From the Archives...

In the Vineyard

Sipping on the
eve of good
years, swirls of
coulds decant
smoky burls, long
thick legs and the arm.

Drunken bliss with a
wide-eyed finish, I see
my young words ripen slow;
In the vineyard, where my fruit
still grows, the moon bleeds light
and flushes the rows and lines with red for

Harvest time is now, “(W)right now or never!” it Sings.
Come rape these infinite vines of me!

My gates wide open.
Come in. Come fine(d) me.
If not, the black
will rot these
drinkable
pearls.


c.e.s.
10.16.08

With a Little b

Lately all that I can muster is a
purge of words and regurgitated facts,
and dry heaves when I try to write something real.
I excrete a daily concrete shit mound
(Shit a brick is what I mean)
And every uninspired word
Is stomping out my fire;
My love is now my grind.
It’s ground my teeth into nubs, made stubs for fingers, and
my liquefied brains are drainin out my nose like my ex-lover’s apathy
Ha! At least I had that release.
His weekly grind was my weakness
And grindin on that sexy Mexican made me
WANT to get back to my weekly grind again.
(Writing…)
But as much as I needed that hour of bliss
I’d just end up missing him more.
To him, too, I was a tool,
put back in the box for later use.
Work is what I do.
I work for the oral pleasure of my lover,
a fleeting glance of a peer,
a check-mark by professor,
Hell! I’ll even work for an unfair standard
Set by a faceless public and partners for a Female-free America.
I work to get paid.
My paychecks are made of letter grades and
Approval with a capital A
That’s my minimum wage
And all this time I’ve been wondering
when the FUCK do I get a raise?!
Oh wait – I live in the lone star state
Where the going rate’s been the same since ‘78.
I’m counting down the days till I own myself.

You could say I’m Just takin the money,
but funny, I’m still strapped for cash and
every day I wonder why the hell I’m still doing this shit.
See, a bitch like me gets no return.
And that IS what they call me, bitch.
bitch with a little b.
and if you’re anything like me
you take it up the ass without makin a sound
Let em pump it down
to the back of your throat
With watery eyes and puke in your nose
And if only his taint smelled like roses….
I’d at least get some kind of pleasure from this work.
Nah, bitches don’t get to create art.
We get meat scraps and pats on the head.
We eat off the floor and take shits with everyone watching.
And still, I keep fuckin,
freakin for seed to feed
these hungry hedens’ need for me.
The stag charge’s paid, I get laid and
HOT Damn if my pussy don’t make a fat-ass profit!
That is what you wanted,right?

But I b’lieve I’ve been trickin for a little too long;
See, this is my first poem in a year.
My fertile field’s turned brown and bare
(It’s pretty much there)
And when the sun (or I) goes down for the last time
I’ll take that long ride
Get ditched in a field
And wander till I’m someone else’s Bitch.

Tree City, USA

For the last six years I've spoken of my hometown with nothing but disdain. Garland viewed from the driver's side of my Volvo S40 is nothing special; eyesores are all I can see through the 10 year-old film on my windshield. All the pawn shops with barred windows, cracked, graying asphalt, and a ghost town square were as good as radioactive ash. I figured that nuking the place was the best option.

Today I ran 8.44 miles here. I'm not sure if it was my being lower to the ground or just trotting by more slowly that opened my eyes. Barefoot running makes me feel at one with the earth, or cement, or whatever; I feel a connection to my surroundings. I have more time to process what's in my iconic store. It had been raining and the Duck Creek was full, the sky grey and the trees as vibrant green as I've seen them. There were pretty little puddles for me to waltz through to lift my spirits. Joggers and bikers waved hello. There were sidewalks.

At 18 I drove, ate and fucked too fast. In that state all one can see is blurred yellow lines and whatever's at chest level. At 24 my scantily clad feet show me the underground, the individual cubes of road and tan tipped grass blades, my turf, my hood. Garland, I think we can be friends.

I run to see.

Music

My eyes hear beat sequences
in textured textile oceans
and fuzzy pastel fabric bits.
In me
frequencies are endless vaccine needles
piercing my tear ducts,
puncturing through
s t r e a m i n g
to the balls of my feet and
tips of my spilt ends,
exiting as electrical currents from every inch of skin.
My electrocuted brain
sees everything and
nothing
all at once.

c.e.s.
(10.25.09)

alphazetical reinstarnation

I’m fiery dust
cloud 9,
I’m a star lost and
Wandering inside myself

I, star A-9
Was the first to observe the
brightest of billions
swirled and sweltering with
glowing specs:
your perfect words
para-pathways
and refracted lines
turned my gaze to

You, star Z-9
the one I’ve been
trying so hard to find
to get to and align
with me.

I’m A, the beginning
You’re Z end
and all the others lie
along the line
they’ll link us, but
they’ll intercept this
radio wave and
I’ll implode
I’ll explode
I’ll grow cold and collapse

But I’m a stellar cat
and I’ll re-birth myself
at least 9 times
from my own matter

Supernova lust
Dust to dust
But I’ll keep burning.

-c.e.s. (11.28.2008)

War

We fight with
thought grenades
pheromone bullets
and word shrapnel
raiding each others minds
for mythological
weapons of mass
destruction.

Stalemated,
refusing to
free our death grip on
power, our
P-O-W-ed genitals starve.

Will there be a cease
fire, a neo-marxist
fashion statement,
a cutting of the prized
pants in two,
reducing them to
bloody denim gauze?

No, I’ll surrender,
Sparing these
designer jeans
again
and remain
a prisoner
of your excuses.

And again
you’ll go
pre-O, blowing
your load
like a champ,
owning the spoils,
the booty and my
freedom…

but I’m planning
my escape.

c.e.s.
3.26.09

Prison Food

I just ate
last year’s
mass of characters,
thoughts of type and
sign waves,
my half-revolution came
from seeing the same
side of the sun again.

Elliptic trips
blurred with the present,
a prison meal of
eatsleepthinkwrite
and accidental crying
like pissing my pants.

It’s raining here.
A lot.
This trip’s almost over
though it won’t really end.
But I think the food will be better.

c.e.s
10.11.2009