Cool Breezes
October 9, 1996

As I await for a precious zephyr
To relieve me of an afternoon's heat,
I fall under a daydream's trance.
When that gentle wind finally comes,
I embrace my mind's wonder even more,
So blow my way swiftly and stave me from
wincing.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

The Loss of a Poem of Heart and Soul
February 22, 2002

What was that lovely sentence written yesterday?
The one incredible first line.

The beginning.

A break from imagination that wouldn't allow me
to stop, but bring to a shine.

The civil course of action is to have it done.

Later - probably much later - a little annotation.

The results may not be the gift of great sound,
the arrangement may seem like your world
is a little warped, a little down.

To handle it: write from all places and vacant spaces.

May forces allowing any mind to stack further on
the ego, resolves for some importance of pinpoints
that will not delay the chart.

Especially in the middle of great thoughts.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

 Angry Itch
 June 30, 2005

Not love but likeness,
And an impulse toward desire
made lust irradiant;
forfeit of constitution
as something like pride.
Temptation meddled
his mouth near libidinal
locked treasures too
tender, that reacted to the teasing
warm airs.
Rough, odd man came
in a rough, old truck
oblivious to the truth
in full, but irruptive
of luck.
He was held and he curbed
caresses alongside a few
prevented confessions that
pounced on both the surges
and urges of both bodies merged.
Before, there was light talk
and white-hot eyes and worry,
but the throbbing back
and forth made fear a
truant.
One trusted, one truckled.

© 2005 Jarrod C. Lacy

******


　

　

　

"Genius Child" by Langston Hughes

Burn Rubber 
March 13, 2008

(Note: This piece was inspired after seeing a handsome photograph
of the late race car driver, Dale Earnhardt, kneeling by a stock car.
Source: The March 13-19, 2008 edition of "Go" magazine, which
appears in the Thursday editions of The Huntsville Times. The said
photo of Earnhardt was taken by one Buster Walker, circa 1977.)

The kneeling of a speedster captured my mind to mull over what
moments he had at that time.
Perhaps his weight over the danger and electricity of his occupation
pressed varied feelings for his station.
Man designed to ride, to drive intently, force to black-chalk asphalt
to make his mark distinctly.
The love of racket for breaking through the clear force of his nature,
(Zoom!) making those close to the tornadic with sonic booms.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

 

The Vulgar Horse

May 27, 2008

She told me she wanted all seven of her holes filled.

I didn't fully understand at first, but the moment my

mental capacity was struck, I was appalled, then

there was vomit.

Too open, all her freedoms are stalked sugar cane overly

sweet, diabetes, and distributes like agriculture.

Fey, incomplete feats by this holder of curvatures is

shameless without discretion and seemingly will

be far from a defeat cause by all like her who choose

to drink in any tenuous thrusts brought on by a

tingling crotch.

I, not by choice, choose to yield from this libidinal appeal

that pained me from tooth to heel.

Scream at the madness. Madness, man.

If she can't achieve me here, she will veer.

I am nothing to her. I'm refuse and dust, then.

She will view my attractions; she will call me names,

she will possibly accost me physically, and later

will ask "What's wrong with me?"

Hulking with sex, this street-bound power princess

will push a hush on any who relate to the positive.

She will take out her wine and beer and joints to

reel in her comforts, and will not be swooned by

familiar lies that led her presence.

She is whoever’s creature, this animal that works and works

and works it intentionally well.

Swallower of all spirits, a soul-reliving succubus who enjoys

casting thoughtless enchantments to prove the flaccid

validity of a strong planet.

She's whoever experience is; she's havoc.

As she wraps her arms around another hopeful, navigated

once again by habit, she will turn to me with a half-smile and

sneer and will wonder and will not wonder, but she will know

with cutting-hatred that my place with her is one of an eternal

refuter.

I turn from the moment and go.

This is her customhouse. A club with absolution without change,

and blank of red-faced redemption.

She giggles to blur on-coming ends of her youth and resurgence.

There is a sort admiration to brandish here for this scatterer of

a future impaired.

She snickers now at being drunk on her sensual success.

She wills her will to blot me out, to steal other wills on a

bed, floor or couch.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

 

I recite "Given Places" this week. 11-6-13 - 11-8-13.

Given Places
July 23, 2008
(From All Summer, Little Rain Pt. 17 of 50)

I cannot.

There is no formula specially devised for one
to be ennoble of a gentry, no matter a soul's
entry into society.

All there is, is only that endmost point realized
at the beginning, at a place, at the origin, where
all are put, which plays on the stage of propensity
of where each soul could be.

I say "I cannot" for reason of fate and true lax
knowledge. My goal, if there is one, is scattered
assumption.

All else will be handled freely, unevenly by the
world court, as it, of course, will assize where
my quest throughout life could aim.

Probity.

I have known since the taste of milk that to hanker
a right is to contort what burns so brightly and completely,
and I must curb, often, a lead for it be plausible, successful,
easy.

Where I am, I cannot wonder and sigh when others grief
is confirmed by sight, mental perception, instinct, a guess
seemingly irksome on the opposing end.

These others who suffer the incursion of being rooted
without the willing flow of expansion, to know choices,
freedom, will further fume with haunted hearts, be alive
without straying thoughts.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy