The Bartender.

I know he digs the way I think;
the shoes I wear; the foods I eat;
so much in fact is his smitten instinct;
he will default back to getting down on a knee…

He knows all the words to my favorite tales;
he rides into a room on no one’s coat-tails;
he’s immature – but he cleans up so well;
we are both too crazy for each other to tell…

I let him get away with almost anything;
all he has to do is bat those sweet hazel eyes at me;
flash me back to the bar he tends at night in Queens;
the mouth and mind of Walken with a heart like Huckleberry.

Root.

(Photo by Americana Injustica - Monterey, California 2012)

(Photo by Americana Injustica – Santa Cruz, California 2015)

I have already, myself seen,

the things that you describe

when you write your poetry;

the sadness, and tears,

the move from overseas;

it’s not your words

that are ever lost on me –

it is these feelings,

the sweet things,

shining,

from you at me…

scary to me –

because alone, I be,

it’s very hard to allow

anyone else

close enough to me

to either love or despise

to spit in my eye,

and then you came on by;

and somehow,

you seemed to speak

to the roots

of my trees…

your dreams and mine

intertwined all the time,

a patterning,

a celebrated defeat,

I bow to your feet,

I do, you know –

it’s just fine

for you to let go;

I will not hurt

these truths that we

reciprocally know,

it’s not your words,

my darling premonition –

that keep worrying…

it’s this deep down curiosity,

ticking,

tocking,

chopping,

to the very center

of what’s feels

right and wrong to be.

Ghost Dive.

"In the Fog" Capitola, California 2014

“In the Fog” (Photo taken by Americana Injustica, Capitola, California 2014)

Had not you been stolen
away from its sands,
who knows then, my dear?…
where your feet might let you land,
I can see
your face beneath,
the kelp and reef
quite possibly…
drowning
in old misery;

Were you not whisked away
to a far and foreign place,
how might it have become, I fear…
the smile gone from that face,
I can sense
the elegance,
buckets from whence
you counted
grains
in beach tents;

What if? You had no mother
to make up your little mind?
a different man, you understand…
born of a different experience, unkind,
I can feel
pain: so very real,
it’s deep, it’s instilled
but, you’ve conquered
forgiveness
titanium within thy will;

May your prose always shine
Ever-more than just a shimmer
may your wetsuit ever-protect
skin and bones of its swimmer;
I can dive
right alongside,
deeper than shame or pride
to show you – the faces
ghosts
left far behind.

Try Little.

fight-club-copy

Herfra til her, beskidte dearhas
endnu ikke modtaget en værdig ord
se den måde at Ican
producere vinger og flylike
det allermindste, poetisk fugl.
Once in a while, you flash me a smile
and I’m smitten all over again
but most of the time
your impatient, closed-mind
tries little to rein that ego of yours in.
You seem to forget, that I’m no Juliet
never claimed to be a butterfly
your face is so fine
with a heart, so unkind
tries little to learn the reasons why.
You aren’t alone, many have come and gone
with languages that I can’t understand
you’ve chalked yourself up
to that shiny, trophy cup
tried little, to know who I actually am.
Once in lifetime, comes a heart like mine
the likes of you struggles to recognize
so like a camera flash
just a ghost in your past
here and gone before you opened your eyes.

Inward.

Huh?

Huh?

You don’t need to know
the science
behind how a supernova glows,
in order to see, so vividly
these scars;
I sport them proudly
like you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
the Cuban cigars –
yawn…
this bores me;
don’t act like you
do not
secretly adore me,
forcefully, lips sewn
confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not rocket science,
my compliance
is a choice I make,
ever renewed,
ring true?
You bet I do…
Again, let’s spin
around the room,
you’re mad because
I can’t comprehend you…
But you know that
feeling…

all too well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Passive Aggressive
in designer shoes…
never did question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine do  –
combustible
ignitable
it isn’t any surprise.
That you’d be too ornery
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
make my heart shock
harder than –
a hundred bolts of lightning.

Jeg ber dere.

Snapshot312

Jeg ber dere …
If I had you alone for a while
I guarantee
I could make you smile –
A broad, wide grin
that’d stretch for miles…
You’d be my daddy,
I’d be your love child;
Under the covers
a universe so wild,
believing and seeing –
the other side
of the coin –
tender loin,
my need –
overrides;
beg and moan
pump and groan
til the tears come
to my eyes;
A stroke and you’re in,
Now the pleasure
begins,
You take away from me –
only to
give back in full,
again.
jeg ber dere…
Suction from
puckered lips
pressure from you
finertips,
deep inside,
now – HOLD
recognize…
take it back again,
I beg of you
“Sugar, please?…”
You decide then
to let me
finally win;
you get me
to heights I’ve never been;
Please? Come back in…
I’ve left the
knob unlocked,
my door’s wide open
and I’m pleading too
jeg ber dere…jeg ber dere
Aye, you’re mine;
touch down
on the stars
in my skies
lick your own sweat
from my forehead
every night;
jeg ber dere
please do this right
I’ve taken to
the likes of flight
underneath
the Victory Wreath,
that you wear
in your full right.
Don’t hang me here
on the old clothesline
with all the things
that have worn
away with time;
too much sunshine –
too much open space,
jeg ber dere
I don’t belong
in that forgotten place.

Moonlight and PTSD.

What might
tonight’s
insomnia-ridden,
wishes for dreams-
of happy things…
eventually lead me to do?
I may end up running uphill-
away from me,
begging for you;
Might I find myself
in serious need
of emergency help,
when my heart
stops beating by itself?
Possibly, my PTSD
will create so much anxiety,
uncertainty,
lack of any sense of safety-
such a nightmare to fall asleep.
Shhhhh;
pretend I do not breathe;
play dead inside
of my own head,
when will it be morning?
Perhaps, the chaps
who bait the traps,
will wait down by
the creek for me;
but then again-
I can’t stand those men,
and none of them
can easily tolerate me;
What was that noise?
The Man and his Boys…
tumbling around inside
of my stoniest weed;
arched backs,
slash-hacks,
unstable,
in tailored tweed;
Flip the book pages,
lock-down the hatches
infomercial orgasms
while playing with matches;
finally…
when the skies are pink,
and my fearful mind
bangs itself to sleep;
I will sleep, somewhat
Though rather fitfully…
wrapped
inside of the quilt
that I intend to
steal right off your body.

Hurt So Right.

Pump.

Pump.

Oh so much pressure,
building up
inside of
my eyes;
Know that I measure,
many crumbs
in spite of
my size;
For whom I treasure,
to perceive
tonguing the seams
of my mind;
Steeping with pleasure,
belting out
aloud and proud
my cries;
Too low down to measure,
climbing up
the liquid tendons
chopped cleanly rough;
Oh so much pressure,
blue, passive-
aggressive
I love the ride.