To Be Kissed
(For Constance Marlene)

My love does not want
To wait
My love wants
To touch

My love does not want
To yearn
My love wants
To be touched

My love does not want
To hurt you
My love wants
To be hurt only by you

My love does not want
To hear you are hurt
My love wants
To hear anyway

My love does not want
To loose you
My love wants
To be lost with you

My love does not want
To be sickly thus
My love wants
Your cure

My love does not want
To find you
My love wants
To be found with you

My love does not want
To stay kissed
My love wants
To be kissed

Truth At Tahrir
(Winter 2011)

I live along a river
Settled by a civilization
More ancient than Egypt

Mine tried to murder theirs
Despot pharaohs destroying ancient walking libraries
Trying to take away their children
Trying to take away their language

Ago and away
In the home of my father
Truth was illegal in my own language
The library and the commons were condemned
Martial law was brutal but brief

Today as yet there is no curfew
Today as yet there is no martial law

Today it is hard for me to remember
All the ways I may speak
Instantly publishing whatever occurs to me

Read or not
I have my SAY
In the language of my fathers

As long as I don’t offend pharaoh

Away and now
In ancient cities
At the steps of ancient libraries
Men and women with their children in arms

Come to the commons
To defy pharaoh’s gagging curfew
Speaking truth in the language of their fathers

Come to the commons day after day
To defy pharaoh’s gagging punishment
Witnessing the silent generations with their bodies

Come to the commons week after week
To defy pharaoh’s murderous attack
Saying the truth now in the language of their own lost bodies

May they hold the commons forever
In every city
In every hamlet
At the steps of every ancient library
At the foot of every walking library

For the unsaid truth of old women
For the unsaid truth of old men
For the voices and the language of each child
For the original people in every original land along every original river
For the heroic chants of the men, women and children of Tahrir
For my parents who sometimes spoke only for pharaoh

For us all

Photo From:

Good Enough To Eat Your Love?
December 1, 2009 / December 1, 2010

It is not legal to shed this armor

I must swaller these sweets
And chaw these meats
And gnaw these endless piles of carbs

And die this early death

I live on a plain where everyone sees me
But no one can know my way out

I stand here naked
I stand here alone
I stand here with food in my mouth

I can hear you outside becon
Wanting nothing but to be with me

I strain at the gravity straps
I would take them off and die in the wind
If I could be that disloyal

Even now when
Life is great with love and
Bounty all around

How can I receive your love
When my mouth is chock full
Of calorous obligation

Can I be bad enough
To refuse their food

And good enough
To eat your love?

Better Than The Boy

Jack showed me how to run
Through the woods
Not necessarily along a trail

Not necessarily after something
Not necessarily toward something

Necessarily running
Stirring up the wood’s smells

Mushrooms rotting
Leaves rotting
Twigs turning into soil with the rest of it

Up the hill and down the ravine
The un-fresh stream
Behind the postwar suburb houses

This one with charred aluminum siding
Where the eldest son
Burning with some rage

Expressed himself
Then he ran off with Jack
Who knew how to be a dog

Better than the boy
Knew how to be a boy

Down and down
Toward the High Street culvert
Below Saint Michael’s

Where Catholic apartment dwellers
Walked their bully sons to mass

While Presbyterians
Sat their bully sons
In white painted more pure balconies

The priests at Saint Michael’s
Built a garden
Before the war

Low walls of circles and squares
Arches of bricks and stone
No longer in the maintenance budget

By the time Jack and I arrived
It was falling apart
The better for it

Not old enough for real old
But old enough for me

Old enough
Catholic enough
To keep me interested

We ran away together
From the home work
Impossibly charred family duties

Past my tree house
Past my dams
As fast as rabbits down the ravine

I ran through huge webs
With big yellow-coated spiders
Straddling the trail

Jack ran under them
It was his joke

Making my skin crawl
With life
And on we ran

He brought me again and again
To the unkempt Priest’s garden
Which got its magic

Not from priests
But from yellow-coated woods spiders

And from Jack
Who knew what was funny
Who knew what was holy

Ideology Time

Were we lost at the beginning
With our lawyers courts and parties?

Washington saw it come
Lincoln suffered for it
The Roosevelts mastered it

Today’s ideas die
Un-nurtured by discussion
Suffocated by side picking

Invention’s technologies rules this day
Fed by lawyer’s patents

Bulled by giant green votes
Held by corporate mega-persons
With world sized megaphones

Company owned government
Populated with “three fifth”- persons
Voiceless voter-consumers
Slaved to speaking skulls

Moral courage to hear both sides
Nay three or four or multitudinous
Now nothing but old theory for old times

There is no time for speaking ideas
There is no time for hearing ideas
There is no time for reading ideas
We pass our time

Mouths wag polemics

Then watching
Mouths wag advertisements

Then we die


Connie at Secret Garden Bed & Breakfast

Connie vs Pickle at Canter’s

Canter’s and a Guy

Chuck (Looking tired from the flight.) at Canter’s

Shreck requiring symbols of street cred


Dominic, Chuck in front of David, Bill, Vinny, Michael.
Wayne is out of the shot to the left.

Quality Is A Magic
Dominic, Chuck.
Steve Shoffner’s projection.

Wars For The Numb
Wayne, Dominic, Chuck, David, Bill’s tuba.
Steven’s projections.

Where Babies Come From
Wayne, Chuck.
Steven’s projections.

Anima Benidiction
Chuck, Joe Santarromana (Filmmaker), Wayne, Dominic, David, Bill, Michael in front of Vinnie.
Steven’s projections.

Talking it over.

Dominic, David

Chuck (He just won’t stop.)

Amy, Aaron, Chuck In San Juan Capistrano with Connie at the camera the next day.

Connie Bonner-Britt took most of the pictures. The last image of Chuck at the microphone is a still from Joe’s film.

Video by David Crigger

© 2013 POET'S MOUTH Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha