Reflection
--for Danielle
Dover, my coastal mint,
a white crayon of chalk
against a pulpy midnight sea
seagulls pebble the coastline
waves rubbing their cold hands
on the back of the beach
among the spiked reeds and
red magnolias
the geography of her hands
dancing backwards
falling steady into the future
--for Danielle
Dover, my coastal mint,
a white crayon of chalk
against a pulpy midnight sea
seagulls pebble the coastline
waves rubbing their cold hands
on the back of the beach
among the spiked reeds and
red magnolias
the geography of her hands
dancing backwards
falling steady into the future
Speed On, Amelia
Reckless bells chimera the blue bronze clappers laughing inside.
Flagrantly neurotic kittens chew clawed rubber balls.
Botched hand jobs start with furtive glances ending coy smirks.
Funeral clowns surprise otherwise important mourners.
Linen peasant dresses drip wet with nine nouns of nothing.
“Do no more new washing tonight.”
Long lines of black lace heave the wind in and out.
Atmospheric breathing quick and short against ice windows causes small dogs to hide.
Sweat of overweight joggers presses hard against the crisp flesh of midnight.
Stars strained by the sky sieve slip deep down a grind of cracked country dirt roads.
In Montana the roots of Whitman’s grasses ended up--turned hopelessly luminous skyward.
In musky beds cuddling red worms sing without ears.
Five broken bottles leak stale beer onto this sad dusky alleyway near Light Street.
Poetic silence beatifies the deafness of second-rate politicians.
A negligent Sisyphus skips small smooth stones across rivers of melting ice: ending in a pornographic
‘smush.’
Amish men dress other men in yellow slickers with blue vertical stripes waving the horses inside goodbye. Hideous.
Maybe waving white flags can stop bluebottle flies a centimeter from the body.
Transient beds soaked in storm clouds firm and crisp in the ice of midday.
Someone close to you is already ready to say enough is enough.
I am not just who I am says the withered grasses of West Kansas.
Abalone inlaid stock shotgun shells spills the pomegranate juice sweet, and swift.
Fleet street mimes ridicule the launch of a recycled spacecraft launched blindly from post Cold War aluminum submarines.
The anatomy of Napoleon’s hidden hand is carefully considered in coffeehouses all over Zimbabwe.
Meet me tomorrow for bourbon tea and a cheap change of clothing.
The bridge over New Jersey longs to nurse the broken shoulder of the Atchafalaya Basin
Ruddy firemen can see white ashes falling. We should hurry away in the opposite direction.
In our country some corporate executives say we have a real need of new names for our older children.
Huckleberry Finn sleeps content and grins under the late summer hay.
Reckless bells chimera the blue bronze clappers laughing inside.
Flagrantly neurotic kittens chew clawed rubber balls.
Botched hand jobs start with furtive glances ending coy smirks.
Funeral clowns surprise otherwise important mourners.
Linen peasant dresses drip wet with nine nouns of nothing.
“Do no more new washing tonight.”
Long lines of black lace heave the wind in and out.
Atmospheric breathing quick and short against ice windows causes small dogs to hide.
Sweat of overweight joggers presses hard against the crisp flesh of midnight.
Stars strained by the sky sieve slip deep down a grind of cracked country dirt roads.
In Montana the roots of Whitman’s grasses ended up--turned hopelessly luminous skyward.
In musky beds cuddling red worms sing without ears.
Five broken bottles leak stale beer onto this sad dusky alleyway near Light Street.
Poetic silence beatifies the deafness of second-rate politicians.
A negligent Sisyphus skips small smooth stones across rivers of melting ice: ending in a pornographic
‘smush.’
Amish men dress other men in yellow slickers with blue vertical stripes waving the horses inside goodbye. Hideous.
Maybe waving white flags can stop bluebottle flies a centimeter from the body.
Transient beds soaked in storm clouds firm and crisp in the ice of midday.
Someone close to you is already ready to say enough is enough.
I am not just who I am says the withered grasses of West Kansas.
Abalone inlaid stock shotgun shells spills the pomegranate juice sweet, and swift.
Fleet street mimes ridicule the launch of a recycled spacecraft launched blindly from post Cold War aluminum submarines.
The anatomy of Napoleon’s hidden hand is carefully considered in coffeehouses all over Zimbabwe.
Meet me tomorrow for bourbon tea and a cheap change of clothing.
The bridge over New Jersey longs to nurse the broken shoulder of the Atchafalaya Basin
Ruddy firemen can see white ashes falling. We should hurry away in the opposite direction.
In our country some corporate executives say we have a real need of new names for our older children.
Huckleberry Finn sleeps content and grins under the late summer hay.
Every Day Story
the moon was a shiny lit penny
I placed ill-informed bets
upon you each copper night
How about you, heads or tails?
I followed the bet and it followed me glowing
across the Yellowstone river
along saged and shrubby highways.
my two left feet were an impossible game
of jackpot, 21
every morning a new draw
the play out.
tarot of feet and mud, newspaper and sunlight.
how are your feet today? Are they a kiss, a harbor
or the hard iron railroad tracks?
please write to me again
from your list of questions,
please use only blurry black ink and grey paper
so that I might not discern in any detail
the beast of truth from the kindness of your lies
put it inside (with the gentleness of an antelope)
an ivory envelope pressed tight
with the red of your lips, wetted. Fog
it once with your breath then press
it against your sweaty breast. Enclose
a single strand of hair from above your ear
that place where conversation makes those
tiny and distant vibrations
sound like coming home.
the sun is a rough and implacable
interviewer asking all sorts
of impossible promises about a bone,
a spotlight, a single naked bulb
questions laced, unvoiced voices
tying me to a high backed library chair
strung up with your ripped out telephone cord.
my boxed up ears can hold up for years
my ears have lived their share in brown boxes, cardboard
dopplered to your voice from the past, from a telephone ago
still open and waiting but not delivered to your door.
my eyes have yet begun to recover the sunlight of springtime.
my fingers yet to begin the chore of dig and cup
the newly turned ground swelling with green corn
the farmland, blessing the fruitfulness,
the cities and fields I left in radio code,
as if by habit.
Nowhere to run from all those things we might wish
never to have happened, like the rabbit hunting the coyote.
Once she said
"what we had was beautiful but it could not sustain us."
The sustain from that snake like
dream song along with the hollows filled up with black
bats under bridges, come according
to night wishes, inaccessible castles, excuses trembled about,
guarded from behind, like time is
mugwarted moats drimmping with sparse frog croaks
silent oaks like thick lightning and distant rumblings
a rainy heart, a Himalayan
red moon stumbling along behind with dusty feet, hand in heart,
from long time to long time in the silence given by.
the moon was a shiny lit penny
I placed ill-informed bets
upon you each copper night
How about you, heads or tails?
I followed the bet and it followed me glowing
across the Yellowstone river
along saged and shrubby highways.
my two left feet were an impossible game
of jackpot, 21
every morning a new draw
the play out.
tarot of feet and mud, newspaper and sunlight.
how are your feet today? Are they a kiss, a harbor
or the hard iron railroad tracks?
please write to me again
from your list of questions,
please use only blurry black ink and grey paper
so that I might not discern in any detail
the beast of truth from the kindness of your lies
put it inside (with the gentleness of an antelope)
an ivory envelope pressed tight
with the red of your lips, wetted. Fog
it once with your breath then press
it against your sweaty breast. Enclose
a single strand of hair from above your ear
that place where conversation makes those
tiny and distant vibrations
sound like coming home.
the sun is a rough and implacable
interviewer asking all sorts
of impossible promises about a bone,
a spotlight, a single naked bulb
questions laced, unvoiced voices
tying me to a high backed library chair
strung up with your ripped out telephone cord.
my boxed up ears can hold up for years
my ears have lived their share in brown boxes, cardboard
dopplered to your voice from the past, from a telephone ago
still open and waiting but not delivered to your door.
my eyes have yet begun to recover the sunlight of springtime.
my fingers yet to begin the chore of dig and cup
the newly turned ground swelling with green corn
the farmland, blessing the fruitfulness,
the cities and fields I left in radio code,
as if by habit.
Nowhere to run from all those things we might wish
never to have happened, like the rabbit hunting the coyote.
Once she said
"what we had was beautiful but it could not sustain us."
The sustain from that snake like
dream song along with the hollows filled up with black
bats under bridges, come according
to night wishes, inaccessible castles, excuses trembled about,
guarded from behind, like time is
mugwarted moats drimmping with sparse frog croaks
silent oaks like thick lightning and distant rumblings
a rainy heart, a Himalayan
red moon stumbling along behind with dusty feet, hand in heart,
from long time to long time in the silence given by.
It’s only Business
Once, in a hot golden Autumn
while I was standing silently,
near a cold Alaskan mountain
stream, what looked like a man
came out from the fir trees,
dressed as a ragged wild bear.
It began to claw through
the water and pulled out a salmon.
Of it, the thing devoured
only the stomach, leaving head and fin
to rot in the sun. Then the thing that
looked like a man lay down in the water,
sank, and changed into a nugget of gold.
This, I thought, is what happens
to those who understand like we do
the wild business of war.
Once, in a hot golden Autumn
while I was standing silently,
near a cold Alaskan mountain
stream, what looked like a man
came out from the fir trees,
dressed as a ragged wild bear.
It began to claw through
the water and pulled out a salmon.
Of it, the thing devoured
only the stomach, leaving head and fin
to rot in the sun. Then the thing that
looked like a man lay down in the water,
sank, and changed into a nugget of gold.
This, I thought, is what happens
to those who understand like we do
the wild business of war.
God is the Greatest
Figment
in the ghetto
in my imagination.
Me too. I
am reliably famous in my smarmy mind.
