Vulgar Folks

1st whip n' piss of spring on my subway.

Goat-stench of a man staggered up,

yanked his licorice black cock

into fluorescent view.

Passengers scramble to the other side

but I stayed close and cozy,

a curious need for depravity.

Warm waves from his spongy pink slit

splashed across the floor

lapped against the steel pole.

I considered tossing Old Faithful out,

as he was in the high-tide of mid-piss

...but that we would be rude.

Stuffing his exhaustion back into jeans

the goat-man grabbed a glob of vaseline

from his wet pockets and smeared

the yellow congeal over his face into

a shiny mask of petroleum.

he spread across his head and down his neck

I got off train and the streets were blocked off
police tape and roving cops circumambulate

an ominously isolated van in middle of road

and the words 'SWAT Team' being mentioned.

And all this after a folk song musical

that Disney-fied Woodie Guthrie and his life.

The most vulgar act of the night was the musical.

A Fading Orchestra

Slender sore throb of vibrato in delta marshes.
I tune the strings, plucking notes sharp and flat
high C electric at the bridge, dips my shoulder.
Baritone G flat grumbles in the red shell of my knee.

The orchestra plays out of tune.
The orchestra plays in the gap.

Each instrument adjusting rusted brown strings
termite infected sawdust in bass chest.

The orchestra musicians don't need a composer,
they don't even need to practice staccato timpani
accompanying piercing piccolo stabs.

Gershwin Rhapsody in Blue:
opens sour and sarcastic clarinet
curves akimbo, loosening the register.

The orchestra Traviatta and Figaro
in my splintered wood.

I become the sunken symphony chamber
clamoring the air with scored sheets falling to feet.

There is no orchestra playing, only notes now.
Each instrument a concave mirror
imploding into a coffin chrysalis.
Musicians smash their bows, crack dripping hands
slicing taut drum skin as it pours out dark vintage.

Echo notes. Mayhem crashes all around
and then the last fading ache
against the pitch black deaf. 

NYC Ghazal

*a ghazal is an Arabic form of poetry in un-rhyming couplets where every second line is themed after the preceding one*

U rarely c fruits in papers,
unspooling fertility monuments.

Every burnt offering a sinuating song
leminscate serpents swallow their tails.

Plague theorem lamentation
pivot, ratchet, hatchet blood cycles.

Even Apollo's brilliant shadow too much,
so Gods trouble themselves unless disguised.

Hidden in allusions, catacombs in us,
unconscious divination of a penitent.

Rumi-nation

I always thought you would come to me
       in the shape of a beautiful lover
I never dreamed you would steal my heart
       with no shape at all

I always pretended I needed arms to hold me
       and lips to kiss away my pain
yet I find fulfillment
      in the embrace of empty space

I always wished you would speak to me
     with words of tender sweetness
now I know you whisper silently
      of your undying love

I always knew I would find you
      although I foolishly looked with my eyes
you were here all along
      hiding just out of sight in my heart
-Rumi

Moving Water (by Rumi)

When  you do things from your soul, you feel a river

moving in you, a joy.

When actions come from another section, the feeling

disappears.  Don't let

others lead you.  They may be blind or, worse, vultures.

Reach for the rope

of God.  And what is that?  Putting aside self-will.

Because of willfulness

people sit in jail, the trapped bird's wings are tied,

fish sizzle in the skillet.

The anger of police is willfulness.  You've seen a magistrate

inflict visible punishment.  Now 

see the invisible.  If you could leave your selfishness, you

would see how you've

been torturing your soul.  We are born and live inside black water in a well.

How could we know what an open field of sunlight is? Don't

insist on going where

you think you want to go.  Ask the way to the spring.  Your

living pieces will form

a harmony.  There is a moving palace that floats in the air

with balconies and clear

water flowing through, infinity everywhere, yet contained

under a single tent.

Summer Sonnet: A Volcano Sings

Languishing in missing stanza design

unfolds the lost garden of Kahuna

wildflowers poutty lips benign

a lovely green melodic lacuna.

In the arbor filled with fragrant beaks

effusing tributary night colognes

mixing with hungry flames of burning teak

as lust-trampled willows wither and moan.

