The Poems

Car Hysteria (Seduction Revisited)

Earlier today
shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with sleek
brand-new cars
that rubbed and kissed their trousers
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness

Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats
where stale memories surfaced and breathed new air
striking deals in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee

What she feared most
kicked and scratched
and wanted to grow big enough to crawl
from the backseat of a yellow Pantera
and seduce her all over again
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color

She stayed away from the thing of her past
that once bit her crotch for the taste of her sex

Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting

Photo Credits:
 Tiko Giorgadze
 Matt Glm




My Tangerine Days, The Stories

A Glimpse At Danger

The humid air stung his eyes. He hated how the steaminess assaulted his throat and made it hard to breathe. He rarely walked, but Dr. Ford said his body needed the exercise if he wanted to get better. The backside of the park was a good place to begin. No one needed to see him huff and puff and sweat like an old steam engine. That’s why he kept inside the woodsy area. Plus, it was cooler here.

He was resting against the backside of a tree after urinating in the bushes there when two little darlings wearing short skirts caught his eye. He watched unseen as they passed within arm’s reach, giggling the way girls their age often do. He let them get several yards past him before he followed. Despite his poor condition, he was able to keep up with the little darlings—they weren’t hurrying.

On the other side of the grove, he kept his distance and pretended to stare down at the sidewalk along Seneca Street. No need making eye contact with anyone passing by. Traffic was sparse, even on Maple Drive where the girls entered Rockwood Terrace, and then an expensive looking tan and white ranch house.

1249, he read from the front door. Above it hung a wooden sign from the portico. The Garrs. He passed by the long house built low to the ground and its three car garage attached to the left. More houses like it lined the circular street active with children playing.

He turned around and retraced his steps back to the park and his car. He sat behind the wheel and decided to visit the Garrs soon … very soon.

My Tangerine Days, The Poems

America (Macroscopic Death Revisited)

So many American faces are fading like new literature,
soft and pale,
sinking into the quicksand of poverty.
Their government turned their dollars into pennies;
One hundred George Washingtons won’t buy a fistfight today,
but a hundred Ben Franklins can get you murdered…
Franklin kicks Washington’s ass every time.

But whose city park does big Ben stand in?
Tiananmen Square?
Where the crackle of old flesh inside the White House
grows loud above the vomiting whispers from a Chinese whorehouse
fronting the CCP,
and WTO?

Washington’s carved face remains proud and noble
in his green erection
where he stands alone in the town park I sit at.
Alabaster pigeon poop covers his broad shoulders.
Cell phones twitter at his feet with news that does not educate;
a horror brought about by the theft of a billion gold Franklins
when our infected financiers sold America at the First World War
for a hero’s seat at Versailles.

Washington died the day Franklin was fitted as bridegroom
for the multiple marriage of our country to the World Bank,
to OPEC,
to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development,
to the World Economic Forum,
to the World Council of Churches,
to the World Health Organization,
for unity by assimilation for control by one government worldwide.

LolaCandi, The Poems

Rightful Heirs

Man’s abstraction is his mad reality—
His crazy reality is our despair

His ruin-prone proud national heritage
befalls us for a wretched dream

Ancient fires fuel his greed made savage by marketeers

A proprietor evicts a family struggling to make ends meet
No compassion
He says he needs his money to pay his bills—
but his bloated bank account kisses his fat ass
The biggest dollar is his queen—
see how fast he drops to lick her cunt

He robs the land from the true inheritors—
rapes human lives for cash
He would sell the fleas and clothes off their backs
to profit from his attack
His abstractions are his mad reality—
His methods are our despair

The homeless seek shelter in the streets
until the lawman locks them up
in care of tax dollars hard at work

Ancient fires fuel the greed made savage by marketeers


LolaCandi, The Stories

Down the River Hebrus (Revisited)

I dreamed I sailed alone down the river Hebrus to the island Lesbos where I found sudden love at the center of a liquid mirror that reverberated with the clear perfection of my face—a sweet face with angel grace as done by the master hand of the world’s finest Victorian painter.

The morning sun behind me poured my shadow pink and blue and naked to the lakeshore where water nymph lovers made this beggar maiden their queen. They presented to me Pandora’s wounded body in a red world flashing decaying sounds of war, whereupon I ordered all sentries to burn their weapons and to lay Pandora alongside the head of Orpheus in the garden of Cupid where Psyche still waits for his kiss beneath a pregnant sky of stars ready to sprinkle down upon her bosom.