I say breathless things like
“Dostoyevsky” or 'stardust'
under my breath and “Ambulance” with a
slivered finger.
I’ve decided to start cutting my hair,
and lying.
Not that it's all I can think about,
we have ocean waves pouncing,
blinding
midnights,
And setting off firecrackers over
the howls of priests, dogs barefoot
in the rain, two-in-the-morning.
Why wait until I am
greater than eighty,
or crusty, or limping, odorous and blind?
Who else
but me am I trying to impress, anyway?
The earth a specular coffin, error 404 -
page not found...
Just Ghosts and everyone else here
like them.
Except all those bastard gods and the rude
Family across the squeaky hall, you know the ones
whose Down’s Syndrome son weeps soft
to a feather pillow almost every night?
Naturally at times I can accept that anything in life
is real, and I can know
where have I been, and where I might be going.
Maybe you too.
Figment
in the ghetto
in my imagination.
Me too. I
am reliably famous in my smarmy mind.
I say breathless things like
“Dostoyevsky” or 'stardust'
under my breath and “Ambulance” with a
slivered finger.
I’ve decided to start cutting my hair,
and lying.
Not that it's all I can think about,
we have ocean waves pouncing,
blinding
midnights,
And setting off firecrackers over
the howls of priests, dogs barefoot
in the rain, two-in-the-morning.
Why wait until I am
greater than eighty,
or crusty, or limping, odorous and blind?
Who else
but me am I trying to impress, anyway?
The earth a specular coffin, error 404 -
page not found...
Just Ghosts and everyone else here
like them.
Except all those bastard gods and the rude
Family across the squeaky hall, you know the ones
whose Down’s Syndrome son weeps soft
to a feather pillow almost every night?
Naturally at times I can accept that anything in life
is real, and I can know
where have I been, and where I might be going.
Maybe you too.
What Happened
In bronze morning light it has occurred to me
today that after frivolous days of worry,
nothing very special can happen now at all.
Masked men in black with knives seem harmless,
and smokestacks do not fling streams of hot ash.
What now has happened to me?
Now even dogs whining in rainstorms remind me of the dying
whales. Bones now still gently sink in a wasteland of grey,
Disguising themselves with the calm and cool stains of nature.
Wet newspapers clump inkily against the graveyard fences;
And only by harsh winds from outside do the whispered voices
Of faded warning ancestors reach out to us ever unheard.
Politicians and flags in garments with red slowly wave to docile
the ever-replenishing crowds of faceless faces, lonely captains
in passenger ships carve ‘v's' dredging circles above the water graves.
Seagulls skim gawking about the open waters, and trumpets continue
pelting out their sickly yellow tones down the same moldy staircases
at dawn. Nothing new will ever happen, some say. Maybe so.
How easily can a needle slip through the eye of a rich man?
Nothing is ever a surprise, nothing crafted ever is new.
What now has happened to me?
In bronze morning light it has occurred to me
today that after frivolous days of worry,
nothing very special can happen now at all.
Masked men in black with knives seem harmless,
and smokestacks do not fling streams of hot ash.
What now has happened to me?
Now even dogs whining in rainstorms remind me of the dying
whales. Bones now still gently sink in a wasteland of grey,
Disguising themselves with the calm and cool stains of nature.
Wet newspapers clump inkily against the graveyard fences;
And only by harsh winds from outside do the whispered voices
Of faded warning ancestors reach out to us ever unheard.
Politicians and flags in garments with red slowly wave to docile
the ever-replenishing crowds of faceless faces, lonely captains
in passenger ships carve ‘v's' dredging circles above the water graves.
Seagulls skim gawking about the open waters, and trumpets continue
pelting out their sickly yellow tones down the same moldy staircases
at dawn. Nothing new will ever happen, some say. Maybe so.
How easily can a needle slip through the eye of a rich man?
Nothing is ever a surprise, nothing crafted ever is new.
What now has happened to me?
Ideas Behind Them
This stone stuffed into a sling
Slung in hyperbolic space around
The sun the Protestant work ethic
In German, the acquisition of wealth
Between the sun baked clay and
The heel spike of jack booted thugs lies
The skulls of the poor cracking
Within crooked lines while black
Mocking crows wait on
White picket fences for the stompings
To end. Hedgerows and Wagner
Brahm’s Requiem for the dead, death,
Po-etry, I think, po-etry, p-oetry,
Poe-etry, is it in their sounds, the
Meaning of the words, or the ideas
Behind them that make for such
An appealing distraction?
This stone stuffed into a sling
Slung in hyperbolic space around
The sun the Protestant work ethic
In German, the acquisition of wealth
Between the sun baked clay and
The heel spike of jack booted thugs lies
The skulls of the poor cracking
Within crooked lines while black
Mocking crows wait on
White picket fences for the stompings
To end. Hedgerows and Wagner
Brahm’s Requiem for the dead, death,
Po-etry, I think, po-etry, p-oetry,
Poe-etry, is it in their sounds, the
Meaning of the words, or the ideas
Behind them that make for such
An appealing distraction?
Water
Water comes rushing
To mind inside gray globes
Inside snow globes
In a drop of the universe
In the Milky Way;
Inside the roundness
Of a purple drop sleeping
Inside or dancing molecules.
Water, the perfect solvent
Flows in every man’s blood;
Digesting books, truths,
Inscrutable lies— inhabiting
The hideous intestines
That hang outside shop doors--
Serving as food and food
For thought inside
The curling eddies of phantom time.
Water drowns us, fills us up like bowls
Plump and hydrated, ready
To sojourn across wasted
Sands of drought ridden deserts,
Through dust-driven ghost towns;
Inhabited by living and dead--
Skeletons hot-wired for action or not.
Water drives our passions, as wet
Kisses and sex spill out of our heads,
Liquid slipping into and throughout every life.
Water lies hidden under ferns,
Bursting into monuments of clouds,
Troubles and comforts us with torrential
Onslaughts or whimpering spots.
I have been slipping in and out
Of consciousness all my life.
I feel like I am drowning
With land in sight.
I believe I am in it for life.
Friend, enemy, or medium--
Water carries thoughts in ink,
Remains for awhile, dries, then
Flees forward towards the next great need.
Water comes rushing
To mind inside gray globes
Inside snow globes
In a drop of the universe
In the Milky Way;
Inside the roundness
Of a purple drop sleeping
Inside or dancing molecules.
Water, the perfect solvent
Flows in every man’s blood;
Digesting books, truths,
Inscrutable lies— inhabiting
The hideous intestines
That hang outside shop doors--
Serving as food and food
For thought inside
The curling eddies of phantom time.
Water drowns us, fills us up like bowls
Plump and hydrated, ready
To sojourn across wasted
Sands of drought ridden deserts,
Through dust-driven ghost towns;
Inhabited by living and dead--
Skeletons hot-wired for action or not.
Water drives our passions, as wet
Kisses and sex spill out of our heads,
Liquid slipping into and throughout every life.
Water lies hidden under ferns,
Bursting into monuments of clouds,
Troubles and comforts us with torrential
Onslaughts or whimpering spots.
I have been slipping in and out
Of consciousness all my life.
I feel like I am drowning
With land in sight.
I believe I am in it for life.
Friend, enemy, or medium--
Water carries thoughts in ink,
Remains for awhile, dries, then
Flees forward towards the next great need.
The Humming
At the corn farm next to ours, an autumnal
grey couple--all these fifty years--leaves
their son’s clock radio play on day by day,
as if sound could still wake him in there....
The radio splashes faint colorless echo's
around the empty spaces of his bedroom.
Each day at five, sleepless together,
they lean their heads against the coolness of his door.
Their hands press there as if a prayer, expectant.
Later that day, they sit and stare for the coming rain.
The corn grows up green and tall in the wetness and clay.
The stark vertical rows rise like wild crosses above the umber fields.
Raintears smear up against the dappled kitchen window.
John died mid-morning. His fifteenth birthday,
The day Elvis was born in Tupelo Mississippi.
The sun was cold; the lake gunmetal deep and colder.
Arms locked back then, his friends wept up and down
the line along that vacant shore of mud and weeds.
Even the town drunk wants to see him to wake up again.
At night his mom and dad whisper eagerly:
"maybe tomorrow he’ll come back up alive."
They fall asleep together, holding, quiet as frost-glows
empty corn rows after harvest: strewn, cut-
down shocked bone, lonely as starless winter nights.
In the fresh of morning, the sun and wind work steady wear
into those white washed house boards. Nails squeak
as if a lifetime of effort rips them out slow. Sometimes the
sunshine dims down a bit of the static, the DJ radio chatter.
The broad shoulders of dawn and dusk push
the tired house through each day. Distant voices
on the radio almost pantomime the way he used to laugh.
The preacher comes in from town on Wednesdays.
His eyes tell what truth they can, that they will see him again;
but truth to them, a weeping hour or two--holding
his young body close--would be more than enough.
Fifty years gone both day and night by.
That old song on the radio humming along.
At the corn farm next to ours, an autumnal
grey couple--all these fifty years--leaves
their son’s clock radio play on day by day,
as if sound could still wake him in there....
The radio splashes faint colorless echo's
around the empty spaces of his bedroom.
Each day at five, sleepless together,
they lean their heads against the coolness of his door.
Their hands press there as if a prayer, expectant.
Later that day, they sit and stare for the coming rain.
The corn grows up green and tall in the wetness and clay.
The stark vertical rows rise like wild crosses above the umber fields.
Raintears smear up against the dappled kitchen window.
John died mid-morning. His fifteenth birthday,
The day Elvis was born in Tupelo Mississippi.
The sun was cold; the lake gunmetal deep and colder.
Arms locked back then, his friends wept up and down
the line along that vacant shore of mud and weeds.
Even the town drunk wants to see him to wake up again.
