Bio(auto)

I enjoy image painting with words and the emotions they can evoke.  I live in typical "small town USA" where the coming and going of people living life offer much to write about.  Since discovering the internet in 1996 I have been featured on many poetry related pages and e-zines.  I also host my own website entitled The Shared Experience.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by David Hodson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

behind slow car

Speeding through life,
you are my destination.
Caught behind slow car,
I ache to be there now.
Tension builds,
as warning lights flare out at me.
I am pushing those,
who could let me reach you faster,
if they only would.

No clear passing zone,
in life's highway.
Cursing upward hills,
that leave me guessing,
as my hindsight speculates,
at images in my rearview mirror.
Ever edging left towards,
solid yellow lines of phosphorecence,
that would stop me.

Seeking courage,
I make mental note,
of the abilities I am sure of.
I hesitate,
uncomprehending my lack of faith.
The odds in the timing for disaster are small,
Smothering the fear I decide "now"!
My senses stretch for answers,
as to what is coming towards me.

into the air

Steam rises from my coffee cup,
as I too have risen for another day.
My life will dissolve,
into the wants, needs and desires of others,
as the steam is lost to the atmosphere,
of this early morning restaraunt.
People keep arriving,
in groups or solitary.
Eyes fighting sleep, or never sleeping.
Exibiting quickly done,
sidewalk chalk sketches of their lives.
I catch myself,
pausing to view a few,
my attention captured,
by  loose spoken words.
All too soon the coffee grows cold,
and other voices call out to me.
It seems never enough,
to live in the present.
Halfway between being alone,
and merged,
with these stories of life around me.

heartfall

Waiting is meaningless,
the day is forever,
and I am not.
Knowing I am but an instance,
a flicker in all of time,
I seek to make something real,
even if it is only solid in my few moments.

With closed eyes,
I will slow the days down.
Regaining the endless summer,
children lose themselves in,
between spring and fall.
And there our days will last,
and love will have time to grow.

I do not know much about the past,
and surely the future will forget me.
But, as for now I remember you.
I will celebrate what you are today,
while the wind blows sweet,
and the sun streams down,
upon our endless day.

Bio(auto)

Keith owen lives in Austin Texas...the rest of his bio can be found here.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Keith owen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

I Know Why I'm Here, How 'Bout You?

I've got this friend who says she wouldn't
sit up here with her action verbs all hangin' out
for the world to see no more than she would
pull her pants down on "60 Minutes."
But that's what we do here.
Here I sit -- my braincoat spread wide --
and there you sit,
admiring all my private parts.
"Wow!" you whisper to a friend. "Look at
the balls on that metaphor, will you?
"Check out the size of that adjective!"
I engage in linguistic onanism
for your voyeuristic pleasure and
you lean a little closer as
I get into a quick and easy rhythm,
faster,
stronger,
building toward an encyclopedic climax and
now, yes NOW!
Oh, God, it feels so good,
and you and I and
Roget
all lie panting, reeling, our senses drained!
You've been Mind Fucked.
It's what I do best
what I like best:
to stick my Bic inside some sweet maiden head
and see her tremble,
smile, and gee --
she even thanks me when I'm through! and
"That's the longest alliteration I've ever seen!"
she says in awe.
"Yeah, baby," I reply. "And I can
keep it up all night, too.l"
Aural sex. We all come
to get an earful.
This pack of peeping poets
sneaking peeks beneath the sheets,
between the lines,
comparing meter length and size --
whipping out our felt tips,
our ball points,
our number 2 hard, hot lead.
It's an iambic orgy, egos stroking right and left,
forebrain, hindbrain, midbrain -- it doesn't matter --
swollen synonyms are stuffed in every crack.
Grunting gerunds, naked nouns with lewd prepositions,
adjectives ejaculated at warp factor eight,
infinitives split wide in all their pink glory!
tumescent type, turgid thought slick with ink,
slides into gaping miinds;
copulative couplets squirm on yellowed tablets,
double dactyl dildos plunge into wild refrains.
For good measure
we leave sonnets sodomized upon the floor,
bloodied sheets of violated verse weeping in the corner,
limp limericks, screwed stanzas, buggered ballads,
fellated folios scattered on the table tops --
all in search of that one great piece,
that great head job,
that coming together of the minds.
It's an orgasmic opus omniumgatherum,
a piece meal,
a conflux of cantolingus,
tongued snatches of heated posey,
a lexeroticon of vibrating verse,
a rodeo of rhyme in rut,
ongoing, never ending phrasal fornication --
and you wonder why I do this?
Like Koop says though, it's not entirely safe.
those of you without rubbers pulled down over your ears
might catch some diseased idea
or break out in some rash decision
or wake up to find some strange growth sprouting
just below your hair line.
Yeah, well, that's the price you pay
going out to get a little strange, now isn't it?
And me?
Hell, I'll just get what I can from you,
roll up my black mesh prose,
pull up my read pentameter,
and slide into the darkness,
waiting for the next sailor
to make it to my pad.
First, though,
let's all have a cigarette.