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[senor-plume]

[senor-plume]

Shattered Cold

Frozen daisies Which shatters with the Slightest of touches Leave bits of pieces Of chilly pedals On my Persian carpet Leaving me to Gather up the straw broom And Get to work

With wild flurries Creating chaos Outside my Kitchen window I twist the cap Off the bottle of booze And take a strong hit As I stare intently At the snowflakes Which comes down Like chess pieces Thrown in hurricane anarchy Behind my sheer yellow curtains

Now, With the thermostat Sweating it out On my wall I raise the numbers anyway …and wait… Here with mystery lungs (Which can be any color At this point)

Nausea… Like out at sea Overtakes me As I push my window open To free all of the dust and stems From the handiwork of my Witches broom (Which flies smoothly through the New York air…with me… Bundled up and high)

So, Here I am now With a silver pipe in my hands Smoking a green leafy blueberry As the clouds outside Become large frozen Cloud Cubes Which would, no doubt, Rain cheese squares and crackers

I blow

I blow out the smoke And soon I Am Toasty, Happy And cozy As the December freeze Continues on Outside But Here At my place… All is good with the world As the plants in my pot are All growing so nicely now

The chess board sits alone On the table The vase is empty Except for a tiny amount of Water At the bottom

And the Queen Gives me the finger From her checkered spot And I can only laugh Because the heat is on And I am ready for this day To continue on

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Scoop Me. Replace Me.

give me Richard Brautigan’s voice

place it within my marrow so I can feel his smooth delicious peace

knock me out with Clara Bow eyes

give me her wink and store it alongside of my fluttering beat box

I want to feel Bob Dylan’s gravel moan

chop it up and inject the glorious utterances of his harmonica dialect

my heart will spin like a record

supply me with beauty!

give me a coursing jolt of someone other than me

slap me with talent and proud grins

electrocute my hair! give me an afro from 1966.

place within my palm the tiniest of encouragement so that I’ll know to keep trying

fill me with something to fly my overlooked kites

fill me with mellifluous golden tea

empty out the white noise of insecurity

empty out the rotten ivory orifice

empty it all out so I’ll have room for someone other than me

then…

then I’ll be delighted to wake up each morning

I’m pretty sure this would work

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That green mustache, I don't know...it looks good on him.

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Unable to sleep...thinking how amazing the Lawrence Welk Show would have been if everyone were all coked up.

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Rubber Soul Blessed

rubber soul burning hot from my turntable

there are a few flakes of happiness dropping outside of my window

ground gathering white

only the slight glow from the Christmas tree is illuminating this room

I pull a pack of matches from my dungaree pocket and introduce it the the wick (with it’s gentle cinnamon scent) and it is a miracle we’ve all come to accept as not a big deal

this convenient flame does its job with no complexity

just sit there, hot and wait to be blown out

easy-peasy

from behind my ear I slide a joint out but it tangles (just a bit) in my hair and I drop it to the floor where three curious cats give it their utmost attention

shooing them (with love) I pick up the slight bone and place it to my smiling lips

I bring the lit match to the tip as George Harrison croons to me about thinking for myself

taking a long pull I close my eyes thanking all of the gods for Rickenbacker guitars and fuzzy bass boxes

I exhale and blow the mellow smoke to the spinning ceiling fan where it scatters like love notes wild from the breeze

the snow is picking up and the album is nearing it’s ‘Side A’ completion

time to become mobile

time to rise for a quick flip and then back to my ultra-comfy chair for a few more puffs

a few more tunes while watching it all go down outside

walking towards the stereo I step over: two cats a pair of slippers catnip dust and an ornament that should still be hanging proudly on the tree

lifting the needle from the vinyl I am hit with a bolt of pure joy and hurry to get that 'B-Side’ rocking

ah, tonight

thank you for the snow and music

with my billowy weed and three cats this night could not have been any more enjoyable

I’m blessed

[senor-plume]

[senor-plume]

Restless Legs (the syndrome)

oh, how they chirp and chew within my limbs

my legs are pure cocaine woodpeckers and I cannot get a wink of sleep

everyone twists and churns under the sheets when the moon hits its stride but this… this is ridiculous

right leg shake left leg shimmy

the pillow, all bunched into a huge cotton ball is as uncomfortable as rolled up jeans under my desperate head

and my veins? what of them?

well, they are filled with shreds of aluminum foil straight out of the microwave

Christ, even the tips of my ten toes are affected

I receive 10 seconds of silence before it starts again and I have to move my legs… wildly… like flapping a sheet off a porch

but nothing flies away no, not for me

I rise with great dissatisfaction which compliments my immense frustration as I give the clock (which read 3:48 AM) a sorrowful hairy eyeball

dreams will not enter tonight

I’ll have to wait until the afternoon when it always seems to always go away

it’s a nighttime thing, you see.

so, I stand in the center of the bedroom stretching with arms up high and my legs, those demented twigs, could walk for hours but I’ll have none of that

so, I head outdoors for some fresh morning air and to listen to my early morning birds

chirping their first chirps of the day while the woodpecker within continues on

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Talking Heads tonight.

