drunken haiku!

this is a poem
not original or deep
but it's almost twelve...

Blue Crush(ed) eyes

i stay burnin bridges

over troubled waters

sulfuric tongues wrung

til the stench muffles partners

playin chicken

wit another unruffled charger

will someone tell god

that's what happens when u couple martyrs?

love deprived, muzzled starvers

turned hardcore capers

went from munchin on supple starters

to cardboard wafers

stolen heart floats

toward the next dark port's chambers

cuz i been focusin on wuts left

while the starboard tapers...

larger tears harbor fears

of wavy truths

while my reflections unwaverin

in the ripples of her baby blues

wadin thru that wave pool

awaitin savory c(l)ues

that only exist cuz i create 'em

in the wake of vapor fumes

Blue Crush(ed) eyes

used to reroute distress

but they've led me to murky waters

i tread while losin breath

the aftermath of smotherin smoke

smudges my sight into its depths

someone sound the foghorns

so i can hear my way thru this mess!

(take it away Miles)

13

We walked into the bar at midnight.

Bouncer stood stalk-still

at the foot of beer-washed stairs as

Designer heels and Italian leather soles

met cheap black plastic to deliver

us to our weekly gathering

of sinful commissions.

Soc turned her head to find me,

red painted lips formed words dripping

with weight of luxuries,

“I don’t even

KNOW

anyone here.”

We sat at a low table,

candles lit with twelve legs crossed around

a half dozen bottles of smooth, Russian vodka.

Glasses quickly clashed and parted

to the hypnosis of trance music.

I called out to the bartender.

One screwdriver, large pitcher,

light on the orange juice,

heavy on the vodka, crushed ice,

a teaspoon of Grenadine –

I searched

for my banig.

Ten blue tablets arranged in holy procession.

Took two and passed the rest around,

swallowed in anticipation of a night

to be forgotten.

We danced in choreographed convulsions,

bodies pulsating to manufactured grooves

to recreate some internal harmony.

I turned away from me

and stepped into the bright fluorescence of bathroom lights.

To find.

On the damp violet floor my uncle

and cousin knelt

in confession over a ceramic

toilet littered with lines

of fine, white powder.

Seen

Ziploc bag crammed

Crisp Peso bills rolled into

Fingers pressed up against nostrils

White lights, snow powder

And my white dress in surrender

And later

More white

Flimsy gown

On thin, crisp sheets

And coats speaking words

I can barely remember

Overdose.

Alcohol,

valium, cocaine.

This girls

thirteen.

-Erika Pineda

no rest for the weary

told me to get in sync

but i like the backstreet boys

cuttin' life's corners at track meets

wit an athlete's poise

yea, the street life,

where we grow to greet pipes

vampire status son,

we don't sleep nights

we, grieve lights,

tired, the crap is madness

but won't, think twice

when quietin' wired apparatus

silent wit packs of cabbage

patch kids my lips attached wit

savage... Last of the Mohicans

in this rap shit

burn ya draft pick

a hippie wit a hatchet

even pacifists like,

"go ahead, swing ya axe, kid"

trot in a Jeep,

Cherokee blood hounds my veins

Dance wit Wolves,

carefully huddle 'round the flames

motherfuckers, I'll show u how to

make it rain

but don't complain when them chains

come to stake their claim

beware the bird call,

this falcon's talons alloy

a lil too much off the top

(of the dome) scalpin' cowboys