The magic mountain's awakened red screams

unfurl crimson dawn across ebony sky

fiery Niagaras bury lost dreams

of Eden occults soon blighted to die.

On flowers entombed in verdant hollows

Pythian temples of tomorrow grow.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 44: Las Vegas

'I am that I am," the voice roared above
to wandering prophets in the wastelands.
And from bleached skies, aluminum doves
defecating peace on to feral sands.

"We have civilized this ancient beast
with air-conditioners and chandeliers.
No longer will we care for the least
freed from unearthly superstitious fears."

Apache blood used to baptize the rock,
now concrete carpets and asphalt unfurl.
Profitable accountants raze the clock
summoning rapine fire that end worlds.

Bottled water and silicon mutes sense
we bury wild prophets in our opulence.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 43: Hospice Care

I want to rip the tubes out of his skin
and pound his chest. Life! Life! Life! You will rise
from soaked mattress, invoking hearts of men
turn diagnosis to laughable lies.

Instead I pat his biblical white hair,
long lustre locks from his bed-bound nest.
He yawns like a cat enjoying pet care
that has removed a moment of loneliness.

I fetch him a glucose control meal shake,
adjust bed so he can sit up to drink.
His stomach convulsions tremor and quake
from atrophied muscles starting to blink.

 At first sip, he'll let out thirsty-quenching moan
as his skin resumes a more human tone.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 42: Talking To You (Lao Tzu)

Lao Tzu says great talent ripens late in life,
some times past the living and into death.
Then what am I to make of loving this strife,
pre-occupied with pain of all that's left?

If love is talent, may it blossom late
so my days aren't spent in woeful regret.
But if flowers are past due of wait
then they decorate a funeral set.

If I plant the seeds continually
steady harvest ripens in all seasons.
This impatient farmer eyes some times sees
only rocky soil without reason.

May passion be instantly frivolous
and hope love's genius endures past my lust.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 41: From a Hospital Bed

Withering inside, my father's head lies
slanted sideways in the hospital bed.
His arms slung over the rail, he tries
to process the harsh winding course he led.

Ailments lingered past pity and sadness.
No tears. Not from me or anyone.
We calmly accept demise and madness
from the decaying end we no longer run.

An omen of maturity or numb?
Whose to say at this time but there is peace
as death's wide steady eyes look on the sum
understanding of this life's short-term lease.

I would just like to know what he's thinking
as he stares the abyss without blinking.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 40: Infernal Phantasm

Un-sheath their silver perfidious tongues
whose beauty masks assassins' cunning wrath.
Razor-thatched walls echo hell hymnals sung
debaucheries decree witches' sabbath.

Prepare the tables for murderer's feast,
entrails unspooled over oxidized swords.
Byzantine ramparts cloak chimeric beasts
that sip violet venom from skull-hewn gourds.

Butchers slaughter and de-bone wild black boars
crack the ribs open as the parasites crawl
on suitors' flesh burrowing in their core.
Orgiastic horrors paint canvass'ed sprawl.

The unsaved ghosts howl catechism-ic grim
Lost souls wanderlust for Jerusalem.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 38: Old Haitian Man in the Yard

An old Haitian man stooping on the lawn
in nylon shorts, black socks, and straw brim hat,
reaches for errant weeds hiding from the dawn
as black licorice legs swayed with his gait.

June's sun speckled through his mango grove
as plump globes of sweat watered the ground.
Uprooted rests tossed on to shaded cove
his deflating guts emits a groaning sound.

The weeds will grow back. It's a losing fight
that no one could ever possibly win
yet there he stoops, in the scorching sunlight
re-enacting the ancient rites of men.

Swooping down the yard, a petty pink crane
as Old Man and bird pick from the grass grain.

- By Aurin Squire 

Summer Sonnet 37: My Troubles Here

The darkness that surrounds is a mere spot
in my iris that seems as big as sky.
Smaller than a fleck of dust in a lot,
cheaper than the cost of a seed of rye.

My troubles are as loud as an ant creep,
lower than a tower of mustard seeds,
a beetle's shallow grave is as deep,
quieter than a dead soldier's deeds.

What manifests out of this clot of land,
sequestered amidst an infinity?
My future escapes grasp like grains of sand
if I pollute my breath with empty pleas.

