Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Perpetuous Opus Fuckus Upus (perpetual story of a fuck up)


Story teller, oh weave me the things that are meant to be love.

So that I may carry

it down from a tack upon the

wall, and tarry with it long in the

streets and hold signs for

the coming of doom..

The end is nigh.

Oh yes, the end is nigh to knee high,

across the state lines, waiver, there. do you see? where the agreement has been broken


impeded upon.

Let us not show a fraction of reaction,

for this triangular

six pronged piece of fever..

Show us,


or do you sleep as an opossum,

during the day with yr tail

swinging from an unreachable branch.


You told us to bare fruit,

not waste it,

with dreams of knowledge.

No those are awarded posthumously,

medals of something more lost than gained,

or something gained while lost..

or a gain from loss.

Tell us,

an Opus of the free uniformed way you slid into a pair of jeans,

a new job, a new place, a new husband, a new wife, a new car, a new dog, a newspaper; and saw the words


in big bold print

on the front page,

with the footer reading:


we are given everything at death's door, but a chance to hold onto


a chance to taste sweet cherry lips, to stare into sea green eyes and not drown but drift along waves of emerald isles-far off shores, coasting along the sierra Iris; writing an Opus about the shimmer in her radiant-red hair. Her honey-dew voice, her melt butter glances that make you giddy like the first time you knew a man was a man and a woman was something far more exquisite and endearing and safe.

yes, these are left from the contract.

yr obligation is due.

yr time is needed.

yr wait is over.

yr list, should be short and sweet, but long and poetic.

it must meet no guidelines for pantamiter,

or have any sense of social generalities.

in fact, the word genre, should be expelled from yr bowels

along with the last gasp of life,

before you sign this letter.

to you,


i am the owner of a 6 pronged heart.

A 6 + r

i ng


of empathy, lust, hate, loneliness, humor and blindness.


awarded after simultaneous deaths on one eve to another holiday

to a christening of sorts, the likes of which are barbwire and nails,

poppies and rhododendrons, cut up messes in cardboard greeting cards,

like the ass hanging from a mailbox you once sent me.

yes, i fell infatuated with death, before i knew of you


and there is no more painful death that watching love suffer.

but alas,

we are only made whole by our obligations

are we not?

those to linger in ethereal misunderstanding, a green nauseous cloud, that soaks up the ounce of strength we should show in death's face






the green! those eyes! Those that bare my direction like Khlebnikov's sails .

Yes, I remember now;

when I first attempted to really describe you adequately.

that smooth, marble coating that filled my belly and shined from my throat..

like plums, like white noise, like an billowing flame brought down from a lightning bolt ill-timed and misplaced!

Holder! You are..Keeper- the spark!

ah yes, I see you now. Yes you, love; a rare cerulean ruby sinking into a black, murky space of blood & beat.

I would dive after you into the farthest depths, no concern for health. Full-up lungs.

right above a watery grave, 6 to 60 fathoms deep.

a marred outlook,

a crutch that you bare. a scare that has never left. an Opus,

I can write; adequately.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

A Walking Fung-Sway..from the Trails to the Courthouse.

I. Supposed lovers exit a bathroom stall with Summer sweat and lust dripping profusely from their genitalia..A long embrace..inter-racial..A kiss goodbye before parting..and they scurry off to opposite paths while I question:

'How much a man of substance would pay for a mid-day blowjob in the park?'

II. A cemetery..where the front gate is ajar and swinging beneath a pair of shoes draped over the hovering power lines..Old white Converses..there are small plots of Colonial Spanish families that surround the mosque of Roberto Cassavates..A man of wealth in his time obviously..his grey-stone shrine sitting high in observance of the commoners and their shallow graves..The mimosa tree oblique to the stone, waits with its limbs barely alive.. weltering and waiting in vain for the storm clouds to rain..It is a parched land where these souls rest..but Senor Cassavates, lies in his tomb..cold and damp..his skeleton comfortable.. shrouded from the heat and worms..

