The Black House

A Gypsy's Kiss

He loved her beneath the shadows
of Pichoca trees where white
palm leaves blew high into the
winds and vanilla vines swirled
and twisted into superfluous webs
of calico threads.

This is where she played on her
swing, suspended barefoot among
the grandeur of rock formations that
labyrinthed to a sheer cliff, which
descended into the still waters of
a ghostly lake.

The porous lava of her skin was
carefully woven with the sweet
milk of life given to ghosts in a
dream, where modesty rose like
silence and atoms vibrated into
solid waves of pure color.

Grays and plums drifted across the
sky when they danced among the
eucalyptus that adorned moss covered
stones where the smell of burning sap
from copal trees served as incense
abound in the humid air.

Serenades of gypsy music and gothic
melodies terraced the red caravan with
one voice under the taps of falling rain as
the lovers kissed and sang in the silver
moonlight inspired by Majorca wine and
fried fish served with burned mango.

It was the stuff of poetry!

Time (Vietnam War)

At the time it seemed
the most important thing in life,
Vietnam...

She picked up the syringe
uncapping the needle
making the mistake of meeting his eyes.
Not a flinch
he made no move.
Masculine flesh and swirls of black hair
hard to imagine the soul's barely there
not to linger overlong with her eyes
she stares up at the ceiling
to staunch her tears.
As time flies by
he cuts her a look
and steps back in his mind.

"Rollin' Death"

Nobody noticed
Red Blood on White Walls
The music plays on
The fire of life no longer burns.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night
are calling
I'll set you free .

Brannif Airlines
The pink airplane flies
destination unknown
many will die.
114 degrees in the sun
humidity well over survivable level.
Mekong Delta
knee deep in thin mud.
Reddish black- shiny blood sucking leeches
breeding
in standing brackish waters.
Burning cigs and bug juice,
ham and lima beans,
waiting for the enemy;
the soldiers were teens
and no one at home ever heard their screams.

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on.
Nobody cared
They were too caught up to see
Too caught up to hear
Ignorant and filled with fear.
Unsaid
And the music plays on.

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Ambushes
Booby Traps
encountering and returning fire,
purple hearts and bronze stars
instead of racing fast new cars.
Hot and humid nights of heavy artillery ,
this was their life in the military .
Never run with your finger on the trigger,
"Puff The Magic Dragon" never saw his face!
My God why would you send them to such a place?

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

Discharged from the army
they arrive back in the world
the place they fought for and used to call home.
Not an ounce of courtesy or even a smile
directed their way.
More hostility and disgust
of hatred and protests
so fashionable you see
to blame the warriors
never setting them free.
No hugs or kisses or pats on the back.
Void of glad to have you home again
thanks for being a friend.
The shouts of murderer
resounding in his ears!
Was it because he was wearing infantry brass?
Did he look like a murderer?
Man, they should all kiss his ass
for the sacrifice he made
they can all perversely preach hate
directed at the hero
whose fist we find clenched in mouth
to keep himself from crying
Oh why did he escape dying?

Red blood on white walls
And the music plays on

Spend some time with me
Escape Reality
Shadows of the night are calling
I'll set you free.

"You don't want to cross me, *** with me."

" Shhhhh, you're safe now"

His survival mechanism
the instincts by which he lived
so as not to die
were kicking into high gear
for the second time that night.
Beyond conscious thought
he found his weak-kneed self
reacting to her voice.
She was his salvation
he had found his truth,
but hanging in the air
was dark red smoke.
Nobody knows what they've done to him .
Nobody knows that he's gone .

Red blood on white walls
and the music plays on .

Spend some time with me
Escape reality
Shadows of the night are coming

Angel on your shoulder

I'll set you free.

The Old Country

Strange perturbation
charmed the heart.
Into another world
came the high land
filled with old cottages
and a little tavern
that served hard candy,
musty rolls
and Kosher cheeses
made
of artificial rennet.

Summer Tea Party

Dainty teacups accommodate the civil tongue
as azure cornflower petals are dispersed
Amidst rich twining of expertly blown
Cherry-scented tobacco.

A private word in the corner of the dining
Room illuminated by a cherubim candelabra
Gives insight to destiny, a future in tealeaves
Among the trigger of family jewels.

Bare shoulders as silken as a pink rose,
Conceal the chains of possession,
A maiden's corset,
Beneath a careless shrug.

Despite a ferocious wind blowing,
Under currents of humor
By the cotillion of hand painted
Fans
Held by debutante elbowed gloves
And the dangerous vague apologies
Of unsuitable overwhelmed suitors,
Furtive smiles switched sides
And turned coat with progress.

