It is my pleasure to greet you once again here on my blog. Thank you for agreeing to share your self with me and others!
Phillip and I met on FB as fellow poets. When Phillip writes he absolutely sets the poetry bar higher and one becomes deeply connected through emotionally charged thoughts within his poetic words. There are times, Phillip, I have to switch my energies in order to read your words, to get onto your stratus, and to understand and know what (I think 🤔) you’re thinking or saying. You always say, “wonderful…” etc, etc, etc… Phillip is always pleasant and polite and never has a negative comment for anyone that I know of.
Phillip has given me permission to post his bio and three poems.
So here goes… let’s go down and onto Phillips road and into his heart.
What did I get in life?
My curriculum vitae–the early years–includes being adopted at 2 months old and an ample helping of sexual abuse by the time I was 6 years of age followed by swiftly being informed I wasn’t my parent’s biological child at the ripe age of seven. I could divulge further but at the risk of audience boredom. Mostly I think writing kept me from becoming a full blown criminal who invariably would’ve been imprisoned if I hadn’t discovered my lust for language.
How I first began writing?
I’ve a fetishist’s bent that announced itself early in my life. Around 8 years old I became intrigued by a beer stein on my father’s work-desk stuffed with all kinds of pens. One in particular made from a faux bronze metal especially fascinated me and so I proceeded to steal it and eventually use it. Feeling its heft in my hand compelled me I suppose to do my best to write something important and meaningful. Not sure if I’ve accomplished this goal yet but I keep trying with the same fervor as I did then which makes for roughly 37 years worth of enjoyable effort.
split by an opened mouth:
words, phrases–a kiss
sharing the commonality
of tongues sheathed
Propagations whose demise
comes softly, patient antithesis,
a minotaur embedded in eventualities.
Voice of flesh still warm to be
buried beneath recitals
of a sabbath night.
Leave my first floor windows ajar
near the poor-district thoroughfares.
Footstep-measures of daily commerce.
Sounds (zounds!) from distant train horns
steadily through the rustic-dark elsewhere.
Vigilant yet nearly four decades hence
I await one undisclosed who taught rape
disguised by games wearing pliant innocence
denied with an adult’s diplomatic irreverence.
Criminal hopes his thievery will again arrive
a captive this time to my incisive harangue
on murder emboldened with works cited
and thesis trenchant as a blood-slick knife.
What drives me?
A drug-like addiction to beauty no matter the medium or genre. When I sense this quality or aspect, feel it in some way coursing through my nervous system, it’s similar to being drawn toward a gorgeous woman but easier because I don’t have to woo a painting or piece of music. In fact, I don’t even have to be clever or interesting and I’m allowed to openly ogle without societal standards booing me for being so demonstrative in my displays of bad behavior.
Everyone bears a residual taste
disgorged out of the first scream.
Womb-blossoms, saline wounds
spilled from kisses
forged in feminine depths
where fires weep and hiss.
Prayers and impious poems met
like plump lips… mandalas cradled
between serpentine thighs.
The subconscious ripened by unplucked urges
and their near-impossible sublimations.
Sweat upon globed fruit
Mendicants pricked upon thunderous soles.
Jagged stones cast against a nervous
system awakened along the glans,
ablaze-warmed maternal areolas
lighting one’s way toward
Words preferably encountered with a calm
eased across limpid waters rippled
by a single breath.
Awaiting the response that requires a lifetime.
The other notable thing to mention is I tend to get naturally high when I write. Something about the process opens certain neural pathways that light up my synapses when I scribble and spill ink across the pages.
“Life is full of strange absurdities, which, strangely enough,
do not even need to appear plausible, since they are true.”
1. Wield a blade that winnows
vanity from inspiration.
(Bookish youth spent unsupervised
in the bloodshed depths of the bible
revealing choice temptations.)
2. Certain abuses teach
about inhuman endurance.
Trauma so severe it forges
thought and flesh
3. A voice tempered by the sun
4. Severed egos die
more quietly than hushed orgasms
opened beneath the ribald night.
5. Only so many different diagnosis
within the cacophonous walls once
referred to as an asylum…
So many more strolling freely
beyond these barred windows
starless and gap-jawed.
6. Crystalline body of water outstretched
undisturbed under downy billows
mirrored at the midpoint horizon.
Narcissus dreams before he drowns.
my answer to Phillip: the ability to write like non other. You sir are gifted.
Modernity went another direction
my steadfast idleness.
“Path” and other synonyms
for way or route lack denotations
where self never arrives
Alters, personae crowding persona
disguise themselves as burlesque aliases–
they’re rapt quixotic
by a circumcised sun
hung larger than Milton’s
“ponderous shield” trapped
easily in a tramp-sized
(casual motions indicative
of someone who does this routinely):
cheeks brushed sluttishly red to honor
the drag queen, Hester Prynne.
(A for autoerotic gallows–tiny ruses
become necessarily un-tucked upon
the hangman’s scaffold, the deadman’s
last authentic signature…)
Ruins that follow Zeitgeist foreplay.
The bearded gurus
slum street bulletin boards
plagiarized self-help shelves
and nudie mag 900 numbers:
all different circumferences
with the same redundant ratio,
the sangfroid vicious
cycles repeated like cliches,
history and fruitful propagation.
Vivisect the shy reflection.
fondled by a listeless id.
Etiquette of the postmortem cigarette
cited from Tropes to Tropism
of the Dawn-Embraced
“Even night doesn’t want you”
the proposed vanity-press expose
that tentatively, will uncover joyous
impotence in this proposed memoir.
Hugs to you!