At night his mom and dad whisper eagerly:
"maybe tomorrow he’ll come back up alive."
They fall asleep together, holding, quiet as frost-glows
empty corn rows after harvest: strewn, cut-
down shocked bone, lonely as starless winter nights.
In the fresh of morning, the sun and wind work steady wear
into those white washed house boards. Nails squeak
as if a lifetime of effort rips them out slow. Sometimes the
sunshine dims down a bit of the static, the DJ radio chatter.
The broad shoulders of dawn and dusk push
the tired house through each day. Distant voices
on the radio almost pantomime the way he used to laugh.
The preacher comes in from town on Wednesdays.
His eyes tell what truth they can, that they will see him again;
but truth to them, a weeping hour or two--holding
his young body close--would be more than enough.
Fifty years gone both day and night by.
That old song on the radio humming along.
Frozen Apples
ringing in the ice storm shock lemony
birds like the crack of a bronze
cathedral bell the pudgy priest
who never looks at me
seriously buries his injured fingers
and anteater nose into the folded
newspaper obituaries found
stuck between the blown cracks
of the park bench defenseless
again in gray New Hampshire
November air as cold as buckets
of icy water oppressing the
precarious sleep of the shivering
homeless boys in blue defenseless
endless skies immune to the charred
background voices of those uglies
trapped in youth with baby war
carriages, barber shops lit at night
and burning cargo ships while a broad
curvature of birds in flight shimmer
like a mirror above sea waves lifting
and a calmness covers those
who are lost today only sent out
against the wide arc of the world
by the bending hands
of unknown gods tossing down
the juicy and browning remnants.
ringing in the ice storm shock lemony
birds like the crack of a bronze
cathedral bell the pudgy priest
who never looks at me
seriously buries his injured fingers
and anteater nose into the folded
newspaper obituaries found
stuck between the blown cracks
of the park bench defenseless
again in gray New Hampshire
November air as cold as buckets
of icy water oppressing the
precarious sleep of the shivering
homeless boys in blue defenseless
endless skies immune to the charred
background voices of those uglies
trapped in youth with baby war
carriages, barber shops lit at night
and burning cargo ships while a broad
curvature of birds in flight shimmer
like a mirror above sea waves lifting
and a calmness covers those
who are lost today only sent out
against the wide arc of the world
by the bending hands
of unknown gods tossing down
the juicy and browning remnants.
Wanting it Bad/Promise
I’ll admit I’ve chosen my fate.
From now on I’ll write
only with sharpened pencils
savor the scratchy
ring in my ear
feel
the resistance of paper
each word a war, a minuet.
And while I admittedly don’t know
who or where you are
this day
please don’t die,
sign here____________.
I’ll admit I’ve chosen my fate.
From now on I’ll write
only with sharpened pencils
savor the scratchy
ring in my ear
feel
the resistance of paper
each word a war, a minuet.
And while I admittedly don’t know
who or where you are
this day
please don’t die,
sign here____________.
Roma
I
A greasy cold stick
Of bread in my mouth.
That’s how I’ll travel.
Silent. An arrow
Towards Prague.
In the blue sunset.
II
quick light no one
looking around
the countryside lies
with it's narrow dirt roads
and thistle bloomed fields
dubiously fragile at dusk.
I
A greasy cold stick
Of bread in my mouth.
That’s how I’ll travel.
Silent. An arrow
Towards Prague.
In the blue sunset.
II
quick light no one
looking around
the countryside lies
with it's narrow dirt roads
and thistle bloomed fields
dubiously fragile at dusk.
To Cathy And Her Incredible Fear Of Heights
I love the beauty that lies
hidden in the singularity of his desperate heart
of silence, all above the streets blooming
with hours of shouting and the newspapers
(I didn't read) full blown in shocking artistry, in
photography, in the careful weeping
paginations of live phosphorous
birds, black dots with snow for wings.
I hold in my life-inked hands a little dove,
the rough reverberations of clattering
cobblestones in the silky ashes of his letters,
climbing down now to the comfort of clothes-lines,
the stoic protections of the kitchen kettle and knife,
the music gagged inside of rain clouds, all those beds
you made with your prison guard
this silence disguised as shock, a loud sound you
mentioned was silence, the ending of letters,
letters from a lovers' home with your broken
charms and firework bursts of terminal
golden flowers in the center of the dinner table.
I respect the honor of his domestic ways, your
artificial sweetened home, washing
the bleakness of his winter clothes
hung aloft stiff like living skeletons stuffed
in the closet by the door, standing like
the old family violin, exhausted practice piece,
the testaments of old, fully glorified with
the boiled sacredness wills and securities.
I weep no more as if you could hear me,
battling you with letters from across an ocean,
little letters about the silence of it all, stupid boy.
you energy vampire
I chew on the grey-ish-ness,
the tectonic boredom that is his lively bedroom
glare, the little earthquake of our neighbors approval.
I cherish the risk-less end of the familiar
telephone, the click
after working, after paycheck, after what's for dinner,
after the I'll be home for dinner soon dear.
I always hope there is happiness for you there
along with the halter you settled for.
I love the beauty that lies
hidden in the singularity of his desperate heart
of silence, all above the streets blooming
with hours of shouting and the newspapers
(I didn't read) full blown in shocking artistry, in
photography, in the careful weeping
paginations of live phosphorous
birds, black dots with snow for wings.
I hold in my life-inked hands a little dove,
the rough reverberations of clattering
cobblestones in the silky ashes of his letters,
climbing down now to the comfort of clothes-lines,
the stoic protections of the kitchen kettle and knife,
the music gagged inside of rain clouds, all those beds
you made with your prison guard
this silence disguised as shock, a loud sound you
mentioned was silence, the ending of letters,
letters from a lovers' home with your broken
charms and firework bursts of terminal
golden flowers in the center of the dinner table.
I respect the honor of his domestic ways, your
artificial sweetened home, washing
the bleakness of his winter clothes
hung aloft stiff like living skeletons stuffed
in the closet by the door, standing like
the old family violin, exhausted practice piece,
the testaments of old, fully glorified with
the boiled sacredness wills and securities.
I weep no more as if you could hear me,
battling you with letters from across an ocean,
little letters about the silence of it all, stupid boy.
you energy vampire
I chew on the grey-ish-ness,
the tectonic boredom that is his lively bedroom
glare, the little earthquake of our neighbors approval.
I cherish the risk-less end of the familiar
telephone, the click
after working, after paycheck, after what's for dinner,
after the I'll be home for dinner soon dear.
I always hope there is happiness for you there
along with the halter you settled for.
Homecoming
The cool desert glows itself
alive, like blowing on a red coal.
It is morning, and a patiently violent sun
blossoms;
slowly and silently higher and higher;
with light like an endless needle
unraveling
the vast ribbons of the night, and again
stitching furiously, with metallic thread
a wild and brightly laced horizon,
sparking
across the gold ridges of rose shaded dunes.
New light,
shining
like a woman casting off the suffocation veil,
tearing a dark prison curtain down,
lifting her arms into a circle like forever,
catching the entire breath of blue skies
in her strong embrace.
It is as if all over this world people
were weeping joy.
And this wind of light is a song of momentum,
animal determination
ripe with energy and sharpness of vision,
bursting anew
with the sweet, heady
scent of perfume,
of flowering henna and cinnamon bark,
and an earthy aroma of baking bread.
And the swiftly passing clouds are of Alice blue.
And the sand under my feet is still,
smooth and soft, and my body is now
gliding higher and brighter
strong as light
a falcon.
The cool desert glows itself
alive, like blowing on a red coal.
It is morning, and a patiently violent sun
blossoms;
slowly and silently higher and higher;
with light like an endless needle
unraveling
the vast ribbons of the night, and again
stitching furiously, with metallic thread
a wild and brightly laced horizon,
sparking
across the gold ridges of rose shaded dunes.
New light,
shining
like a woman casting off the suffocation veil,
tearing a dark prison curtain down,
lifting her arms into a circle like forever,
catching the entire breath of blue skies
in her strong embrace.
It is as if all over this world people
were weeping joy.
And this wind of light is a song of momentum,
animal determination
ripe with energy and sharpness of vision,
bursting anew
with the sweet, heady
scent of perfume,
of flowering henna and cinnamon bark,
and an earthy aroma of baking bread.
And the swiftly passing clouds are of Alice blue.
And the sand under my feet is still,
smooth and soft, and my body is now
gliding higher and brighter
strong as light
a falcon.
Questions
If the earth is always spinning,
at what point can I find my balance?
What was the president thinking
when he traded in all that youth for the war?
Hasn’t “today” really been
happening to me every day?
Do mushrooms ever delight in their
own musty scent?
Why do soft mists
blanket the souls of the graveyards?
Why do banks seem so unhappy,
even when they give out much
less money than is really needed?
How does the mirror always
remember my face?
Does it ever really forget me
as soon as I walk away?
Why does my coffin wait so
long to finally measure me?
What is the name of the lily pad
that hops from frog to frog?
If the earth is always spinning,
at what point can I find my balance?
What was the president thinking
when he traded in all that youth for the war?
Hasn’t “today” really been
happening to me every day?
Do mushrooms ever delight in their
own musty scent?
Why do soft mists
blanket the souls of the graveyards?
Why do banks seem so unhappy,
even when they give out much
less money than is really needed?
How does the mirror always
remember my face?
Does it ever really forget me
as soon as I walk away?
Why does my coffin wait so
long to finally measure me?
What is the name of the lily pad
that hops from frog to frog?
Picturesque Bridge
Some bridges cannot be gathered into
more than rotting timbers, steel and shapes
even when we finally understand the unquestionable
reasons
behind the burning of gray roads in hot summer,
or the rising torrent that smashed the integrity
of the construction, the shapely legs of the one
I loved for two years,
Earthquakes
And the value of the old photographs is questionable,
and collecting ruined shore-wood unprofitable,
smiling useless as well as frowning into the opaque
mirrors,
nothing to do but go on rising and falling away
reflections of reddish bridges in a languishing river.
