Sunday, February 20, 2011

Maxim Poem: When in Rome (...)

when in Rome…

do as the                                                                        
Romans do? do
indeed, invest the time in
debauchery! decadence shall
reign with overflowing
excess, indeed---

incoherency? Yes! Yes
please! indeed! with
glittergold nipples on
top spraying seeds of
grape through the
gold god stuck in---

limbo. between good and
better! eat the
meat! tear into
the hare! suck
the duck down to
its last---

fuck the
girl, the
boy! Or both Or
twice! Or the
man with the slithering
tongue with scratches down---

the slender curve, sliding into
the worship room, worship the
party thrower, gayest gal, the
beatific bombshell, the
frisky frolicsome Ram of

Surely, this makes one
happy? Yes! Yes! Yes?
indeed! razor-sliced
emotions, forgotten eves, plump with
pestilence, rotten to the
inner core with bubbling blisters---

but do, do as the
Romans do. Enjoy! Enjoy
the vibrancy, the views, the
harpy happy melodies! the
harmonies, the arts, the
affluence, the architecture---

pose! model-like for
Michelangelo—be a
Pope popper! slip
swan-like in the
Sistine! feast with the

race with the robust
Stallions! be
intrigued! relish the
atmosphere! passion in
the air! party play with the
thespian, the musician, the persona---

of the Roman. So do, do
as the Romans do
who cares if
coherency never
knocks—open the
gate—jump into---

the Tiber! squirting, sporting, and
sprouting Roman
horns! splash in the
Sea! the Sea swarming with
silly sinners who
gobble the guts! prance—

periodically past
the Colosseum, the
Vatican! guzzle each
gulp of the goblet’s
last drop until
you--YES YOU--do as the Romans do!

Photograph Poem: FairyLand


One will see Neverland over the horizon! Remember to be watchful and very wary of Pirates, Indians, and Crocodiles!

Behind the blue-violet
turf! What must it be? What
exists beyond the tall turquoise 
spheres? Why, wee little
fairies! Who hop, pop, and
romp ‘round the
ordinary observer who
only beholds his garden-variety
world. No
imagination! Only
rationalization! Developed,
Ripe! Mature with
Age! But----

to the Believer, to the
Dreamer, the one who
will imagine, create his own
air castles, he who
perceives the magical realm, the
enchanting Land of 
Fairies! Oh! Oh
Yes! The kingdom of 
sparkling sprites, perky pixies, and 
intriguing imps! The domain of 
beings that shun malice and 
gloom! Who exist to be

To make little
happies here, there, and every
little where! upon this 
apple orchard! on this
elephant ear! on this
blooming daffodil! these 
lovely beings love
bestowing gifts of 
merriment! mirth! nonsense! and 
cheer! To every tiny tot, to
 every Believer this 
daydream, this figment of 
fantasy, Exists---

The Daydreamer observes
the chubby, the 
lanky, the ebony, the
ivory beings who 
mix colors and create a
chirpy coexistence! He 
who looks to his 
right, gawks at the
golden glittered wings sprouting of
sunshine, which 
seep through the
dreary day, the 
Dark Reality! 

Queen Fairy flies
upon her 
domestic dove, overseeing
her minions! She
chirps to “Play a 
prank on Peter! Warble a
lovely lullaby to 
Lucy! And remember that
nine hundred ninety-three 
new Nymphs will 
arrive today! Give
thanks to the 
Babyborn Giggles!”

The whimsical Beholder 
senses the 
frolicking fairies, sparkling in 
the Sun’s shine, hiding upon
hearing pitter patters, 
footsteps! remaining 
unnoticed by 
the Commoner, the 
Grown-up. Hidden 
among the hills, along 
the Childlike, the 

where the
honeycream glow 
glimmers, where
happiness lies in 
the Imagination!
Bear in mind! Consider
that to exist in a
dreamlike Utopia, one
only needs to
Believe, to
Dream, to 

And you, too 
witness, might
envision the 
Land of the 
For the
Dreamers, the 
Conjures of 
Castles, Lands, and
magical Spheres, recollect
the Queen’s Directions:

Two steps past 
the sapphirelavender
grass, three
hops on
the right, one 
leap to 
left! Gather the
Pixie Dust under 
the Garden Gnome! 
Happy Thoughts and
This poem was based upon a picture I took at the Chihuly exhibit in Nashville, Tennessee.