III. There are hundreds of dragonflies at every turn of the Pinellas trail..fat, small, red, brown..silent fluttering wings. I wonder if they follow me behind the stores and medical offices on the way..If they remain at a distance from the nurses in the parking lot with their sea green scrubs and their economically safe SUV's..There is a blue crane in a murky pond along the trailside..He stabs the reeds with his long navy beak, looking for minnows or pond skimmers as a feast..But the dragonflies evade the reach of his long, cerulean neck and go about their ways..tagging each other in games of winged folly. Perhaps they smell the lumber from the open window of the wood it rises from the malta blue-paint..I'm curious if their flight is affected by the rankness of porto-potties and the cacophony of the large generators outside the power plants..or do they simply flit along..stopping seldom to drink from the pools and reservoirs behind the neurology and obstetrician offices..while pregnant women stand on the stoops, lighting cigarettes and talking of healthy newborns..

IV.The market is close by..and as I step to cross the street, a berserk driver swerves instantly to avoid running me down mid-foot..He does not stop..but speeds on by as I spit on his Honda windshield..The fury subsides as I think of the fat steaks I will buy for supper tonight..the lean cuts. I concentrate on my powerful thirst for Mexican beer..and hold off on smoking my last two cigarettes for the time being. Behind the courthouse, where the shade is cool and there are legalities and post habeas corpus..a mature woman in long golden heels sits at the bench across from me. She exchanges greetings (with family perhaps) on her cell phone, loud enough for me to hear and pay little notice..She opens a book and lowers her black shades while I scribble notes on the scenery:

'It is much too hot for the black button-up she wears..and her tan skirt is high showing all the insecurities and weight gain over the years.'

She stands suddenly, and strolls in my direction..As I have only seen her in my peripheral view up until this point;speaking of toilets, birds, industry and dragonflies. She stops within my field of view and stares at my lowered head..the top button of my shirt loosened and showing a sliver of my malnourished hair to speak of..little muscle anymore..but no appearance of bone either..I do not look up to meet her gaze and she notices my friends..The scorn on her face burns longer than 7 months of Florida sunlight..and swishing her black purse inches from my face..she storms off to another secluded spot of the search of another opportunity for a random rendezvous.

'I am no man of monetary substance or merit.' I write..
'I am far now from the tinge of this city and their obsession with wealth and notoriety.'
'I am longing only for the Pinellas trail..a fat steak..cerveses..and a silent place to wait for my red-haired dragonfly to return to me.'

She will be home shortly..

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

2 Hour Bloodlust over a Dress and the Sea in her Eyes

One day,
I heard a poem about
shooting birds in flight
from the skies..
because their wingspan
was so illustrious,
so broken..
so beautiful..

she woke me from a 2 hour nap
and asked which outfit I prefer..
a long flowing dress, which fit her form and green..the blue brought out her eyes..

or should she wear a purple
button-up with black pants
for an interview in Tampa..

where men behind desks would sit
and gaze at her green eyes..
and see the sea waves peeking from
the hints of diamonds they found there..

and I keep hearing the words:
*"it was a sad sight, so I shot it down in flight"..
and I realize that I have no taste for guns..
or fear the cold feel of a piece in my hand..

I've never been discriminating when it comes to
people that I feel could be wasted..
and for that matter, the trigger would be
just as non-selective..

So when,
she asks which outfit to wear..
I say the dress..knowing damn well,
if some bastard makes a light comment or 2
on how well she looks, and I was there..
I'd be making my way to a pawn shop..
but I tell her to wear it anyway..

Because it fits her frame so well..
because the sea is seen in her eyes..
because I like the idea of blood on my hands
over a woman..
because I've had only 2 hours of sleep..
because I have no gun..

*youngblood-M.J. Taylor

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Bone collectors in Lab Coats..and the Whole scene went MAD..

There was a time,
when paleontology was
nothing near a trade..
for white coats and dirty brushes..

back then dinosaur bones,
were just rocks..
Large pebbles in the way
of some man's foot
or another equally big and
inevitable rock
called a tyrannosaurus Rex,
or a triceratops..
or a mammoth..

Then someone got the bright idea
to start digging up
all the skeletons..
and they poked around in there..
where the genes once lived..
and they spliced them with sheep..
and the sheep grew fangs like a saber-tooth..
and attacked a group of paleontologists..
while they were dusting for bones in
a famous museum

where the other rocks could watch..

Serves 'em right..
one man says, as he steps over the bloody pile
of white coats and bristles..

That's what you get when
you dig up ghosts...