Light

Sting: Desert Rose remix

Her soft sultry smile
Simmers
Howling in the madness
Of life
One hand clutching her creations
While the other
Beckons
Forward
Guiding to the light
That sits
Simmering
From her soft sultry smile

Long fingers mark
Circles slow
Around the rim
The simmering fire
In her eyes rises
As laughter trips
Over her lips
Longing
Simmering
From her soft sultry smile

The beats converge
As
The beats diverge
As hearts turn
Unsure
But safe
All the while
Simmering
From her soft sultry smile

Single Cylinder

David Bowie: Dead man walking

It was at an intersection
A street
Named after a bird
That lays eggs covert
Into another's nest
Impostor children
Rise to a station
Unknown
While the mother can fly
Away
So high
So high
So be it

The vibrations of the single cylinder
Iron heart
Burred between my legs
As I sat
On English steel

The turn capturing
The sight
Of the one
Unexpected

Harsh shadows made quick work
Turning what
Had been
Into a Kraken
Tentacle legs ravenous
Pulling towards
Sharp beak
Forever gnawing
Gnawing forever

One hand was on the wheel
One on the phone
That she says
She doesn't use
Meanwhile
The single cylinder
Beats
Continual
Though it all

Light turns green
I follow
She turns
On a street foreign
I follow
Meanwhile the single cylinder beats
Continue
Through it all

The turn
Into another birds nest
She parks
As
I pass
I turn
Inside
I die
Meanwhile the single cylinder beats
Continue
Through it all

The Flamenco

Bond-Gipsy Rhapsody

Perhaps too quick
Rhythm seeks
To match the beats
Of hearts
When eyes fall upon the other
Begins the fall
Though steps try to betray
The motion

But the flamenco
knows
The passion
Simmering
Is just a part
The art
Of the heart
Of the one
Silhouetted
In dance
The advance
The retreat
All too soon
The lips will meet
So it must go
So it must be
Steps light advance
While she
Pirouettes
Around the he
Slamming heels
Slap
Yet each step
Draws
Her closer
As if he couldn't see
It is the dance
It has to be
Yet the advance
Leaves little chance
The turning awaqy is always followed
By a turning towards
Thier steps are always
In syncopation
Even if they do not know
They do

His push
Her pull
All part of the dance
And grinning
The Flamenco knows

No lie in her fire

Coldplay: Lips like sugar

There is no lie in her fire
Boiling black diamond’s erupt

Simmering fierce
Basking me
With a primal heat
Driven
Longing to consume
Desperate to know
The heat
Radiating from my return

A ringlet of her hair softly falls
But the tender truss is merely a trap
Drawing my hand
The innocent brush of her cheek
Draws my eyes to her lips
So full
So ripe
So brazen with desire
The lean
The contact caught
In the inferno’s devastation
Of liberation
The language of the body
Unspoken
Affirms all
Consumes all
Eternity caught
In a frozen moment
The pulling
Of one to the other
The push
Of one against the other
And as
Burning caresses
Devour
I know
There is no lie in her fire

Bed 43.

Modonna: Ray of Light (Sasha Ultra Violet Remix)

What do most people get to remember on their Birthdays?  I'm not sure.  But for me one thing always comes to mind: Bed 43.

Bed 43?  What is that? Bed 43 is a shadow of death that lies at the periphery of my celebration of life.  Don't worry, it's not a scary thing, indeed it is exhilarating in a way. A reminder of who, and what I am.  What then is Bed 43 you might ask?  

Bed 43 was my bed number when I was brought into Parkland Hospital.  It was the night of my 21st birthday.  I was Dead On Arrival.  Car accident.  I was the only vehicle involved.  Road turned, I didn't.  Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.  

I am not sure if Heaven or Hell didn't want me, at least not just yet or the fact that I am a pugnacious bulldog.  Or perhaps I met the Lord of Death and said "Not today."  Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.

Now it hasn't been easy.  I was resuscitated.  Out of the 42 other beds in the ICU ward, I was the only one who made it though the dark night.  I spent 14 days in a coma.  The reports marked severe damage to both the left and right sides of my brain.  I should not be.  I should not be.  I... should... not... be.  But I am.

I am Bed 43.

Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.

Though delayed I set my course.  Perhaps Bukowski is accurate when he said: 

“those who escape hell
however
never talk about
it
and nothing much
bothers them
after

that.”  

Of course the Buk also said "Find out what you love and let it kill you."  Someone died on the night o my accident, but it wasn't me.

What kept me going on?  Maybe it was nothing more than a memory of light.  Whatever was thrown at me, I could take the hit.  Taste the blood in my mouth, grin regardess, with my fists ready, smile, and say "Is that all you got?"  I could tell stories, maybe that's why I am a good story teller. As a History Professor and a Documentarian.  I can go to the edge.  I can dance on the periphery.  I had a memory of light, A light that may have been nothing more than a memory, or ashen embers waiting for a breath.  Who knows?  Someone died on the night of my accident... but it wasn't me.  

We create our own demons; we create our own angels.  Life can be bitter, life can be sweet.  Look to the light my friends.  You create it yourself.  Sometimes bridges have to be burnt, if only to allow one to go forward.  It might be rebuilt later, that is not your worry.  You are your light.  Shine bright.  In an age of shaman politicians and crisis driven agenda sycophants seeking to manipulate... look to the light.  Get out!  Live!

Take it from Bed 43:

"Live!"

  

          

Excited eyes burn

Madonna-She's Not Me (Offer Nissim mix)

Excited eyes burn
Searching for the words
To say
What she wants
When he
Is what she wants
With words
So close
He
Can see
the immeasurable distance
So slight
Generating the heated friction
Wating to ignite
The fire
ferments
On lips
So tight
Her trace
Her leaning gait
Why must they wait
Her proud jutt
Bursting forward
Invitation
The tilted hair
Forces
Her hair to flow
Covering
Her desire for seduction
The longing to dance
To capture
The laughter
Waiting
As excited eyes burn

The twist of hair

Elton John: Goodbye Norma Jean

“A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left.” 
― Marilyn Monroe

The twist of hair
Daring only to step into the light
Until makeup smears
Obliterated all
That was her

Keeping all that was precious
Hidden safe
Beguiling with a bat of the lash
While
Trembling in the shadow
None could know
Frozen memory
Foster family shuffle
Reaching for a lost fathers hand
But
In the floodlight
His silence couldn't touch you
If only the light remained on

If that was all you could
Believe
Though you knew the
Opposite
The studio's made more than 200 billion from you
Or from the image
But
What did you make?

What did you loose?

In the explosion of pleasure
Before the bottle of pills fell from your hand
Did you find it?

Whatever you hid
In the end, even you began to trip across the truth
And the boy believed that he saw you
If only for a moment

But he was just a boy