Don't even ask what else can be done, turn,
Sway
on the trumpets, the bewilderment of pages
of calendars, of burnished cooking utensils, of trees lined
like steel rivets, the unemployed men in green shabby hats
bending into shadows outside, sprouting from the fading snow,
their hearts drumming red and deep beneath the foundations,
waiting for the springtime chainsaws in Connecticut,
swimming away like fishes fleeing, or the fleshy women grasping
glowing
flower petals littering the gardens whistle away into the dark.
I come home and take off my amber jacket.
Work the black and white into a crossword, listen to Bach shake
the tossed and twisted phantom bridges, the shaking physique
inside
the violent blue playfulness
A valley of storms.
Some bridges cannot be gathered into
more than rotting timbers, steel and shapes
even when we finally understand the unquestionable
reasons
behind the burning of gray roads in hot summer,
or the rising torrent that smashed the integrity
of the construction, the shapely legs of the one
I loved for two years,
Earthquakes
And the value of the old photographs is questionable,
and collecting ruined shore-wood unprofitable,
smiling useless as well as frowning into the opaque
mirrors,
nothing to do but go on rising and falling away
reflections of reddish bridges in a languishing river.
Don't even ask what else can be done, turn,
Sway
on the trumpets, the bewilderment of pages
of calendars, of burnished cooking utensils, of trees lined
like steel rivets, the unemployed men in green shabby hats
bending into shadows outside, sprouting from the fading snow,
their hearts drumming red and deep beneath the foundations,
waiting for the springtime chainsaws in Connecticut,
swimming away like fishes fleeing, or the fleshy women grasping
glowing
flower petals littering the gardens whistle away into the dark.
I come home and take off my amber jacket.
Work the black and white into a crossword, listen to Bach shake
the tossed and twisted phantom bridges, the shaking physique
inside
the violent blue playfulness
A valley of storms.
The Hospital
we went to the battles every morning
we had our own ideas.
not the same as adult hurts or equal fatalities,
subdued signals, nods of the head
overcast glances, trembling
tips of the hand, school book burdens
heavy enough then over it all but
back at home someone at class sees
shadowy courtroom decrees
big judges in black storm cloud robes
not at all like in schoolbooks, where
like Florence Nightingale
in those old fashioned womanly
dresses, big fluffy white billowy clouds
a womb-like world of protection
found underneath them, the damp,
the trees bend forcing their own healing,
shadows over untold bruises, some had splints
for their own broken branches and heads,
the lucky ones, spirits, still none unscathed
none could understand the adult pictures
of cages filled with slag, with great
desire for wealth,
man traps baited by chosen chains,
yet we paid.
we went to the battles every morning
we had our own ideas.
not the same as adult hurts or equal fatalities,
subdued signals, nods of the head
overcast glances, trembling
tips of the hand, school book burdens
heavy enough then over it all but
back at home someone at class sees
shadowy courtroom decrees
big judges in black storm cloud robes
not at all like in schoolbooks, where
like Florence Nightingale
in those old fashioned womanly
dresses, big fluffy white billowy clouds
a womb-like world of protection
found underneath them, the damp,
the trees bend forcing their own healing,
shadows over untold bruises, some had splints
for their own broken branches and heads,
the lucky ones, spirits, still none unscathed
none could understand the adult pictures
of cages filled with slag, with great
desire for wealth,
man traps baited by chosen chains,
yet we paid.
Birdseed On The Front Porch
Whitewash on wet pine boards
creak just so with red nail heads popping
black sunflower kernels, spiderwebs,
washing my hands in a lingering dew
Whitewash on wet pine boards
creak just so with red nail heads popping
black sunflower kernels, spiderwebs,
washing my hands in a lingering dew
Out of a Summer Pool of Golden Light
Forty-two acres full of white mud, stones,
Stretched out black with gold straw flax
and pebbles ground down flat.
By the river across from the wooden huts,
women wash petticoats, singing Holy. Holy
furious men shave black beards in the glacier
thaw. Killings are mostly rare here, as
the early morning sunlight smuggles in
over the November hills of Massachusetts,
like a plump baby peeping curious
from woven horsehair blankets.
Boulders painted orange with lichen
and moss green of moose droppings
litter the smoky side of the hill.
Grey haired eaglets pitch and scurry
about the claws of the wind, the gnawing
approach of ice picks sharp tiny holes
in the hard earth. Mice in new corn wait
for the rain to stop the beating on the clouds.
Blueberries stain the lip of the groaning
bear waking at night. The Indians are gone.
Forty-two acres full of white mud, stones,
Stretched out black with gold straw flax
and pebbles ground down flat.
By the river across from the wooden huts,
women wash petticoats, singing Holy. Holy
furious men shave black beards in the glacier
thaw. Killings are mostly rare here, as
the early morning sunlight smuggles in
over the November hills of Massachusetts,
like a plump baby peeping curious
from woven horsehair blankets.
Boulders painted orange with lichen
and moss green of moose droppings
litter the smoky side of the hill.
Grey haired eaglets pitch and scurry
about the claws of the wind, the gnawing
approach of ice picks sharp tiny holes
in the hard earth. Mice in new corn wait
for the rain to stop the beating on the clouds.
Blueberries stain the lip of the groaning
bear waking at night. The Indians are gone.
Strawberry Swinger
Seven days ago I
wished I'd had a girlfriend
and a breezy German
car and a wooden swing
in my backyard and a set
of glasses filled with wine
and friends around me all
the time with cold blue rivers
and towering pines with rust
glow needle beds of flame
and looking over the books
and rhymes of fragmented
ghosts and red smiling
photographs reminding
me of these mysterious
passages of time that draw
so much thinner as the silk
worms that spun your white
blouse turn into husks and
yes love the memories grow
even dearer as the wine ripens
into those storm tinged clouds
evaporate in the sun killed skies
we oogled with rainbowed eyes
worshiping hands and lips
hanging baskets of strawberries
hanging laundry, hanging crooked
kneed, canvas shorts with wooden
clothes pin legs seeing it all the
world as it was
upside down.
Seven days ago I
wished I'd had a girlfriend
and a breezy German
car and a wooden swing
in my backyard and a set
of glasses filled with wine
and friends around me all
the time with cold blue rivers
and towering pines with rust
glow needle beds of flame
and looking over the books
and rhymes of fragmented
ghosts and red smiling
photographs reminding
me of these mysterious
passages of time that draw
so much thinner as the silk
worms that spun your white
blouse turn into husks and
yes love the memories grow
even dearer as the wine ripens
into those storm tinged clouds
evaporate in the sun killed skies
we oogled with rainbowed eyes
worshiping hands and lips
hanging baskets of strawberries
hanging laundry, hanging crooked
kneed, canvas shorts with wooden
clothes pin legs seeing it all the
world as it was
upside down.
Spotting Whales
is another distraction like
walks by the sea in early
hours trampling delicate
crunchy shells with our breath
hovering before falling
heavy over crystalline
and the wintered husks
of anemones which cower
as we sometimes do at night,
which brings its own forms
of distractions
and when we awaken with our
baleen breath, television
off, internet off, just the simple
dim roar of traffic racing off down
the dark turnpike to work,
we think of the whales floating
across the sky in the mirrored
images of foamy surf
breaking apart breadcrumbs
in the clouds.
How hard it is to focus
on the delicacies of social order, of fish
and scales, and lovers of fish
and steel ships for hunting whales,
and how life changes our thinking or
does not, with whales swarming on
the far bright tactile
beaches of our imaginations!
After all, we are just
individuals and our needs;
bread, blankets, aspirin
internet, friends, books all
swim in a dark ocean of want
like the whales, the mammals
living inside their own dark
mythical and swirling world
of powerful currents, sexual
motivation, brooding,
and seminal distractions.
is another distraction like
walks by the sea in early
hours trampling delicate
crunchy shells with our breath
hovering before falling
heavy over crystalline
and the wintered husks
of anemones which cower
as we sometimes do at night,
which brings its own forms
of distractions
and when we awaken with our
baleen breath, television
off, internet off, just the simple
dim roar of traffic racing off down
the dark turnpike to work,
we think of the whales floating
across the sky in the mirrored
images of foamy surf
breaking apart breadcrumbs
in the clouds.
How hard it is to focus
on the delicacies of social order, of fish
and scales, and lovers of fish
and steel ships for hunting whales,
and how life changes our thinking or
does not, with whales swarming on
the far bright tactile
beaches of our imaginations!
After all, we are just
individuals and our needs;
bread, blankets, aspirin
internet, friends, books all
swim in a dark ocean of want
like the whales, the mammals
living inside their own dark
mythical and swirling world
of powerful currents, sexual
motivation, brooding,
and seminal distractions.
Sort of Appreciation
Thanks for remembering me
like the day the snow clouds
flurried the air with your
frost frozen blue-lipped eyelids.
Thanks for the squeaky exit
through the torn screen door
of my apartment after loving
me like a wounded ostrich.
Thanks for kicking me out
the passenger side while
we were still hot faced
virgins. Thanks for nothing
left to hide in the mirror
examining each others sweaty
life lined palms thanks for
the phantom exile we shared
in shivering embraces of the rain,
and the immigration from the city
of terror thanks for not
calling the cops when
your hysteria blossomed like
the variegation of exploding
red tipped mustard chrysanthemums
thanks to the click on the black
telephone line that meant you
were living with someone
new thanks for the fresh crusted
blue cheese sandwich with essence
of jalapeno pimento thanks for nothing
but the best thanks for the Picasso-sequin
earthquake you gave my heart thanks
for the heart stopping marathon
breathless down the crest
of frosted grassland hills after
the fire on Christmas day and the
heavy headed red wine musk
left over from the bottom of your
lipstick tainted bottom lip.
