her party architecture...

She is the sweetest mother, not necessarily soft, but tender and rich and electric- yes a nourishing motherly, nevertheless reluctant mistress. This was in her nature, her party architecture and therefor rang innocent and unflinchingly justified.

She is the constant source and center of down and dope, her betwixt a beckon that guides me straight and true back to her moisture and bite…

She is the Cult of Los Angeles… my sword, steez and salvation is readied hence…

I was born with a silver clock in my mouth; it was lemony with a metallic after taste and after thirty-five years being parenthesized in this brain and body I still cherish its languid tick and tock, the calm onomatopoeia of its measure. That clock still beats inside of middle-aged flesh. As a youth my appreciation for "the taking of one's own time" became a part of my identity and it also fetched me a despised nickname- an aspersion if you would have asked me then or now. One particular day care provider, Mama Two (my mother named her that so that I would "see" and "respect" her as if she were my mother also or mother number two) would get frustrated and seemingly overwhelmed at my leisurely pace and would show her impatience with me by yelling at me to hurry and calling me "slowpoke". That designation was (and still would be) anathema to me. During those early, formative years I first remember experiencing intense dislike when I heard her exclaim those words at me, trying to motivate my pace with names and such...Slowpoke! would make a four year old's skin crawl...But deep down, it was a treasure of time and I felt as though, from even that early age, that I was a millionaire of time. I measure it now as currency, illusory, but substantial- dust mixed with a heightened perception by a population gives that currency gravitas...

Testing. Testes. Tustin, MD

Tanesha Buttercup

She looks like brand new money today and makes me feel the way new hundreds do in my hand, when the fresh currency cuts while it's meter is molested and kneaded by hungry, but knowledgeable hands...her skin seems sewn of children's smiles for miles and miles...When the sun hits her flesh with a maestro's touch, a lover can hear child's laughter such, her moan increase to reddened skin and i am crushed between "win win".

sweet water, flower child

her sad face reflects the pull of gravity,
approximately 9.8 meters per second per second...

at first sight, a slight rapture, those definition of sad eyes and circumstance
seduced the inchoate youth and inculcated a love of the dark, exotic, damaged...

i still, after these man years of awkward introduction, bow the flesh and head to the dirt in and of delight for the memory of her war burdened moisture and vim and vigor. all the weight of my bleeding and breathing sadness will be a sacrifice to you... sweet water, flower child...

teeth lengthen...

a mercenary before he cuts his mask and is humbled by civility and survival for awhile... a rare look just before the sabertooth is devolved into it's more city suited pussycat, a prince of cats nevertheless minus the whiskers, but the image remains frozen in digital honey...like his skin underneath the ink and north of cell and sanguine border...

the mercenary can hold his breath for months, up to a year or more! if need be. he kneads the void and breathed a mission...just some small realities need be machined to fit.

he's on his way...a title fight in the jungle. teeth lengthen...

a thousand miles sharp eyes to see,
your smiling eyes/infinity-
the only mission and sole currency-

life is that cocained electric and that Superbeast is Me.

Octopus of the Burning Bush

I think about you everyday, squared.
as a matter of fact, I'm settling inside a thousand, round and robust lust, a myriadelight of recollections of you right now as I write these very words, a code of that code writ love- ya, settling inside like soot inside the calm rapture you sublimate from my desperation...

I wanna come
I wanna comme inside
I wanna commme inside again and aagain aand aaagain...

You, like some unnecessary chatter,
go on and on and then some...

Octopus of the Burning Bush.

Again in the innocent grope

As winter shears it's glacial grip from the emotions, fashion and general "esprit de esprit" (I just made this phrase up. It is supposed to mean the essence of something or something's general demeanor) of the Cult of Los Angeles begins to melt and flex and hum...Again, I find myself in the innocent grope of the fresh and fond. And she is such a package of sweet salt and bathwater...

It's funny when you find yourself in an awkward situation that you know you must navigate through at some point. And that point is now. It's not really funny either, it's just that I laugh because I feel compelled to for the sake of some catharsis.I guess I'll just put my head down and weather the blows, hopefully all kinds will be dealt my way. I'll take the bad with the wet for sure...

Still pushing and still being punished in the city. Angels are not always sweethearts. Sometimes their role is to be "jacker". ...