Stuffed Skunk

Black hair frames a tan smile and you are cradled in my left arm,
while my right hand hangs from my fathers’ grip.

I remember your familiar weight as my left fist grasps at that straw thin picture,
back broken with memory.

Kindling, sounds of the freeway rushing by as we returned from Yosemite,
packed tightly, like matches in the brown dodge,
radio crackling, sparking uncertainty as fire desperately rushed through our home.

You, were gone, a subject of immolation, not even a solitary black hair left.
Survived only by rusty smoked out ruins, and the blackened bones of a Huffy bicycle.

Black hair now drapes a tan smile,
left arm empty,
right hand gripping my father’s.
Only to realize that I like you have gone astray.

Re-Definition

You are,

uppercase, BREASTS,
Lullaby abdomen softly calling,
“I am Woman”.
Perfect as the dialogue between your
“Abstract hips”
and
“Concise ass.”
Punctuated, by clothes worn as metaphor, covering noun with proposition.
And I am wrecked, on the short lines of this definition, of
you,
Speak to me. "Don’t read, just talk, just talk.”
 

They Know all your moves and Don’t care

He moves thistly legs, a touch pigeon toed, trying to fit into “Strangers in the Night”, straining out of a old wooden stereo. Swinging, arms, hips, feet under precariously balanced glasses, teetering below a forehead furrowed with lust, topped by a mop of brown caramel. Bulldog cheeks curled up into a slick smile. Seducing his wife, of eighteen years into eyeing him, bemusedly, his familiar worn loafers flung aside, the one legged hop to yank off rumpled socks, ripped corduroys thrust to the floor, taking her off guard because his beggars body suits her perfectly. And though she has seen these moves a million times, it’s ok, because she simply doesn’t care.

I RAGA YOU.

UP high,
I see Raga 5 in my third eye.
Its sutras suiting up into the night air riding on wisps of incense.
The giant elephant,
The huge Buddha.
I see the car, that quintessential American revelation.
HA!
I see galaxies expanding and contracting.
I see all of this in the growing rock.
That has become the nipple of Buddha.
But not a nipple a NIPPLE because I am fucking ZEN with tits and
the rock hard nipples.
I am the RAGA 5.
And I declare your voice is muted.
For I hold the quintessential American revelation.
And now remote from you, you are barely an image without your words.
No longer are you able to discern, or be expectant;
Your head cannot reach a thing.
And I fall asleep, a prize that cannot be won.

Jesus on Trial

I put Jesus on trial for war crimes
“Guilty?”, he said he was just following orders
I made the point
“The Nazi’s just followed orders.”
Jesus said he wasn’t a Nazi but a citizen of Nazareth, but he understood the possible confusion.
This was true so I asked

“But how do you explain the mass genocide, for example the Crusades, fought in your name?”
Jesus said it wasn’t his fault; his copyright expired like everyone else’s and was then public property to be done with as people pleased.
He had me again

So I asked him how reliable is the Bible?
He said completely reliable
“How can that be?”
“Trust me I’m all powerful.”

Hell I was losing so I shot him.
And he died
He didn’t survive
He didn’t come back to life
He was dead
His flesh splattered like mud from the hole in his forehead.

Then I turned to the Jury and held my gun aloft saying look now I am the Messiah,