Thanks for remembering me
like the day the snow clouds
flurried the air with your
frost frozen blue-lipped eyelids.
Thanks for the squeaky exit
through the torn screen door
of my apartment after loving
me like a wounded ostrich.
Thanks for kicking me out
the passenger side while
we were still hot faced
virgins. Thanks for nothing
left to hide in the mirror
examining each others sweaty
life lined palms thanks for
the phantom exile we shared
in shivering embraces of the rain,
and the immigration from the city
of terror thanks for not
calling the cops when
your hysteria blossomed like
the variegation of exploding
red tipped mustard chrysanthemums
thanks to the click on the black
telephone line that meant you
were living with someone
new thanks for the fresh crusted
blue cheese sandwich with essence
of jalapeno pimento thanks for nothing
but the best thanks for the Picasso-sequin
earthquake you gave my heart thanks
for the heart stopping marathon
breathless down the crest
of frosted grassland hills after
the fire on Christmas day and the
heavy headed red wine musk
left over from the bottom of your
lipstick tainted bottom lip.
A Conversation That Did Not Help
Do your part to help me. I will help you too.
When you call me, I’ll call you.
Zen is the life in your heart.
A hooded falcon rises above the aquifer,
Then dives into a pool of light; deep into
The underwater caverns.
Beneath the dark roots of the earth,
Small animals burrow and hide.
Air streams hold whispered conversations
That resonate from hot air balloons high above the earth.
Afterward, sunlight gifts mimosa blossoms;
We hold them like bright fish in our hands.
Beyond the jagged line of the Grand Tetons,
The rippling surfaces of many rivers reflect the sighs,
The canyoned faces, bordered by the stream lined Aspens.
Life is more than a wheel; more than the breaking skeleton
Of a stumbling tumbleweed. Turquoise and twisted ruby hearts
Lie like the stones here, scattered along the shores of my imagination.
Nothing breaks the driving winds of death. Being physical is walking light;
Like softly falling snow hitting desert sand.
I spend my time whispering poems to wheat fields in Kansas, or
Nebraska. Somewhere, someone is baking the bread of the day.
Zen is a knife in your heart.
Peace was here, today, looking for you.
Do your part to help me. I will help you too.
When you call me, I’ll call you.
Zen is the life in your heart.
A hooded falcon rises above the aquifer,
Then dives into a pool of light; deep into
The underwater caverns.
Beneath the dark roots of the earth,
Small animals burrow and hide.
Air streams hold whispered conversations
That resonate from hot air balloons high above the earth.
Afterward, sunlight gifts mimosa blossoms;
We hold them like bright fish in our hands.
Beyond the jagged line of the Grand Tetons,
The rippling surfaces of many rivers reflect the sighs,
The canyoned faces, bordered by the stream lined Aspens.
Life is more than a wheel; more than the breaking skeleton
Of a stumbling tumbleweed. Turquoise and twisted ruby hearts
Lie like the stones here, scattered along the shores of my imagination.
Nothing breaks the driving winds of death. Being physical is walking light;
Like softly falling snow hitting desert sand.
I spend my time whispering poems to wheat fields in Kansas, or
Nebraska. Somewhere, someone is baking the bread of the day.
Zen is a knife in your heart.
Peace was here, today, looking for you.
The Man Walking
I have made myself
So sick with consuming
The muck that my body
Relies on. Now only cold, pure
Rainwater can bring me around again.
Sanctuaries that glow in hope and stones
Cry to me in this black night. Everyone around
Us laughs and weeps in unison. The more we walk
Through these dirty streets, the fewer friends we find
To be true. Oh, what a world to be born into, what choices find us….
I did not plan to study the geography of humanity,
Never wanted to hear the curses that gurgle from
The throats of the oppressed. Somehow
My dictionary becomes heavier than
The Seven Seas. Now I am
Searching for a
Permanent
Peace, I.
Walk.
Morning comes hard these days; she is a bronzed bell ringing
With sad, heavy tones. Something inside my heart
Stings me tenaciously. Everywhere the world
Sings to me relentlessly. I try to find
My way home daily. The bread
And wine comes from
Heaven to me.
Hallelujah.
I walk.
I love you.
Look deeply
Into my eyes. Friends
Carry me high, we sing and
Dance on the mountains and beaches.
Nothing escapes our laughter and hopefulness.
Every day brightens with new flowers and fragrances.
Blessings and hope spill from every fountain. We are in love.
Now
I walk past
A black man
Wearing a white
Tee-shirt, with the word
'College' printed on it. We are
Traveling in different directions.
We acknowledge each other, glance
Briefly at one another's face. No words
Come out of our mouths, nothing says 'Brother,'
Or 'Namaste.' Are we content to pass and never
Extend a hand? What gulf lies between these two
Travelers? What sort of friendship could bridge and bond?
On my right wrist, I carry a watch. This small instrument is
My personal time machine. It chronicles my movement
In dimensions. It documents every step that has been
Made by man from the infancy of humanity.
Right now it declares: "Sunday,
September 11, 2001.
Twelve thirty,
Day."
Some friends wonder why I struggle with the deep spaces
That surrounds me. I do not know the answer. Why
Was I born here and now? What purpose under
Heaven haunts me? Is there a lucky surprise
Waiting at the end of my days? Who will
Go with me? Who can I call friend?
Right now let me be content to
Write poems and look at the
Clouds that bless the sky.
I bless God everywhere.
I bless you too.
I bless me.
Walking
Peace.
I have made myself
So sick with consuming
The muck that my body
Relies on. Now only cold, pure
Rainwater can bring me around again.
Sanctuaries that glow in hope and stones
Cry to me in this black night. Everyone around
Us laughs and weeps in unison. The more we walk
Through these dirty streets, the fewer friends we find
To be true. Oh, what a world to be born into, what choices find us….
I did not plan to study the geography of humanity,
Never wanted to hear the curses that gurgle from
The throats of the oppressed. Somehow
My dictionary becomes heavier than
The Seven Seas. Now I am
Searching for a
Permanent
Peace, I.
Walk.
Morning comes hard these days; she is a bronzed bell ringing
With sad, heavy tones. Something inside my heart
Stings me tenaciously. Everywhere the world
Sings to me relentlessly. I try to find
My way home daily. The bread
And wine comes from
Heaven to me.
Hallelujah.
I walk.
I love you.
Look deeply
Into my eyes. Friends
Carry me high, we sing and
Dance on the mountains and beaches.
Nothing escapes our laughter and hopefulness.
Every day brightens with new flowers and fragrances.
Blessings and hope spill from every fountain. We are in love.
Now
I walk past
A black man
Wearing a white
Tee-shirt, with the word
'College' printed on it. We are
Traveling in different directions.
We acknowledge each other, glance
Briefly at one another's face. No words
Come out of our mouths, nothing says 'Brother,'
Or 'Namaste.' Are we content to pass and never
Extend a hand? What gulf lies between these two
Travelers? What sort of friendship could bridge and bond?
On my right wrist, I carry a watch. This small instrument is
My personal time machine. It chronicles my movement
In dimensions. It documents every step that has been
Made by man from the infancy of humanity.
Right now it declares: "Sunday,
September 11, 2001.
Twelve thirty,
Day."
Some friends wonder why I struggle with the deep spaces
That surrounds me. I do not know the answer. Why
Was I born here and now? What purpose under
Heaven haunts me? Is there a lucky surprise
Waiting at the end of my days? Who will
Go with me? Who can I call friend?
Right now let me be content to
Write poems and look at the
Clouds that bless the sky.
I bless God everywhere.
I bless you too.
I bless me.
Walking
Peace.
Where Dark
Where dark-eyed bandits
wash fish beneath the creamy moon.
Where five thousand were fed,
and slim eels are not terrifying.
Where the rusty wild man lives placid,
you learned why father
works for mother, and how the
longings were mixed
with beer and back seat passions,
and the stars burned like cigarettes
flicked out the car window.
Yes, my friend, Audubon painted
his freshly killed nature; you see, he shot
The birds beforehand. Perhaps this is why
They look so peaceful, so natural.
Where father received
his first cold wound
And mother lost her keys,
the winter geese settle their downy bottoms
Resting after covering such
unusual distances.
Camp side fires
draw fireflies and
monster shadows underneath the bedcover
When a girl tried to drown herself
and turned into a fish.
She asks herself: “How long will it be
before you come to see me?”
Where dark-eyed bandits
wash fish beneath the creamy moon.
Where five thousand were fed,
and slim eels are not terrifying.
Where the rusty wild man lives placid,
you learned why father
works for mother, and how the
longings were mixed
with beer and back seat passions,
and the stars burned like cigarettes
flicked out the car window.
Yes, my friend, Audubon painted
his freshly killed nature; you see, he shot
The birds beforehand. Perhaps this is why
They look so peaceful, so natural.
Where father received
his first cold wound
And mother lost her keys,
the winter geese settle their downy bottoms
Resting after covering such
unusual distances.
Camp side fires
draw fireflies and
monster shadows underneath the bedcover
When a girl tried to drown herself
and turned into a fish.
She asks herself: “How long will it be
before you come to see me?”
