Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Samuel and Langston for Missouri Scribes

Enter from two sides of the Equation

Where white men own black men and Slaves are born.

One is a Writer and one is a Bard.

I wish I owned one half of that dog there

I would kill the half of the dog that’s mine

must be a Puddinhead to think these things

What else could he be he hasn’t a care.

No white man is going to give me my due

What is the point in discussing much more?

For Being Literature it has the Force

to imitate and to make it profound

It is the human soul entire squeezed
like a lemon or a lime into ( ) words

Monday, September 29, 2014


I listened to the sky as it sang to me!

It rushed to tell me secrets never whispered.

I asked that it come slower let me prepare

FOr what could I do for its treasure but be?

BEyond that I have nothing to give but love

Love that rushes to the morning for some

Some taste of flesh and of cushion repose

be what to me my heart has enclosed, come,

I love you why doubt me? Carry me forward

toward the high mountain of your flesh warm

as flesh over water in water is born

the species of Love that I asked for is torn

it breaks me in pieces and cuts me in halves

Love oh Love me and Love me with Passion

Friday, September 26, 2014


--Haven’t we met before? ECM

High across the sky the day has been sent

Crystal-image dawn has scattered to shreds

The bits of its light still lingering went

Here in its blossom I in my readings

Think once again of something I have seen

Tomorrow begins to appear so soon

I hear it is arriving on a beam

first visits its destiny on the moon

THere is something of today yet to love

as the promise of the song of a dove

it has been here before this it knows too

is it deja vus this feeling of two?

One who walked long  on the horizon

and another who has also walked long.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Dew Drops from the Heavens

Dew drops from the heavens   falling from the trees

annoint me with your answer   in the dark

gathered under pine trees   waxing with leaves

in the music of its cadence I hear

as though they knew my worries    touched me

while one shot its needle’s tear on my knee

one landed near my shoulder   graced my cheek

in the sound I am nature   the tree’s me

an orchestras begins a forest wakes

leave me forever   never return, fear

exchange anxiousness with anything else

but never take me back to the hour

when you and I were broken apart Sic

  1. All Art is Happy All Art is Lyric.

  1. ALl Art is Tragic ALl Art is Frantic
  2. All Art is Music  All Art is Graphic
  3. All Art is Angelic as it is Dark

Thursday, September 18, 2014


--Man be my Metaphor, D.T. Infante Supram

Come to me Letter Scarlet and Gilded,

Embroidered with that Great Massachusetts.

Her stitches as Gossamer as Dewlettes

Intricate feathers paint the Dawn with It

Before it is Quartered the Sun Bows Down

Forward and across hsi back is Drawn

And though on Chariot, draws its Arrows

It lands at the Spine of the ANkle’s Frown

Rings of an Alphabet Cosmos even

Beads in Velvet,  Silky as iGreen Moss

And Delicate as Treasure of Nothing ( oh )

A Sound Triumphs through the Silence and Breathes

Veiled in Multiple Crescendo’d Belief

The Sun as it Falls also RIses

Sunday, September 14, 2014


--the hand that signed the paper, DT 1914-1953

He’ll be the one hung when judgement appears

as glossed Williams as to Thomas’s fate

Such Wild Metaphors peace be faithful

the sickness of Spring is no adventure

it willn’t not return mulch for wheelbarrow

Man as Metaphor’s too much Medicine

for backwards desires redolent, Boxed,

Will as yet become Flowers for Yielding.

Tell me again, tell it to me again.

My youth was bent by the same fever gained

I send my condolence : you are one too?

A needle in the conscience of power,

as the bard on his strings hung up higher

than the others for everyone to see

Saturday, September 13, 2014


Thomas,  I seem him he’s seated across

Next to him are his Fans or the Mistress.

Perpendeicular motions Bobby Burns.

Of force that from fuses draws the flower

I approach them from my own century

1914 the year he was born scent

“I am dumb to tell the crooked rose my life”

TO reveal from its Tresses the Blood Veins.

Of best laid Plans and of Masterly Mice.

To sin is to forgive as Metaphor

It retains its Original grim Cloak.

It Gathers in Pits of the Eyes Echoes

What sadness to Lament goes to Ether.

And burned in the Crosses of Easter.