El príncipe negro,

estoico inmortal...

cuerpo guerrero,

cicatrices encalcadas,

talismanes de Orishas.

Escudo y lanza,

cachivaches elocuentes,

que divulgan una historia...

una ruta, una vida,

luminarias ancestrales!

El príncipe blanco,

mimado y sublime...

frágil silueta,

de porcelana piel.

Adornados por tesoros,

faldas de lino y seda...

son verdades infalibles

secuencias patriarcales,

incertidumbres tan vulgares

del este ameno charlatán!

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neal muzak makes love to the sun

neal muzak hammers the microphone

like lionel hampton building a woodshed out back

so he can sneak the rabbi's daughter

into the sin of synagogue

more science than humanities and more

art than anything

he is a student of the pencil thin mustache

if you look up neal muzak on youtube

you will find girls jumping on trampolines

and doing splits

you will find mythology. . .

a man who is the son of bending light

he is billy collins eating william


williams plums

with the juice dribbling

down the thigh of art center


he owes you tuesday and

will pay you on friday night

the vapor light slips from his poems

like morning humidity on the asphalt

there is no crank in frankenstien

no plight in a piano slip n slide

and at one time i was somebody

that was three thousand 27 poems ago

o yea, cha cha chaaa

i'm gonna close my eyes and tilt my head

back and forth --- slightly - - - - remembering

the gulf and the sun dipping into the blue

taking the hue of the evening and mixing it

like van gogh eating a dreamcycle

check your pockets, half of thursday is missing

and that sun set a hundred times

and that sun set a hundred times

and that was the setting of torrid good times

neal muzak wears a leather jacket

he is a crock pot on the counter making love

to the sun as it simmers in her own juices

money grows on trees

but neal muzak picks the juniper berry from

your gin and tonic and

paints watercolors in the world of make believe

he whispers honey in your ear

honey made from killer bees

you lean back into a dance of limbo

paying him with fingerprints

taken from red headed strangers

the pluck of cock o doodle do in the morning

and when the dawn comes

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03-27 All Systems Operational


Tinkering with screws that seem to loosen from my grip

and slip in crevices of metal frames where fingers cannot fit,

I’m learning to outsmart myself and organize my thoughts,

like wires neatly spiraling around my brain uncrossed.

I know that where my synapses all gather ‘round to meet

would overheat, if not for cooling systems fitting inbetween.

The whir of cooling fans keeps me content. I’ll have no need to vent

as long as power flows uninterrupted and nothing dents

the blades that spin and spin and spin relentlessly.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

...putting my desktop pc back together after one of its many deaths. It's not really a complete thought, but oh well.

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sleep much?


Pretty shiny nails glisten

piercing soft skin

leaving a lonely trail of destruction

life dripping out slowly

creating beautiful patterns

of self loathing and sweet


cleansing stagnant hatred and useless


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finding the scatter

put in debbie

there is a ramble around

the room

that falls at your hips

with pornography of

your kiss

drinking dubious


spilling over with

bedroom whispers

when things unravel

there are slivers

and there is the

shivers from

connecting flesh

when things are undone

you are curled into me

and perspiration

tries to escape in

to the humidity

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put in debbie

slipping off

the excitement

of a day and

translating emotion to

nocturnal murmur

scotch and water

in the wilderness

panties muddled

somewhere under

a sleeping bag

consuming your thighs

tasting like lake water

where we defied gravity

and floated in sensual


sipping slipping

and sliding into you

wavering on

the evening


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blue plate

put in debbie

let me throw you on the table

like blue plates from the dollar store

unfolding your intimate napkin

with playful design

flipping you over with spatula desire

tipping your breasts

smearing my lips

devouring your cuisine

with fingertip delicacies

exploring the curve of your spine

that serves you up like a soup spoon

finding the pleasure within

that slips like a salad fork

through your marinated dressing

let me

i will empty you

like a chalice

with a brim full

of delight

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Prank Call

My sister said that some days I wouldn’t want to fight it
And that she’d do it for me
Except now she's gone
And I don’t think I'm ever going to call
Just to say that I don’t feel like fighting it today
If I just breathe
This will all pass
And I will wake up
And know it's not a dream

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For Night... (Cinquain)

for night...

dark winged angel,

cloaked in shadowy robes,

as silver twinkling stars adorn

her hair.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

a cinquain written in a poetry game

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