City
Shivering rain showers suddenly
Blossom in the uneasy bustle of
Six-in-the-morning. A blood red
Glowing hemisphere rockets its weight
Against the heavy hand of night. Obscure,
Hidden rainbows riddled with opalescent
Ultraviolet lights lie in wait in the high
Shadows. The partially frozen man wrapped
With a torn black coat dons green night
Vision goggles. He waits for a sudden heavenly
Redemption. He looks up, watching without
Moving, still as the frozen raindrop
Still caught up in sparkling clouds
The City of Angels tosses its mighty
Head back, with dreadlock shell-shocked
Hair, showering the nurturing hope of water,
Catapulting the acidic rain upwards,
Rejected away from the gray everywhere
Concrete streets and shingled black
Rock colored tenement-housing blocks,
Squaring off against other neighborhoods,
Defiant like the spiked iron gates, stern
As barbed Wire, daring you to pass through
Unwounded. Listen, we should run far away
From all of this.
Shivering rain showers suddenly
Blossom in the uneasy bustle of
Six-in-the-morning. A blood red
Glowing hemisphere rockets its weight
Against the heavy hand of night. Obscure,
Hidden rainbows riddled with opalescent
Ultraviolet lights lie in wait in the high
Shadows. The partially frozen man wrapped
With a torn black coat dons green night
Vision goggles. He waits for a sudden heavenly
Redemption. He looks up, watching without
Moving, still as the frozen raindrop
Still caught up in sparkling clouds
The City of Angels tosses its mighty
Head back, with dreadlock shell-shocked
Hair, showering the nurturing hope of water,
Catapulting the acidic rain upwards,
Rejected away from the gray everywhere
Concrete streets and shingled black
Rock colored tenement-housing blocks,
Squaring off against other neighborhoods,
Defiant like the spiked iron gates, stern
As barbed Wire, daring you to pass through
Unwounded. Listen, we should run far away
From all of this.
The Island
I worry about my lousy philotechnical
life, a house of wood, paint, oar-boats upset
With leaves of fresh seafood lost today
As spinning tides swept green this blue
shroudglass globe, tiny tink-tink marble drop ink to
message—bottle--message--bottle
dot—dot—dash-dot- doo-wop; bee-ebop:
-code-
S.O.S.
--nothing wrong here!
I pull up the bottle, en-slimed in seaweed
slip out the cork, tilt the lidless eye
to my eye, the salt ocean sweat gushes out, slips out,
drips delicately from its mouth, casts itself onto burning
sand, sounds of another island leap out and dance away....
No address posted—just back made
some changes in the house, jade bells,
dishes, old shoes, empty glasses, jingles.
How many hats, newspapers, umbrellas?
There are no albums, no pain at least
today. Inside, in the blue coral day,
in phosphorescence’s, mother of pearl
lights glow crests the swells, I notice the radio
moan out there.
What is lost? Yellow sky, histories,
Her-stories, hysterectomies,
slip-wave flatness, bottled blue
sand on a beach scintillation, starfish,
contortions, vicissitudes, slow
dancing reflections of deep shadows,
a couple walking, hands together,
letters crumbled or crumbling,
shades of grey mist climbing, light puzzling
forgotten brick lighthouses, gulls trumpeting,
symphonic fanfares to failures,
lucid energy curling knots within
The uterus of the ocean…
I am regretfully absorbed in all
this goddamn information, sirens, wind,
complications, sepia shadow baffles on windows,
encyclopedias, inventions, cinnamon winsome
mornings with vanilla beans and two
cardamom coffees, torrential silences,
the holy alabaster waves back
to the house.
I worry about my lousy philotechnical
life, a house of wood, paint, oar-boats upset
With leaves of fresh seafood lost today
As spinning tides swept green this blue
shroudglass globe, tiny tink-tink marble drop ink to
message—bottle--message--bottle
dot—dot—dash-dot- doo-wop; bee-ebop:
-code-
S.O.S.
--nothing wrong here!
I pull up the bottle, en-slimed in seaweed
slip out the cork, tilt the lidless eye
to my eye, the salt ocean sweat gushes out, slips out,
drips delicately from its mouth, casts itself onto burning
sand, sounds of another island leap out and dance away....
No address posted—just back made
some changes in the house, jade bells,
dishes, old shoes, empty glasses, jingles.
How many hats, newspapers, umbrellas?
There are no albums, no pain at least
today. Inside, in the blue coral day,
in phosphorescence’s, mother of pearl
lights glow crests the swells, I notice the radio
moan out there.
What is lost? Yellow sky, histories,
Her-stories, hysterectomies,
slip-wave flatness, bottled blue
sand on a beach scintillation, starfish,
contortions, vicissitudes, slow
dancing reflections of deep shadows,
a couple walking, hands together,
letters crumbled or crumbling,
shades of grey mist climbing, light puzzling
forgotten brick lighthouses, gulls trumpeting,
symphonic fanfares to failures,
lucid energy curling knots within
The uterus of the ocean…
I am regretfully absorbed in all
this goddamn information, sirens, wind,
complications, sepia shadow baffles on windows,
encyclopedias, inventions, cinnamon winsome
mornings with vanilla beans and two
cardamom coffees, torrential silences,
the holy alabaster waves back
to the house.
Show Me
There was this one Wednesday,
I hope you can relate to--
Yes, that one. It was in this small city,
The gardened one, where either
You live or have always hoped
Or thought maybe to visit.
Or, perhaps even "not just yet."
It was myself, I’m almost
sure of it, walking in the market,
Purchasing vegetables:
Ruby carrots, pearled
Onions, green leafy stuff
Too. The warm gold bread
Smiling everywhere.
It rained, cold, then stopped.
The bells of a church, a temple
A shrine and a mosque all
Called to me “Do you know God's
Way?” I answered, honest:
“No, show me what that means.”
Some watched and listened hard,
Their cold hands warming over
a fire. The smoke like incense rising.
Like I said, it was Wednesday,
there was bread, fire, water,
And the vegetables, and the holy,
And an invisible silence, and no other
Motion, outside my twitching jaw,
My hungry searching eyes,
And all these lost people;
Wandering around the desperate alleyways.
There was this one Wednesday,
I hope you can relate to--
Yes, that one. It was in this small city,
The gardened one, where either
You live or have always hoped
Or thought maybe to visit.
Or, perhaps even "not just yet."
It was myself, I’m almost
sure of it, walking in the market,
Purchasing vegetables:
Ruby carrots, pearled
Onions, green leafy stuff
Too. The warm gold bread
Smiling everywhere.
It rained, cold, then stopped.
The bells of a church, a temple
A shrine and a mosque all
Called to me “Do you know God's
Way?” I answered, honest:
“No, show me what that means.”
Some watched and listened hard,
Their cold hands warming over
a fire. The smoke like incense rising.
Like I said, it was Wednesday,
there was bread, fire, water,
And the vegetables, and the holy,
And an invisible silence, and no other
Motion, outside my twitching jaw,
My hungry searching eyes,
And all these lost people;
Wandering around the desperate alleyways.
Art Alive
Museum curtains hold hidden motions:
Slow shadows sweeping low brocades,
Unobtrusive kids peeking around floors,
Exit blinds, giggles play hide
Behind pillars and basalt bases, the
Trunks and wingless angels, faces,
Decapitated Roman numerals…
Someone runs by without a face!
Arms extended like upturned wings.
Cut off at the neck.
I have heard it said that Michelangelo
Freed the pure mortal object
From slabs of rock.
Does any golden blood remain after all
That cutting? Is it still and thick?
How deeply is it hidden
Inside that polished stone?
It must be a certain type of human blood
That is shrouded by centuries, --passive
And infertile, wasted, tamed, drowned,
Unaware like a bird inside its oval womb,
muffled into permanent silences by robes,
Sensibilities, history books, strangled
in the grip of forgetfulness.
Now language is deaf and mute.
Still, I feel a strange heat here in the museum,
Among the cold draped marble figures:
A rose flush stinging the surface
Of her cheek, the hot-breathed
Helen of Troy, suddenly feeling the furious
Menelaus ascending the staircase
After ten years absence...
Museum curtains hold hidden motions:
Slow shadows sweeping low brocades,
Unobtrusive kids peeking around floors,
Exit blinds, giggles play hide
Behind pillars and basalt bases, the
Trunks and wingless angels, faces,
Decapitated Roman numerals…
Someone runs by without a face!
Arms extended like upturned wings.
Cut off at the neck.
I have heard it said that Michelangelo
Freed the pure mortal object
From slabs of rock.
Does any golden blood remain after all
That cutting? Is it still and thick?
How deeply is it hidden
Inside that polished stone?
It must be a certain type of human blood
That is shrouded by centuries, --passive
And infertile, wasted, tamed, drowned,
Unaware like a bird inside its oval womb,
muffled into permanent silences by robes,
Sensibilities, history books, strangled
in the grip of forgetfulness.
Now language is deaf and mute.
Still, I feel a strange heat here in the museum,
Among the cold draped marble figures:
A rose flush stinging the surface
Of her cheek, the hot-breathed
Helen of Troy, suddenly feeling the furious
Menelaus ascending the staircase
After ten years absence...
Kaleidoscope
Holding your metallic weight
right here in my shaking hand;
you are glass and mirrors
blossoming with light and colors.
Your many moving shapes
twirl into umbrellas, zebras,
sphinxes, peacocks, and winter
roses, a twisted pearl.
All of these bright edges stay
a moment, and then blur
and shift, reflecting, sparkling
textures of nature silk and sand.
It’s light working fluidly, sliding
across my enchanted snowy view.
Perhaps Cyclops invented this toy;
a magical tool designed to create
an unreal world in an already
unreal world! Ah, kaleidoscope;
your gift has made me see
the other world, another, withered
time.
Color fractals dazzle through
a brightly lit bronze barrel, like a
furious spear flying
through the air, then melting
into softer forms.
You form a supple waist to fit
well in my stonecutter’s hands.
Your vision brings aglow a smile
to my illusioned graven face; ordinations
along with spiral dancing shapes,
invite my imagination, let me
walk into your waltz.
Holding your metallic weight
right here in my shaking hand;
you are glass and mirrors
blossoming with light and colors.