Persona Poem: Savior


i Promise, i’m better. i’m fixed, mom. really
i’m complete. i don’t give a shit about
it anymore. i’m Saved. the lord, he helped, helped me to
find my way. i hated myself. you. dad. laura. but
i forgive you. I forgive you, dad, and the assholes who
gave me that shit. i forgive you for
giving me money to blow, all the cars, and for
indulgin’ in whatever i wanted. I forgive you.

i’m completely better. i Swear. just because i’m back in
asheville doesn’t mean that i’ll go back to
snortin’ or stealin’ again. god helped Me. he
saved Me. teen challenge really worked. it did, i
Promise. i won’t ever go back to where i was. ever.
through prayer, my forgiveness, and my family, i’ll
make it. i will. god is in my soul. he’s in my
spirit. he’s in my life. i feel his power. his love. I Promise. but
i’m dying for a smoke. just one cigarette. ya know, they never
let me have one smoke. not one. i really
need one. just one smoke, mom. a cigrette has nothin’ to
do with drugs. it’s legal. it’s fine. i just really need one.

i really need a smoke, mom. really. i do. can I borrow
some money? just to buy a pack of smokes. can i take the car? just
once. It’s not a big deal, mom. it’s a pack of
fuckin’ cigrettes. just let me borrow the car. please. I’m
twenty-six years old. i can make my own fuckin’
decisions. remember, mom. god is with me. he won’t let
anything happen. i really need some smokes. i know i haven’t
smoked in thirteen months. I fuckin’ know this. that’s
why i need one. puhleaze? remember, i’m fixed. I don’t need it
anymore. i’ll be back in fifteen minutes. just fifteen minutes, mom.

with “time” on the radio, the windows rolled
down. The gas station was in sight. five minutes from
home. lounged back in the hot leather seats, Palace Place flies
by the passenger side window. a notable beat up
ford taurus sits in the parking lot. in the cracked cement
spot. waiting. watching. waiting for the borrowed car to
arrive. to pull up. to park in the empty space, waiting for
the borrowed car to sit in its fated destination. the borrowed car
arrives in its former spot. one time won’t hurt. one line won’t
hurt me. god will save Me. one little white line. checkin’
the glove compartment. secret stash? two twenties located. in case of an
emergency. well, this is kinda of an emergency. no harm in takin’ it. she won’t
miss it. it’s an emergency situation. just this once. I need
it. the borrowed car door slams. softly. almost
silently. sneaking. shadow-like to the broken door frame. 

 the sky shines behind the borrowed car driver’s back. The gilded sphere smiles at
the bleak building when the loud knock interrupts the
Sun’s smirk. the gray paint crumbles upon the
fresh leather shoes as the owner of the room meets the leathershoe-tapper at his
door. a snaggle-toothed forty-one year old answers the
tap. grinning, he welcomes his long lost pal in
the room. the one room square. filled with a
rotting stench. with cascading cans, apple carcasses, and
sparse but scattered soiled furniture decorate the swinish
dwelling. “long time, no see, buddy.” yeah, i’ve
been outta town. but, I’m back. was gonna see how ya were. “alright, kid, I’m
good, been good. You got any cash on ya?” yeah, a little bit. “well, welcome back to
fairyland, brotha. i think i got exactly whacha ya need.”

the gray door closes behind the borrowed sedan and the ford taurus. both, sitting
in the shine of the Sun. waiting. waiting for the leathershoe-tapper. waiting for
the savior that never comes. waiting for the
Park Place guest that departs too late. the Sun already said his
“goodbye.” the borrowed sedan lingers. loitering within its space. waiting. waiting
the borrowed sedan hears the leather taps of footsteps. swayin’ along the
cracked surface. the borrowed sedan hears his owner’s son slump into 
his seat. sitting, slumpin’, slurrin’. slurrin’ something. the borrowed sedan
staggers home in the moonlight. without a twinkle of a star. without the
Sun shining. without a glimmer. without arriving in its spot in the McAlister’s garage until
well over the Promised fifteen minutes. the borrowed sedan lurches
into its hole. in the shadows. in the pitch-black eve, it withdraws.