There is grandness in the smallest of sighs,
most gentle kisses and softest goodbyes.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 36: Landlord Wars

My roommate txt'ed 'we need to talk.'
Ominous silence. I looked at the txt
and held the phone like dead weights as I walked
cursing bad timing and what was up nxt.

I'm told that we're at war with the landlord.
Instant dread at the obvious danger.
I'm dragged into seeking a peace accord,
while once again in the midst of anger.

My plane flies a few hours tomorrow
while hashing out a speaking agreement
dealing with my own karmic sorrow
of the world's anger that keeps getting sent.

I sit in Miami hours later
careful to cater both sides like a waiter.

- By Auirn Squire

Summer Sonnet 35: Remembering a Phone Call 30 years ago

People confide in me, but who knows why?
Since I was a little boy, I had that knack.
I remember me non-plussed panting sigh
as strangers asked if my parents were back.

Lazy Saturday phone perverts would call
our number to groan cries. I confronted
one giddy man, asked if he could tell all
as he regaled adultery grunted.

My child-self thought it would be exciting
to listen to his salacious conquest
but I yawned and found myself fighting
the banality of most sins confessed.

But I recall his small evil laughter,
echo'ed in my ear 3 decades after.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 34: Diving for Pearls

I vigil'ed at the wide mouth of Biscayne

 as African storms stirred the tea-brewed swirl

from my heart's view perched at window pain

i leapt and plunged for my saltwater pearl.

Diving into fathomless pirate caves,

for rotting treasure chests filled with plunder

descending depths past the unmarked slave graves

where Spaniard explorers hid our wonder.

Study your love's ancient cartography

longitudinal's meridian source

choking sargassum weeds matted your sea

 I swam passion's mysterious dark course.

My first gasp arising with jewel-filled nets

I pawn treasure to pay my lover's debts.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 33: A Stolen Dream

He was enraged about the abortion
his lack of power with 'his' woman,
impotent income too small a portion
to rescue would-be baby and girlfriend.

I silently spied and commiserated
with the young boy's loss and life's accursed lot.
His fatherhood hopes disintegrated
over a phone call. It was all for nought.

Then -and at a loss- he got quiet and still
my seat quivered from his knees shaking,
I thought, "This is how you break a boy's will:
good in bed and easy for the taking."

On this ride, all is not what it seems
as a Black boy weeps for his stolen dream.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 32: A Sista is Tipsy and Talking Freely

"It is a scientifically known fact...
that it's impossible for Me 2 get
on UR nerves when U sleeping on my mat
ate my food..." (she pauses for effect)

"You shacking up here, and ain't laying no pipe
Ain't licking no cat, ain't pitching no tent.
Did mama not ever teach u how 2 wipe?
Ain't nothing going on but the rent...

And ur dusty bags are still by the door
for ur easy access departure. Soon
 u'll be on another chick'nhead tour
don't even trip 'n think we're ace-boon-coon.

Another raggedy good-4-nuthin'
Stella's groovin' but need more luck w/ men.

- By Aurin Squire

Summer Sonnet 31: Speak on Love

I will challenge myself to speak on love
Though the words may escape me as I go.
To try and fulfill my promise above
I'll try not to go too fast or too slow.

Some love I'm sure is quite akin to death
In that it is guaranteed for us all.
From the moment that we take our first breath.
We are sure to love once before we fall.

Although I'm sure that some will disagree
With these cynic and semi-jaded thoughts.
I cannot blame them for their naivete
And so I leave them to their mindless stalks.

Passion altered is love in many ways
Each poet can choose how to fill his days.

- By Donavue

Summer Sonnet 30: Buying a Sandwich

He walked in a demolished, quaking "other"
I bought him a sandwich to devour.
This bombed-out crater was once my brother,
but I recognize him less and less by the hour.

"Whatcha been up to," I say to a junkie
as he looks past me with those flat dead eyes.
"This" which he means the struggle to get free
from eviction, addiction, crystal-lies.

Awkward silence. I have nothing to say
to this zombie so I blab senseless sound
around the obvious death here and play
n' plan for his victorious comeback round.

He inhales the sandwich and leaves ashamed
vanished into the crowds as quick as he came.

- By Aurin Squire