Your many moving shapes
twirl into umbrellas, zebras,
sphinxes, peacocks, and winter
roses, a twisted pearl.
All of these bright edges stay
a moment, and then blur
and shift, reflecting, sparkling
textures of nature silk and sand.
It’s light working fluidly, sliding
across my enchanted snowy view.
Perhaps Cyclops invented this toy;
a magical tool designed to create
an unreal world in an already
unreal world! Ah, kaleidoscope;
your gift has made me see
the other world, another, withered
time.
Color fractals dazzle through
a brightly lit bronze barrel, like a
furious spear flying
through the air, then melting
into softer forms.
You form a supple waist to fit
well in my stonecutter’s hands.
Your vision brings aglow a smile
to my illusioned graven face; ordinations
along with spiral dancing shapes,
invite my imagination, let me
walk into your waltz.
Pretty Shells
mid-morning life decisions
selecting a banana fit for breakfast
mottled brown yellow and
black coffee views of
the slant time with rain on
pink and brown
rooftops
behind the sandy cove stinking
of diesel rainbows and clams
listening to bird chatter bob
over splashes of rocks and spilled bits
of broken butterfly reflections
of shiny much to do in a necklace,
a cameo
of wandering roller-coaster days
nothing sparkling comes to eye
nothing out of the semi-ordinary
more important than insistent
panoramic rattle:
that something not seen
could be itself right into my shell
of wonderfully, pearly perfect
ordinary life.
mid-morning life decisions
selecting a banana fit for breakfast
mottled brown yellow and
black coffee views of
the slant time with rain on
pink and brown
rooftops
behind the sandy cove stinking
of diesel rainbows and clams
listening to bird chatter bob
over splashes of rocks and spilled bits
of broken butterfly reflections
of shiny much to do in a necklace,
a cameo
of wandering roller-coaster days
nothing sparkling comes to eye
nothing out of the semi-ordinary
more important than insistent
panoramic rattle:
that something not seen
could be itself right into my shell
of wonderfully, pearly perfect
ordinary life.
September 1
Morocco
the camel drivers eyes flap, innervation
like great aortic valves sucking
in the air hot as blood.
overlapping shouts in the pebbled and abstracted crowd.
thick hash smoke tickling, a burning green.
the thirst filled tongue chokes in dust.
the beautiful young girls string beads in the shade.
and the must soaked hair begs of god for oil and cold rain.
the goats swinging gut split midway to heaven.
fly soaked meat driven by hot hooks, and the grilling
fires mimic the blazing flow of afternoon, this incinerating
grape-like lobe of the sun and the shepherd's
eyes absorb the light like red mud
deep wells and the ruby cordials
encapsulated inside tiny earthen
cups thin as dragonfly wings the earnest
hawkers pile bronze pot pyramids,
brass beasts and glowing ember stone stoves.
and the sand flies buzz in circles around blood.
I've lost my way and cannot turn back
and the palms and pears drop golden seeds.
and water fronds steam, cut like limbs from
river reeds and the black biting fleas nag.
and the talking crowd booms and ebbs.
and the camel's yellow legs fold in grace.
someone close by has lost the will to live.
ebony hooves clattering against stones.
and the sweat stained tarps whip,
wildly alive from twisted hemp ropes overhead.
and the blackening burn of the sun forces
the children, the chickens, near naked sheep
and the lizards away from the market.
and the clear burn of being alone.
and the eyes of the single women do
strange dances, with hand woven rugs,
spiraled and dotted henna and pearls
and there is no wind that brings kisses.
and there is much more song still to come.
the wooden flute and the green trombone.
and the young men rustle oblivious.
This is the chorus of a century.
a hissing and spackle of rocketing sparks,
burning desert branches writhing and falling aromatic.
and the old men smile their toothless smiles
and the old women kiss silver lockets,
and the sun sneaks off with the drowsy settling
embers of this ever changing evening
where it is hot and everything stinks like feet.
nobody feels anything different from anybody else
but everybody thinking deep and separate thoughts.
or that dreams might forgive the indifference of the day.
Morocco
the camel drivers eyes flap, innervation
like great aortic valves sucking
in the air hot as blood.
overlapping shouts in the pebbled and abstracted crowd.
thick hash smoke tickling, a burning green.
the thirst filled tongue chokes in dust.
the beautiful young girls string beads in the shade.
and the must soaked hair begs of god for oil and cold rain.
the goats swinging gut split midway to heaven.
fly soaked meat driven by hot hooks, and the grilling
fires mimic the blazing flow of afternoon, this incinerating
grape-like lobe of the sun and the shepherd's
eyes absorb the light like red mud
deep wells and the ruby cordials
encapsulated inside tiny earthen
cups thin as dragonfly wings the earnest
hawkers pile bronze pot pyramids,
brass beasts and glowing ember stone stoves.
and the sand flies buzz in circles around blood.
I've lost my way and cannot turn back
and the palms and pears drop golden seeds.
and water fronds steam, cut like limbs from
river reeds and the black biting fleas nag.
and the talking crowd booms and ebbs.
and the camel's yellow legs fold in grace.
someone close by has lost the will to live.
ebony hooves clattering against stones.
and the sweat stained tarps whip,
wildly alive from twisted hemp ropes overhead.
and the blackening burn of the sun forces
the children, the chickens, near naked sheep
and the lizards away from the market.
and the clear burn of being alone.
and the eyes of the single women do
strange dances, with hand woven rugs,
spiraled and dotted henna and pearls
and there is no wind that brings kisses.
and there is much more song still to come.
the wooden flute and the green trombone.
and the young men rustle oblivious.
This is the chorus of a century.
a hissing and spackle of rocketing sparks,
burning desert branches writhing and falling aromatic.
and the old men smile their toothless smiles
and the old women kiss silver lockets,
and the sun sneaks off with the drowsy settling
embers of this ever changing evening
where it is hot and everything stinks like feet.
nobody feels anything different from anybody else
but everybody thinking deep and separate thoughts.
or that dreams might forgive the indifference of the day.
On Our Way
Sister’s sweeping
The isolated, burned out building,
Around these discarded
Overstuffed Orange Lazy-boys,
Carefully avoiding
That pool of pills
Scattered across the floor.
What a peculiar, inevitable taste
Sustained in the air,
A taste of the grownup
World without walls,
We stumbled upon
When we were
Only ten.
See here: we’re
On our way—uproariously
Built in burnt out
Mobile home living, busted
chairs bursting with stuffing,
sprouting out like burst popcorn.
Since our Gypsy
Ancestors have forgotten all of the
old tales of burning and ashes.
Old lives fade into gently
Drifting dust puddles,
Hidden amongst the garden dandy
Weeds, lying buried in clay, whimsical
Ravaged wrecks of time immemorial,
Tarnished silver bracelets, charms,
Old tin pots and pans
Spent and corroded
Beneath the horses muddied hooves,
Spinning into flat rain clouds of
Posey red pock marked faces
Our family unknown,
Graced with rickety bleu wagons,
Without bridle, rope, or sustenance until howling
Winter on the heather downs,
With sword cross of red,
Leather gowns and
Crepe-myrtle caps
Larkspur boots,
A lake, a loch,
Finally something
like home?
Sister’s sweeping
The isolated, burned out building,
Around these discarded
Overstuffed Orange Lazy-boys,
Carefully avoiding
That pool of pills
Scattered across the floor.
What a peculiar, inevitable taste
Sustained in the air,
A taste of the grownup
World without walls,
We stumbled upon
When we were
Only ten.
See here: we’re
On our way—uproariously
Built in burnt out
Mobile home living, busted
chairs bursting with stuffing,
sprouting out like burst popcorn.
Since our Gypsy
Ancestors have forgotten all of the
old tales of burning and ashes.
Old lives fade into gently
Drifting dust puddles,
Hidden amongst the garden dandy
Weeds, lying buried in clay, whimsical
Ravaged wrecks of time immemorial,
Tarnished silver bracelets, charms,
Old tin pots and pans
Spent and corroded
Beneath the horses muddied hooves,
Spinning into flat rain clouds of
Posey red pock marked faces
Our family unknown,
Graced with rickety bleu wagons,
Without bridle, rope, or sustenance until howling
Winter on the heather downs,
With sword cross of red,
Leather gowns and
Crepe-myrtle caps
Larkspur boots,
A lake, a loch,
Finally something
like home?
Synesthesia
Hearing church bells resound in
rich, chocolate tones, lighting
vibrantly hard on cobble stones
Purple prism rays blossom
from a paintbrush, then whisper:
“Tickle, tickle, southern stars, how do
I love you? Just as you are.”
Visionary peacocks scream ‘Hurrah!’
swooshing through the palate of the mind,
gathering the viscous creaminess--
delicious honey butter, spread thick to cover
oceans of delectable toast in ‘oohs’ and ‘aahhs.’
Sensually the brush dips into the paint,
loving strokes sing over the field, spreading smooth,
colorful tension. Intercourse consumes the paint,
the stars, the artist, the canvas, the bells, the brush and buds.
The senses revel, and commune, just like the earth
we give birth,
and so, we are born.
Hearing church bells resound in
rich, chocolate tones, lighting
vibrantly hard on cobble stones
Purple prism rays blossom
from a paintbrush, then whisper:
“Tickle, tickle, southern stars, how do
I love you? Just as you are.”
Visionary peacocks scream ‘Hurrah!’
swooshing through the palate of the mind,
gathering the viscous creaminess--
delicious honey butter, spread thick to cover
oceans of delectable toast in ‘oohs’ and ‘aahhs.’
Sensually the brush dips into the paint,
loving strokes sing over the field, spreading smooth,
colorful tension. Intercourse consumes the paint,
the stars, the artist, the canvas, the bells, the brush and buds.
