Eddie removed his worn, brown fedora with one hand and ran his other hand through a sweaty porcupine of blond hair. His blue eye furtively twitched at the peephole of the front door to his apartment. When he felt, if not safe, free from immediate danger he turned away from the door and flopped down on his unmade bed next to Lola; she squeaked. He had rescued her from a wretched hive of scum and villainy, a white-slave den called "Adult Store." When he had seen her on display like a puppy, he ...

She was kneeling on the carpet. Her long, blond hair was bound in a bun. Her thin, stringy frame quivered with the violence of her scrubbing. Her long fingers tingled at the edge of burning from exposure to the chemicals which lay strewn about her: a Stone Henge of brightly colored bottles and cans of bleaching, foaming, color-restoring sprays and solutions, some upright, and some fallen where they had been cast away after failing the woman. Their lack of utility brought tears of frustration ...

Play that eternal Song with me. Pluck the strings of flesh, quivering with quickening ecstacy. Sing with gasping notes: a half-heard harmony for our ears alone. Beat those drums: a percussion of pounding pulse and energy. And dance that dance of sweat slicked skin and writhing limbs that lasts forever in just one night.

What kind of poetry do you like? Do you pore over lines that rhyme? Do you skip lightly to the beat Of bouncing words with rhythmic feet? Do you like free verse which jangles and shocks you into the clear pool of introspection? Do you like sweet sounds, Oft spoken, Of love's sweet tokens? Or would you rather hear Less common sentiment? When you said, "A man Who writes poetry," Let me know What you meant.

The warm aroma of vegetables sautéed in fine olive oil surrounded a swarthy, dark haired, young man who wore an apron, a well-tailored suit, and the kind of grin that only anticipation of sexual congress can bring. He was in a steel forest of cookware and well-honed cutlery so expensive that only professional chefs or pretentious bastards would bother to purchase any of it. He grasped a tomato with a hand and an arm that were contorted un-naturally by paralyzation. His other, very well-formed...

"Forgive me father, for I am sin." Didn't hear anyone come in the booth. Must have been dozing. Hot in here, usually the heat keeps them out. No reverence in his voice. Don't wanna deal with a smart ass kid today. Wait, what did he say? "My son, perhaps you are new to the church. The proper..." "No padre. You might say I've been around for a while, in fact." "Then you meant to say..." "I meant what I said, mon pere." He keeps cutting me off. No respect. Hate this kind. Hate sweating this much...

Pretend with me today That burning in your filthy loins Is truly pure love Bleeding from your holy heart That maggot crusted lies Which tumble from your rotting lips Are really shining truths Beacons for wand'ring ships That the stagnant pool of your mind Was just a broken toy That you left behind When you stopped playing games.

Ricky liked bars. He liked the dim lights, the flashy ads for beer, whiskey, Alovar's Pure Columbian Snow, The Fast Method, "clinically proven to keep you fast 15% longer than the leading brand." He liked how the aromatic smokes formed weather fronts, a high-pressure zone of ganja sweeping away a low-pressure tobacco front, both swirling together and mixing as they dance to the dim ceiling. He especially liked the pretty women and macho men reeking of desperation. Bars liked Ricky too. He ma...

When I wake up, the only wreath in the house is one of cigarette and marijuana smoke that lazily curls around the naked bulb in the ceiling of our studio apartment. I climb out of the top bunk of our bed. It's hard to escape the view of anyone in a space that small. My brother and my father are sitting on the floor. My brother talks animatedly of nothing, spewing out words that fill the air as surely as my father's smoke. My father sits in a half lotus, wearing a pink ruffled skirt, and naked...

There is poetry in a man facing his death stoically. In the set of his jaw, the line of his back held rigid and his head high, in these things are read stanzas of eloquence and valor. I have never been accused of poetic ambition. I've just been weeping. My throat has opened enough, and the spasmodic sobs have slowed enough that I can yell, "He slipped, God damnit!" My voice is deep. It rumbles its way past bars of steel and into the spartan concrete walls of death row. Death. Fucking. Row. An...