locking heaven's gates

he was a creeping, a crawling, fabulation that pranced behind
his shadow, that caterwauled, bamboozled and shuckstered
in around and down town to the v a hall where fancy fopsters

bangled, was a shim sham man, dealing three-penny poker hands
a floozie-fella, sequinated, pearled, lacquered and tossing
powders on the doilies, selling tie-dyed pasties to our blue-haired

gals, was a glimmer-boy, a green eyed wonder who left his passion
where his momma never spied, who oohed, then aahed, then
did his little leap cavort sro fabulous and certifiably broadwellian

extravaganza, was a jamming pounding aortal slice between the
sheets, who left 'em rolling, left 'em leaving their salvation in the
aisles, was this stealer boy, this dervish bourbon vodka shake don't

stir, he was, a raging preacher man, come casting down, come
making whispers, making smooches in sweet armanis, and he
played a little ditty, and he laid me down to sleep, locking heaven's

gates

There's a new fella in town, zine-wise. Regard the right column for the Onion Union. Seems they're smitten with 'listening to jackal tales' and will publish it - at some point. To be determined. But take the link and fly with it. Support all supporters of poesies. And, yes, gentle readers. I'm back at work in a creative frenzy. Here by the Bay.

some-times

some times i sing to sea birds, dying on the shore,
some times i wail with otters, when widows flaunt their joy

but when the hermit crabs begin their clacking reveries
and silverwings their birth ballets, i stop to dance my slow

merengue, stop to slow some salty drops into my hair, tasting
tse-tse dreams as they lay their golden eggs upon my neck,

some times

waiting for the singer-man

he lay his ear down, on to the zagged window sill, waiting for the
singer-man, dollopped in velvet britches, finery from vienna, tossing
scented powders to cover angry daffodils and their nightly

panderings, and he blew his arias across the buttery fields, haunted
by his succubus dumbfounded, as she stumbled over grasping lilacs,
lost in her hungry dervish, and he made his kissing pout, heavy

in the glimmer dawn, tasting s.comfort dew drops, flung sweet from
ancient gabber trees, flung wasteful in their nightly raucous joy;
he lay his ear down, whistled for the catter bird, to find that singer-man,

to fill him up with whisperings and magic words and bind him with his
ribbons, his fopperies, leave him wrapped in carmen's long decline,
leave him stolen from the widow flies that eat the moon's slow

shadow, for this night would bring its gypsy clefs, and bring his tapping
sliding jittering dance, his huzzah razza-ma-tazzah show stopping and
fabulous cirque to his window's sill, with its sly and dusty thieving ways,

where he would lay his ear, caught in paisley webs spun by the dreaming
singer-man, and begin a day already long forgotten, but laughing to the
gossip of the chi-chi bugs, to belladonna's cold lament, waiting for the rave

reviews

daddy was

he tossed flutter floats down into the mushroom bogs,
did his skip spin whirl with worrisome pivots, and laughed
his daddy's laugh, full of glimmering bruises, wiped with

rhinestone paste and mouthy smooches, and sang
his daddy's lullabies, pocked by hungry promises
when teddy's bear stole his moonlight and did his

whisper, did his frolic in some darkly two-step that brought
hurrahs, cause daddy was a singer-man, a minstrel-face
that shook with tales of loopy lads arunning in the their

shadows, who spoke with crocus-flies about lolita's last
review, and he tossed his years away, down into the fawning
audience, edging in their seats to spy his ever bolder creams,

his lotions that would make him a.miller's golden fella,
raising operatic glasses to weep and cherish his slight
mascara, marvel at the dresser's craft that blushed away

old margarita's kiss, and he tossed his famous lines onto
his bedroom floor, where wandered footprints his father
traced as night fell into night fell into night

Back, back, back. Back in San Francisco. Gone, the summer in Montreal. But return soon for a new work. I know, it's been far too long.