Then I tended Pandora’s wounds around the weddings of children finally thirteen, and forgave Apollo of his crime. For Apollo stole jazz from us before, between and becoming the lies of the dark man who painted himself white. His broken lips never spoke jazz or placed his emasculate hands on the beating heart of poetry, or made a right move in all his life out of the womb.

His time was winter constant. He ate and copulated ecstatic with money and politics—year after year of untasted sweetness in the mineshafts of disregard. No love, no knowledge, no concern for the smallest certainties. He showed his giant genitals to the shrews in the subway and dreamed of scattering his semen to the ultimate cunt for a name and a place for him to be determined later by the jizzum in the dark alleys of the unlived.

The lies from the dark man were full of tragedy trembling like a diseased dog and starving like the world in its ultimate nervous breakdown.

And in my sainthood, I healed all hearts and flesh of the dark man’s wicked church and took away the hour that would be winter eating the earth forever.


LolaCandi, The Poems

War and Rain Song

The war and rain are long;
our patience is gone and burns much faster in the zone.

The war and rain are long;
our broken bones and lullabies char the path to your home
where your war torn love bears a daily weight for years alone.

The war and rain are mean;
their dirty green and red are always messing with your head

The war and rain are mean;
a life unclean and too much pot put a hole in your head—
now your pothole brain is the next best thing to being dead.

You say it’s just a state of mind
and the weather here is fine.
But you can’t hear me call your name
above the drone of bomber planes.

The war and rain are his:
an awful dizzy man with piles of money in his plans.

The war and rain are his;
your life with him and too much weight put a hitch in your stance—
now your lovesick soul waltzes by in a broken dance.

You say it’s just a state of mind
and the weather here is fine.
But you can’t hear me call your name
above the drone of bomber planes.

No one can hear me above the war and rain that fall…
on us all.


LolaCandi, The Stories

People … Who Needs Them

She’s a bit introverted. She’s happiest when she’s by herself, holed-up from the rest of her coworkers and customers at the department store she works at. But sometimes she volunteers to come out of her office cubby and assist her coworkers on the sales floor. Like yesterday.

Things began okay. She helped stock shelves with new toys, kitchen appliances, and fragrant candles. Then she assisted the photo department whose worker went to lunch. The photo department ha machines that print photos from other photos, digital media, tablets and phones, as long as the customer agrees not to copy photos taken by professional photographers. Those photos are copyrighted, so anyone wanting them reproduced needs to have a release form signed by the photographer, saying it’s okay. Otherwise, it’s against the law. And that’s where the trouble began.

A portly man in need of a bath and a change of soiled undershirt and blue jeans came to the counter and wanted her to show him how to scan his Olan Mills photos of a dead relative so he could have copies for a funeral board. He had no release with him and had never bothered to obtain one. “Why should I?” he asked. “They’re my fucking photos.”

The woman apologized for the inconvenience and he stormed away. She returned to packaging and pricing photos that the busy high-tech printer spat out from the 8 kiosks outside the photo department that were in use. The kiosks were several yards away and partially hidden by an excessive bloating of electronic merchandise, so the woman who packaged and priced photos didn’t see the man return and use the next kiosk that became available. Nor did she see the kind, white-haired woman next to him show him how to use the kiosk’s scanner.

When the high-tech printer printed the man’s photos, the woman recognized them immediately. And when the man came to her counter, she took the photos to him and explained again how she couldn’t sell to him the copies of the professionally made pictures without a signed release from the photographer.

Well, the man whined and swore at her and actually stomped his feet. The woman wondered if he had Asperger Syndrome. When he fired off a litany of profanities at her, she figured it was Tourette Syndrome. After all, the man certainly had to have been schooled in proper public behavior. If so, he didn’t show it. He did show, however, a red, angry face, a waving of arms and fists, and some name-calling she hadn’t heard since elementary school. And then he snatched the photos from her hands and ran.

As she came out of her shock of disbelief, a woman next in line said, “If he can leave without paying for his pictures, I can too. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me, bitch.” And to prove it, she shoved her packaged and priced photos into her big-ass pigskin purse when the woman handed them to her. Then she pivoted and walked away with her nose in the air.

The woman called her manager from the photo department’s phone, of course, who immediately called security who quickly called the police who rushed over and arrested the two shoplifters in the parking lot.

Later that day, after she returned to her office cubby and found solace behind her closed door, the woman vowed never to help in the photo department again. Life was nicer and safer to her when she was holed-up from the rest of the world, just the way she liked it.