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Talking Heads thick and groovin'.

Penguin colored kitten purring on my lap.

Ceramic Christmas tree, pink, still stands on the coffee table.

My Yellow Submarine mug winks at me, snaps his holder like fingers

To the beat

Unaware of today's date

I can smile freely again

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rising

her tornado grinding onto my stiff little fingers drive me to the brink of insanity and passion

her with wine thighs grooving hard under that July heat is an instrumental masterpiece of lust and love

her neck tastes of middle of the road perfume and her hair is mousse perfection to be viewed with cautious eyes

but those kisses she delivers to me on my front porch explode taste like every peach I have ever eaten all rolled into one mighty burst of flavor

dripping with desire the juice of her wanting leaves me strong and hard and ready to deliver ..ready to bring her home with an arched back on a Persian carpet that has never seen such amazing actions in its century old life span

pulsating enthusiasm with a never say quit drive I take her onto me and enter with great fanfare and parades of thrusting movements enough to kill another man

weaker than I

but I hold steady and bring her home to squeals of delight and pure 100% joy and like that lemon song her liquid drips down my thigh as I rise to salute her for coming home with me and showing me what love can be when done correctly

this amazement happens when that wine is flowing and the circuits are frazzled to the point of steady heat

sparks and then flames arise like a horny phoenix with wings spread wide and takes to flight from the ashes of its destruction

this is merely a woman …one girl… who stands beside me in the New York heat lovable and able to bring me great favors when we are charming each other to such an extent that sex is just a giggle away and I feel a mighty joke coming on right about now

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Playing Buddy Holly

I love a good spine and I have well over one thousand sitting upright protecting the wax inside

on my knees I finger through the albums searching for something fantastic to play on this Saturday afternoon

my turntable hungry for some simple tunes

I stop at Buddy Holly and slide the record from its vertical home and bring it to my large fleshy nose for a whiff of 1957

Rave On

and when the needle is placed softly…gently to the vinyl I can feel the joy rise up inside of me seconds before the tune hits me right in the middle of my chest and when Buddy starts singing and the guitars join him I am convinced that God did not create us from a rib

we came from the neck of a Stratocaster

Well…all right

I can feel my toes tapping on the cheap Persian carpet (a fake) and I sway to the tunes wishing hard that I was wearing black rimmed glasses but there can only be one Buddy Holly

I am lost in a fool’s paradise as a cigarette is lit under the spinning of the ceiling fan and I exhale the blue smoke up into the breeze …satisfied…

over one thousand records and I chose the perfect artist on this lonely Saturday

when the album comes to an end and the arm returns the needle to the cradle I find that my spirits are high

my dumb soul excited to be here at my cheap apartment and I swear that my kitty cat thinks Mr. Holly was the perfect choice as well

I pick him up and pat his head as I think hard about who could possibly follow Buddy next

my mind filled with artists but no one …not even the Beatles could create such happiness in my body right now

so I return the vinyl to the paper envelope and slip it back in the cardboard

I can’t do it… nothing can top him now… maybe tomorrow but on this day only Buddy Holly will make it for me

as the clock inches towards darkness and the air around me grows chillier I hold out my arms to the sky and thank whomever lives up there for the thirty minutes I just spent on cloud nine

my spines all of them stand in respect to the greatest rocker… knowing full well that they could never live up to the music just played

but maybe tomorrow when I go to my knees again (as I do every day) I will possibly pull out the Coasters and play Hey Sexy and I’ll smile a wide kind of grin

my toes will tap… my arms rising to the ceiling… my soul clean and spotless

all will be right in my world

so I have that to look forward to

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Pity Party Posey

I brave the cold nights Alone Sitting at the desk here With letters Spilled out In front of me …Daring them to become Something Fine and good

I hand out my Uncomfortable electricity To all who will jot it down

I waltz The Paranoia While the phone remains Eerily silent Despite my Best efforts

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Just gonna look for some paperclips.

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Pet Sounds

Is there anything Better than A good mood Piled up with The Beach Boys as the Soundtrack of the day?

Walking with a skip In your step Enjoying the day Despite the Cold rain And sick children that Lay down under your Dilapidated roof

To find yourself Dancing around To this rare nugget of happiness

These harmonies These mini pop operas Shine so golden Dripping so many colors To your wanting chest

And does it break your heart When you think of Brian Wilson And his total break down? His solo genius All on his own as His wilted flower friends Chuck verbal rocks at His fat head

Brian, if only we could Have saved you

But don’t you have A tie dye heart that beats In a 4/4 pattern?

As 33 1/3 spins such joy For you Without a single Gray cloud in that Sky above you

Do you want to hold hands And walk for a while At the zoo?

Petting each animal as we Pass by?

Feeding them And telling them Each That You (you you you you) Are so Glad they are In Your Life at that Precise moment?

Splendid moods spins today And you can thank The young men With honey voices Singing for you

Yes you and to You only

Today, Wasn’t it just a great Day?

[senor-plume]

Art by Ryszard Kaja (16 January 1962 – 17 April 2019) Dachshund poster