it’s a totally hot -
to get splashier
in the ovals
to flirt like a fool
in the keyboard
for real flyin fingers
like a seductive serenader.
it’s been an aged
in the longer i go,
to get like smoother
comin out of the turns,
to make it all super-charged
in all that’s worthwhile.
all this skin contact
in my ultimate maneuvers,
is a feel free -
gotta be just the way i gotta be
in the provocative,
to make my bodypaint
ultra in the acceleratin n gettin it on
from inside my racin hood.


he looks drained -
all that work on the job
is taking a considerable toll
on his lifestyle -
the stud that he is.
his eyes -
they don’t have that
sex appeal give away look
every time a woman walks by.
that smile -
it just isn’t what it used to be,
and his strut -
it lacks that swagger.
his dialogue lately…
has taken on a tone of great concern
without the ramblings
of his sexual conquests.
it’s tough on him,
when it comes to woody wilt syndrome!!


it’s a reachin for the sky,
cause words need a little dancin.
it’s all about learnin
to find a way to get outta the dark
and play it right
in all the bases.
cause it’s time
for a little show n tellin
to find a little bit of alright
in a sensual slow dash up the channel,
cause i’m not interested
in a little bit on the side.
but her northern country comfort
is lightenin for the candle,
cause a sailor’s cup of tea
can make it worthwhile
to feel like
her only porn star poet.


ya walked into crowded classroom
n sat in middle of front row,
as your hair danced curls
softly in hallways
upon your shoulders.
ya spoke with cotton candy softness
thru your lips like apple skins.
ya turned papes of book
with delicate love taps,
as ya stared at expressive words
thru hidden fields of romantic poets.
ya were led to believe,
nothin could harm your soul
if ya bathed your heart with love.
ya closed the book,
n forgot their meanings
when ya accepted first line moves.
in back row ya didn’t see
quiet eyes smothered in same book.
now ya are far away,
n these words carry just carry a heart
explodin out from a back seat poet.


i’m sittin on a bench
at perry square
in the center of erie pa.
across from me,
three young african americans
in their twenties
hold hands in prayer.
i have no complaints.

a white man in his late forties
to early fifties,
holds a bottle of hard liquor
in a paper sack
and takes a swig,
then passes it around.
i’m blendin in with the scene.
i have no complaints.


sometimes it’s nice
just to drive poetry
in a slow motion
so that visuals
don’t come crashin
in front of ya.
it’s good to use signals
to show your exact path,
n let the world know
to slow down
for somethin important.
if ya must,
throw on the seatbelt
in case profanity
needs to be harnessed.
look in mirror
to see if somethin
might of been left behind
for squealin images
to move up front.
shift gears for higher elevations
when the hills are hard to climb.
use headlights to guide yourself
in the darkness
when there is so much darkness
that the action in front
doesn’t let ya pass the artillery line.
drop into neutral
to rest for a spell.
nevertheless, leave yourself in park
to sit n think if your poem
is really complete.