Reckless rails, like jazz mainstreamed and quartered
I am only a hand that sees it all
Measured breaths on couches is time ordered
The cycle is sick; the sickle grew tall:
Unhanded possessions, esteem intact
The music seeps through the carpeted track.
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285

Posted on May 20, 2011 by urbansonnets

Unubicable uproar, plutonic

underming of ineffable force,
hospital rhombi spinning, sonic
salvation, under winds that whisper hoarse:
That's a makeshift periplus, a hot bath
that soaks as it whisks up up and away
towards the Great Way, Safeway, home of bad math
and faith (bad) – both hazards on a brisk day:
Cool: I'm back in the fishbowl, in my I
(I mean my water, not my ego's itch –
blame French for placing isle before our "eye,"
insulating lands from oceanic pitch:
Paradise, Hell? Well, I'm an eye-land, see?
Not a peninsula, just very shy.
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284

Posted on April 24, 2011 by urbansonnets

Something stunning occurs when the rhythm
snaps and pops, straightening out all the kinks
in your neck, all the links that you'd give him,
all the joy and pain, as your swelling shrinks:
They're looking for me, but I've gone nowhere
but within myself to rediscover
truth and faith as I now begin to stare
down the barrel of my life's revolver:
To spin away or return? Why not both?
He is you and you are me, endlessly.
Essentially. Grace is my form of truth,
and I am grateful for your courtesy:
But my spine aches; I must lift my own head;
even if it kills, time does raise the dead.

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283

Posted on April 6, 2011 by urbansonnets

Con-fusion or confusion? Which is it?
Are the mind and heart mixed up or mixed in?
Do we wait for gold auras to visit
upon our dreams? Should I thin this thick skin?
There is a fog. It is universal.
It penetrates everything. Discovers,
discloses. Conceives, deceives. Reversal
of fortunes as the twilight veil hovers:
I have faith, which means my dreams were lifted
so I could live them, imbue them with flesh;
I stepped towards the coast as the clouds drifted;
the haze cleansed my head – mind and heart refresh:
The symphonic air piqued the golden sun –
Sound, sight, sense convened, all confused as one!

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