The Amaranthine Poet

Upcoming Shows (Music)

Saturday, June 5th: The Plum House. 7pm.

Friday, April 9: Sips Coffee. 6pm. (across from Woodcrest Christian School).

Friday, April 2: The Plum House. 7pm.

Saturday, March 26: Cutler Amphitheater-Loma Linda University. 9:30 am.

Saturday, March 20: The Coffee Depot in Downtown Riverside on the train tracks. 7pm.

Friday, March 19: Sips Coffee (Near drive in theatre on Van Buren). 6pm.

Be there or….be somewhere else. But hopefully you choose to be there. More shows very soon. So, if you’re in a coma…wake up.

Toy Box (A Poem About Serial Killer, David Parker Ray)

how many times did you play.
And play your tape
David Parker Ray
voice sharper than your tools
how many hollowed skulls
swallowed holes on the shelves
inside the toy box
filled with reek of
whatever stained the
chains and ice picks
like metal snakes and fangs
on the floor
drawings and diagrams
guide the hunt
and hunt some more
in a trailer in the desert
your ritual begins
take out candles
spread them over fire
wash a load, load limbs in dryer
before
Playing with your dolls
your bugged out eyes
a picture in every mirror on the walls
but no door Where is the door
No escape.
your poor lost victims
Murderape
vacate which premises
near the city of Truth or Consequences
(though you had none)
in the cold quiet of Elephant Butte
your body salts their wounds
Their bodies salt the lake

PTSD haiku

Long legged jonquil floats
Before orange crested moon
Drops down when wind dies

Tar Brick Trail

ice caked star
stuffed in the holes of this tar brick trail.
I walk the darkness
leading to you
I’d like to say that
the milky silk
snow lacing each crease
is the palette
and your calling voice is
the paint on my finger-
tips ready to swirl
over ice and melt
as rainbow puddles
on the trail.

the closer I get,
the more I become
a cell shaken in the furious globe of you.
clouds settle down
their hands are dipped in the
black tar
watches with a wet eye as
I walk the path to meet you
unlock the door to your car.
stars and everything else
slam against the window.
blue and bluer bursts of the matter that we become.
the emulsion of your breath and mine. Smoky mirrors in the car. I am in your center.
and as I leave the tar brick trail will whisper
until it ends.