Interesting times we live in.

The Summer of '76 in collaboration with Allex I Spires.

Heat unfolded over the New York neighborhood of Washington Heights in the summer of seventy-six driving my Puerto Rican neighbors and myself from our non-air-conditioned homes, away from Chico and the Man on teevy, and into the streets. Tienda Boricua was blasting salsa music that got all those people dancing, all of them but me. I stood uneasily among a mist of swirling hips, and spinning bodies.

A dark brown version of Freddie Prinze stepped through the crowd and offered me a cup of rum.

"How does it taste?" he asked.

"Bittersweet, like first love."

We danced.

Summer in Calcutta

It never feels like summer in Calcutta despite the sweltering heat. The house is bleak, and by the gardens, mounds, stones and trees a serene yellow-green glassiness chills the speech of the lovebirds.

My mother-in-law is in the kitchen boiling tea the Indian way, bringing the water to a boil, separating it from the stove before pouring it into a Bone China decanter. I see her add the exotic tea leaves and spices with care before covering it with a "tea cozy" letting it sit for three minutes, slowly brewing. She gives me a playful and reluctant look of anticipation. Once ready, she filters it into fine, delicate cups adding milk and sweetener to taste.

She takes a sip sampling the brew and smiles before offering me a spoonful. It has a unique flavor, one brought about by the variation of culture, language and customs. We both bow our heads in agreement but no words are exchanged. There is a calm in the house, on the land, not to be mistaken for peace, just a deadening quiet.

In the next room an illustration by Edmund Dulac hangs on the white wall and I dream about Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar. I want the same enthusiasm of an artist over the mere order of a solitary home impatient over her lover's absence.

Sympathy for the Devil.

Incubus Walks

He walks the roads encumbered with rocks
sorrowfully weeping at the thought of
proceeding alone.

Rivers run swiftly in his honor
yet he stumbles very narrowly escaping
nearly falling into the water.

God's Goodness entertains his sound intellect
, which jolts the journey ten times harder
while ravenous birds circle around him.

The sun raises one-third of its course dispersing
his body with unwholesome dampness, yet he grins
and carries on touched by the gesture.

Generous things happen when the balsam of life
is plenty. There are melancholy times of white orchids
in a dearth of rum fricasseed in mischievousness.

Huckleberry slashes harbor wild wolves that scramble
preying on spirits against malignity
feasting
on unsuspecting women with sensual desire.

Moments of tautening muscles tease and suckle
honey colored skin while tongues outline the soft
inside curves of rosy lips.

Vanity gives way to repentance as Incubus travels
beneath the darkness while the threatened incursion
of a whimsical old woman foretells of his arrival.

There is a single “main line” of evolution, culminating in “man.”

The Apex

l

Microbes joined the pull of water
over a restless lake, slowly whirling
into the secular air, hungry for its
pure smell.

ll

Daylight faded into cold nights
charged by an electricity that
exposed the elusive truth of
science.

lll

Evolution lit the horizon with
a natural glow where mists of
sands began to fall, startled by
time.

lV

The clouds and winds changed
color, bestowing their heart's force
with darts and dots of muscle,
skin and bone.

V

Space vibrated over blues and
greens where the drinking heads
of the bison leaned back against
painted nudes.

Vl

Instant sprays of sweet white
sank into sheets of brown-red
earth, the milky spill of the
pulsating moon.

Vll

Androgynous stars fermented
the power of genetic
knowledge while all life
flourished.

Vlll

We've always known this
place. It's where the two
rivers merged, linked by the
nostalgia of firelight.

Inspired in part, by The Tibetan Book Of The Dead.

