Monday, September 14, 2009

Wind Like Swayze

Neither swayze nor Soviets breathe
grease for they have no ghosts to reach.
Swayze meant

how to treat a lady, surfing, booby-traps,
no longer bunking with ponyboy tranquility.
Growing up, the swayze introduction,

complicated and wong foo,
my own state-of-the art double deuce, a
high-security facility I rule as swayze.

What I'm admitting to is bank robbery,
gender bends, possibly slavery, but not
a kiddie dungeon. I see the fear!

Muzzled and swayze, baby heads my wolverine,
swings me round and round Nebraska.
It's just us girls, my whoopi,
my swayze.

first published in The Scrambler (2007)


  1. Poor guy, he was such a hansome dude and a great dancer, I hate that he died.

  2. Great poem! Thanks for posting it.

  3. Dark nights washed by distant rippling trees
    and alien winds covering your eyelids, purifying
    like everything, move on with splendid ease
    leaving us a message: life will never cease
    its sleepy course in vain
    in order to attain
    rebirth, since Death is not and Life is dying.

    The heat around Time's corner waves a scent
    for creedence revival of some virtual vampire
    as deep inside. A force considered spent
    returns from utter non-existence that was meant
    to keep us out of breath -
    Is Life both Life and Death?
    Riddle of the Night! The Day be hot and dire.

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