Me as in I

I'm an adrenalin junky. I thrive on controversy. Investigation is my internal Law and Order.

Roses of Ecstasy

Is poetry a way to express a feature, a factor through metaphors? Is it straight forward, blunt, to the point? Direct illusions of truth. Alliterations of the magnificent. Continuous segments of thought. Period until it ends--if it ever does. No poem ever ceases, but no poem is a novel. A short story, maybe. An allegory, maybe. Maybe is such an indefinite word. It's more probable than concrete. Probability is statistics. Statistics are politics. Politics are based on probability. Either avoid the situation at hand or run like a bull, horns thrusted into the Golden Gate, full-force, and shatter! The puzzle pieces of the complacent Eiphel Tower cement the dust beneath gravel. The soil of a wilted weed. One flimsy missing piece pollinating the sunflowers that listen. Not hear, but listen to the sun's rays drifting from sunrise to sunset. Periwinkle tangerines engulf the fog. No, I am not on acid.

Champagne

Do you know that moment, when time stops, and it’s only you and that person in the universe dueting bohemian rhapsody; every single symbol, every note, every heart beat streaming through the veins of fantasy versus reality. It’s the new reality of time and space within those precious breaks against the river bank. Against the steam boat’s chaotic churns of rapid paint of blues and purples; the color of silence embodies the soul of wonder and loath. The loath of what could be the sea of a twin identity, not me, we, there, everywhere in a land of doubt to the infinity of seconds. Seconds of blossoming beauty we shared in despair. Confidentiality weakens the limbs before the seel crashes and burns the beauty of what was known as a, “low blow,” for what I thought was brilliance ended in resiliance.

Phoenix

His fire is a Bazaar sequins-layered Moroccan belly dancer

caressing the phalanges' tips

The tip of his bishop pulsating

to every stroke of Her hip

The embers brand pulchritudinous 

Yes! irony sheds light to the amused Hyena

I am an eye parasite--

A sight sucked inside;

Plush, scarlet lips

The ignite of his semen

Bursts! from creamy vanilla

to salty anchovies--

An occult like the Ku Klux Klan;

Exempt bigotry

Flickering ecstasy

as the penetration devours the walls of Doomsday

The pulse races to His flame

The Sin City front runner equates to two scalding orgasms.