670 words

Gods Of The Realm Of Clear Light

Lobsang Gyatso had relinquished his will to his assassins in humility and peace and without regret. He lay immobile, fixed in the warm sands of the windless noon's haste. He tried to involve himself in the scene but his mind focused on the white beam of light instead. The light separated him from his body, starting small but growing larger as specks of dust danced in its whiteness. He felt like a child, alien and lost in a swirling mass of mark less matter. He panicked as he saw another circling mass in the opposite direction, a much larger pattern that would bisect his path somewhere. He was still tainted by his karma but his memory was as clear as the light before him. Lucidity came over him as he started to meditate on the death process. Remembering the words of his Blessed and Most Holy Dalai Lama, "Be scared for your human side cannot help that. But do not fear, for your spiritual side cannot be afflicted;" he removed the links of chain that kept him grounded to the material world. A strong rapid motion fell across his body and he felt himself sink into the Earth as the Earth dissolved into Water. Through currents and tides, he became the child of the day. He saw his Uncle's Dairy Farm in North India where he often played and quenched his need for milk. He experienced the existence of another child in another part of the world and tasted griddlecakes with maple syrup, and organic oatmeal and applesauce. As he passed from the Human Realm into the Animal Realm he saw the cold yellow eyes of a starving dog ready to strike him down. An Indian in a sheepskin coat stood between them and the hound greeted the Spirit Guide, coming to rest at his feet. As he entered the Hungry Ghost Realm he experienced the pain of social injustice, repression, lack of education, nutrition, clothing, housing, and good health. He felt himself become absorbed by smoke as the Water disseminated into Fire. He was sucked in a vacuum filled with red light into the Hell Realm and felt the absence of happiness. He smelled the sulfur, strong and hot and rank and was overtaken by the shrill, frantic laughter of the lost souls that yapped and strained like wild animals. Fire absorbed into Air as he awoke in the Demigod Realm. He was engulfed by the appearance of darkness and felt as if he was slowly losing consciousness. There he was reunited with the spirit of his mentor, The Most Holy Dalai Lama. He celebrated love, peace, truth, knowledge and felt compassion for the Lions he should have feared and hated. The demigods felt jealousy and desperation at his resolve as Air passed into Consciousness. He looked up, down and around himself and saw his body of blood, skin, bowls, and bones become a memory. A strange sensation touched his soul, as he became seepage of moisture again, somewhere between Earth and Water, a place of Rebirth...In the Foothills of the Sierra de Cachimbo, a baby is born to the Kaiyapo people. Kruakruque, The Kaiyapo Chief draws blood symbols in the entrance of a sacred cave as part of an arcane celebration. A bright white light fills the region, slowly turning to an iridescent glow. Fish become abundant and are visible to the naked eye like crisp white stones. The sick are healed, the dying find renewed life as a network of intuitions become One among the cries of a newborn, while...In Lhasa, Tibet an unusual light fills the dark night sky. People who witness it become blind. Suffering and violence violate with affected easiness. War in all its rigidity furiously attacks all logic. A child is born from an unclean creature, half man, half animal in the personification of Death itself. Evil and all it’s Dominions nod at Good. The Battle is on!

Beauty is all around you. All you have to do is, turn around.

A Tribute To All Writers And To Those Who Inspire Them.

So, why did you become a writer?

The Mystic Vagabond

I was five years old when I first invoked the Moon Goddess. I wasn't a High Priestess and Wicca was a foreign word to me. I was just a kid taking a midnight stroll around the neighborhood with my mother. We did that often when my father was home screaming out in pain and waiting for the Nyquil to take effect. Back then the doctors sent cancer patients home to die with no more than an over the counter drug to deal with the physical discomfort. That night, like many nights before it, we walked. The usual crowd was gathered around Dominick's Social Club. There were men playing dominoes and cards challenging anyone to a game as a young group of women watching them were drinking gin and tonics. I could see the Go-Go dancers on stage every time the door opened and closed while a yokel was trying his hand at clever lyrics and catchy tunes on an acoustic guitar. I loved the fast paced action of the nights and the way my mother's soft hands held mine in the sense against calamity. The rendezvous were always the same but this night things were different. Solemnity was whirling around in the gutters of casual litter. And I loved the darker iridescences, the moments of just being. It was then that the eye of a vagabond caught my smile. He spoke some poetic gibberish about a lover's sighs for accessible bliss and the spirit's vulnerability when it stands before an inflexible. My mother compared him to an idiot minstrelling without bells, but there was something about his face. One sole face at night is an inconsistent thing, like a photograph of fate, one voice repeating, one tireless chorister, in the luster of a full moon. "A stone never changes, " He concluded. And with that prophecy everything around me seemed to magnify. There was an odor evoking orchids and when I looked at the moon it had a peculiar purple luminous flittering mist, like a momentary color where essences were changing. A cool wind was blowing, swirling about the mist with motion and force. I was drawn to the freshness of the moon, the freshness I found within myself. It wasn't a transformation. It was a moment of heightened rational reasoning and knowledge where the cool air passed into harmonious heat. My ears popped and I remember my head turning, my eyes searching the mystic vagabond out, only to find him gone. We reason these things out later in life; the words spoken, the voices in our head, but beneath, far underneath the surface, our souls know that the nothingness has a point and it is not beyond the process of thought. But it is a choice. Time comes and goes with silence, solemn sentences, and interior monologues. I am now the poet, searching for other naked beings with free spirits that will ride the cosmos with me. Our voices born from the body of the world!