TOLSTOY AND A TREE

Tolstoy, brim hat, austere of autograph

platinum, stern, the lengthy cheek shaded,

his eyes underneath eye level shadow

leans on a tree that appears a finger

a vein wraps the trunk, casts off a sparkle,

while the master looks into the camera

wearing his gown and searching of gesture,

and seems to weigh or balances himself

a man and a monument both alive

dark clouds crowd the background like a curtain

as they close in around him he looks through

his image and directly for our view

from one side of himself to our own one

the embrace of his love with our union

MOUNTAIN*LION

I Stroke the Black Keys with White Letters, Tap

The Muscles behind the Eyes of a Cat.

She Was Small and Lean and Leapt across the Tap

Of the Rain as its Crystals Drew Light Cat.

She was a Mountain Lion just zapping Past.

Her Image Cast Head and Profile That

As I think of her Now, Road, Moon, and Last

The Light that she Drew from her Eyes at That.

I knew She had Seen Me and from a Distance.

Had she Something to say to me Then, Spread

Across the double lanes from RIght to Left.

Timed by Vehicles and Center Divide.

I felt as we’d Merged, she was Always on Track.

Her Instinct, her Fur, and Her Asterisk*

OAK TREE TOO YOUNG FOR ACORNS

The OAKS on the Avenue gave 3 Acorns.
They are TOO YOUNG . They each THree had Holes.
The Weevils had already Got Them. Before.
Like the Infant TUrtle had not made it to Shore.
But Instead was Trapped between Hot LEgs
AND Hotter Pavements Of Walls of Consensus.
They Broach their Great Hope- SPORT of the LIVING.
TO OUTLIVE One Accident Remain STRONG.
Like a Turtle to its Shell to its LEGS LENGTHS.
Traveling over Ocean FLOORS come Home.
The Roost in their Origins. They GO THROUGH.
From Time's Smallest Chances to its FUTURE.
An Oak Can Bend but it Won't Falter.
EL ROBLE DOBLA PERO NO QUIEBRA

AFRICA AND ARIZONA: WALCOT AND ENGLISH

The Senator is Handsome, He's Passionate.
He has Everything but an Agent of Love at Command.
Why do the Women watch On Think Lean but CUT?
Why do they ALLOW HIM TO CALL THEM SLUTS!
WE DON"T GO FOR THAT!  NOR FEMISWINE THONGS.
WE ARE WHATEVER WHAT WASN"T READ LONG.
BEFORE it DUG DOWN DEEPER than COPPER.
TO THAT DUAL CORE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD>
ITS WHEELS BEAUTIFY REASON WITH BLISS.
THESE ARE HIS SOURCES: AFRICAN SONG.
TRebled at the Quake of the Dawn Caribbean!
The Boat that the NOBEL GENTLEMAN WALCOT.
CALLED HIS AMERICA AND HIS PATOIS.
AN ENGLISH MORE CLASSIC THAN SHAKESPEARE'S

CONTEMPORARIES

I sat Down with the COntemporaries.
They found ME thus:  Too Much Wordsworth.
19th Century Backdrop without Melody. Pathos.
What has happened to her language or Tongue?
Not Quite English Not Fully SPanish.
Yet here she is at the Rambling of TUrtles.
Better for the National Geographic.
Science or Morals.  Not These Dirt Allays.
Where Poetry fights back at the PUS!
With its own Shame, Self, and HONOR's CRY.
YOU ARE DIDACTIC VASQUEZ GO ON.
ALRIGHT MY EQUALS OF NO MATTER MINE.
I LOVE YOU YOU ARE TEH EQUALS OF PINE.
YOU CRY FOR LOST INNOCENCE WHILE I SIGH>

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCE: GOOD AND BAD, A MORAL TREATISE

Truth has no Consequence it has not Known

If in Nightmarish brutal scenarios

When the Knowing turn away a Blind Tongue.

The avarice Blooms ever Brighter Damn.

You see it in  Hallways of Eyes drawn Shut

The Ears that press back on the Violence, Shush!

Bystanders Witness what Grieves on a Bough.

Life in America is Nothing Much.

Death Walking Avatars munch on a Lake.

Philosophically speaking, One Side’s Sakes

Rumors and Gossiping replace the Oath

To Treat and Treat Alike ANother Oath

Yet Gallows are for Field Mice and Bees Wax

The Smaller the Mightier :  Good and Bad

I Cultivate Pink Roses

--para el cruel j.m. simple verses

I cultivate pink roses
in February and September
for that Cruel Disaster
That hardens at my soul
I cultivate pink roses anyhow

I wash up from a surface sun
The petals of the moon sing low.
And bloom a feather fan
The eagle and the doe begin again.

While you paint with white silk.
I have just a drop that mingles
With the blood of your great skill
In the dreams of indigenous girls.

They come as they Soothe me
In Pink Melodisia.
Oh Beauty On Wing Tipped Letter.
I go to your Statue with my Feather