The senses revel, and commune, just like the earth
we give birth,
and so, we are born.
Forced
Summer end with trees exhausted
Cycles of light spooled up and
Forgetful of the rain
Wind and dust
Settled mind comes
What goes
We will find
As the robin
Finds the broken
Egg and the forgotten nest
Summer end with trees exhausted
Cycles of light spooled up and
Forgetful of the rain
Wind and dust
Settled mind comes
What goes
We will find
As the robin
Finds the broken
Egg and the forgotten nest
After Pablo Neruda
His heart of peach, murderous
nailed feet, driven, wobbling
narcotic, a fog running along
spectacular walnut coffins, inside
the deserts with their mountainous
gleaming, white rush of salt, lips
red with flecked gold, fever of skullcap,
a knight queen’s swimming upstream,
the green spring air, tight in the throat
with the sudden appearance of the cold,
satin scarved snowflakes, faint
arrivals of improbable bells, you gave
us a welcome fondness for tombstones,
illuminated the richest ores in the eyes of a girl,
oceanic swells inside the candy, startled
brows of innocent flowering courtyards,
scented spears of lilies, the hot flow
inside blue veins that fall like paint into
the etched sky of morning, breaking
open cracked pots of roses, outside the fire,
the endless rattle of fixed wars, wreckage
just starting, or too tattered and blunt
to sharpen again except upon the teeth
of those yet dead. Dear Pablo, Statesman,
Poet, friend! Let’s share again that walk
down upon the twilight, to movies together,
drunk beneath bronze cones, harsh winds
thrust down like lightning by lemon
spotlights, still, broken apart only now
by booze cobbled alleyways, splattered
yellow with apples and black oily birds
caught in a strange, minty saddle of night
below the pollen of cities, staring beyond
the sound of crumbling staircases,
the song of the horsemen of death, glass
marbled stars, feeding upon the gasps of
breath thrust from mottled copper teapots,
a glow of anvils upturned from bursting stones
inside the sterile angels, feeling along broken
forgotten passages as the doomed paddle by,
lost inside the bleeding fingers of these
struggling people who sob like tigers,
show us the endless purple dreams
of the magnificent poisons of life.
Drink them all up, write them all down.
His heart of peach, murderous
nailed feet, driven, wobbling
narcotic, a fog running along
spectacular walnut coffins, inside
the deserts with their mountainous
gleaming, white rush of salt, lips
red with flecked gold, fever of skullcap,
a knight queen’s swimming upstream,
the green spring air, tight in the throat
with the sudden appearance of the cold,
satin scarved snowflakes, faint
arrivals of improbable bells, you gave
us a welcome fondness for tombstones,
illuminated the richest ores in the eyes of a girl,
oceanic swells inside the candy, startled
brows of innocent flowering courtyards,
scented spears of lilies, the hot flow
inside blue veins that fall like paint into
the etched sky of morning, breaking
open cracked pots of roses, outside the fire,
the endless rattle of fixed wars, wreckage
just starting, or too tattered and blunt
to sharpen again except upon the teeth
of those yet dead. Dear Pablo, Statesman,
Poet, friend! Let’s share again that walk
down upon the twilight, to movies together,
drunk beneath bronze cones, harsh winds
thrust down like lightning by lemon
spotlights, still, broken apart only now
by booze cobbled alleyways, splattered
yellow with apples and black oily birds
caught in a strange, minty saddle of night
below the pollen of cities, staring beyond
the sound of crumbling staircases,
the song of the horsemen of death, glass
marbled stars, feeding upon the gasps of
breath thrust from mottled copper teapots,
a glow of anvils upturned from bursting stones
inside the sterile angels, feeling along broken
forgotten passages as the doomed paddle by,
lost inside the bleeding fingers of these
struggling people who sob like tigers,
show us the endless purple dreams
of the magnificent poisons of life.
Drink them all up, write them all down.
You, After Reading This
A blink for sure as
Hell,
I can imagine or tell
For sure anything
Can and will be
As much with you
Or not, not
Like soft light,
Evening light
Lifting lightly, a hand,
Turning the pages over.
A blink for sure as
Hell,
I can imagine or tell
For sure anything
Can and will be
As much with you
Or not, not
Like soft light,
Evening light
Lifting lightly, a hand,
Turning the pages over.
Yin /~\ Yang
You touch my forehead with pure mountain water,
Steaming fingers moist from the heat of your heart.
Your ruby lips burn into the night sky.
Pores weep fragrant jasmine and gardenia.
Those cedar limbs stretch into adoring arms.
I am lost in the depths of these glowing, sad eyes.
Your bright, henna honeyed feet caress my skin.
Like an invisible stone set in my mind, you are a beautiful red balloon.
Your heart is a beautiful red balloon, bursting into sunlight!
You run and sing lightly through your forest, in wide arcing circles.
You feed the animals there, and the forest feeds you with
Delicious, aromatic mushrooms in autumn.
You swim in the rain, in the sparkling pools of my thoughts.
Something mysterious happens when you are near—I forget myself
Completely, and disappear in the mystical water
grasp of your arms.
You touch my forehead with pure mountain water,
Steaming fingers moist from the heat of your heart.
Your ruby lips burn into the night sky.
Pores weep fragrant jasmine and gardenia.
Those cedar limbs stretch into adoring arms.
I am lost in the depths of these glowing, sad eyes.
Your bright, henna honeyed feet caress my skin.
Like an invisible stone set in my mind, you are a beautiful red balloon.
Your heart is a beautiful red balloon, bursting into sunlight!
You run and sing lightly through your forest, in wide arcing circles.
You feed the animals there, and the forest feeds you with
Delicious, aromatic mushrooms in autumn.
You swim in the rain, in the sparkling pools of my thoughts.
Something mysterious happens when you are near—I forget myself
Completely, and disappear in the mystical water
grasp of your arms.
In the Park Dreaming of Green Hills and Cameos
"we burn in the landscape that moves us."
--Milan Kundera
Before my eyes, sweet, liquid, and dreamy
memories of the day, smiling in your
sunny presence.--- you, with your azure cameo
blue as the unclouded sky, your sundress
---water color nectar, the pollen richness of a daisy.
With clouds above to pass time,
Sunday is a solid, happy, rainbow spray
of blue, green, yellow, violet, and red.
Oh lazy morning, we drift in and out…
let the sun catch those dusty air sparkles!
Summer's light lifts us up off the boardwalk,
floating under our heels, as we move here, arm in arm.
Chatting sprinklers tease across emerald lawns
ruddy children play tag with silly squeals and
sudden breathless laughter together
a prize, a promise, a diamond mirror of forever
this is the one story we got
tore it to pieces.
"we burn in the landscape that moves us."
--Milan Kundera
Before my eyes, sweet, liquid, and dreamy
memories of the day, smiling in your
sunny presence.--- you, with your azure cameo
blue as the unclouded sky, your sundress
---water color nectar, the pollen richness of a daisy.
With clouds above to pass time,
Sunday is a solid, happy, rainbow spray
of blue, green, yellow, violet, and red.
Oh lazy morning, we drift in and out…
let the sun catch those dusty air sparkles!
Summer's light lifts us up off the boardwalk,
floating under our heels, as we move here, arm in arm.
Chatting sprinklers tease across emerald lawns
ruddy children play tag with silly squeals and
sudden breathless laughter together
a prize, a promise, a diamond mirror of forever
this is the one story we got
tore it to pieces.
A Man Reads Tea Leaves in Central Park
I
Today I had another crazy idea to go see
Rebecca or Geraldine this oracle
summer all the way through sans absinthe
grape leaves and large copper pot eyes
Got to be thinking about it in walking
shoes of green with red velvet
stanzas there out in the crunchy leaves
and I got to thinking outside and staring
there’s a girl for the seeing!
One with golden hair roller
blading down the hill, laughing
as usual, crinkly nose, beautiful
young crow’s feet pointing right
at me and the traffic gears buzzing
and I smile cocky like smooth as a shave,
the way the old snake charmers
in East India do with mouths turning
corners raising a cobra up like smoke
out from white wicker buckets
Got to see it all today in the green
tea leaves swimming at the bottom
of a borrowed paper cup the sodden color
of wet brown sugar shaking tea concentrics
and surface tension with the rhythms
of a bullet train coronation hammering along
like an iron bell cracking thunder vibrato
crescendo!
and at the end of the morning glowing hall
someone is playing trombone pointing
the O of it's throat and mouth sliding
up to heaven in the rain, just so easy
like it's praying for the pure fire of sexual water
to dump down on the crowd as the poplars and birches
over there in the damp grassy woods rise up so high
as in exuberant flames the color of autumn
and a beautiful Hindu boy with a red dot
in the center of his question mark brow
sings a low song to only me and the thistles
a song about dreams and dragons
and a taste like the blood taste of roses
on his mothers' lips whistling and pouty,
practicing the bamboo swoon on a cryptic flute,
a walk to a cobalt glass colored lotus pond silver
with a timpani tickle of a working class band
lost in the park another girl I don’t know
but would like to hovers past in a blue
sky dress twirl and cloth shoes laced up
with black string dancing with a sweet gypsy
sly smile on her lips and eyes all fixed
like a goddess in heat and remember
it is not easy being in my fever
especially when skies warm water
waves scintillate sand we listen and feel
like the best to come is simply in being
alive and reading the poetry of these black days
(ignore the tick of the modern soul
just read the day like a script).
My main idea today was to look more closely
at the movement of brushes, like outside
in the artist's market me leaning easy
like artists do it on their easels
my main idea today ended with paint
on the tip my big nose, an arm sling
from a scenic cloth woven with red
and gold and white picnic swatches
and cups the color of May with a saffron
tinted blowing wintery west sky tied
up with a ribbon of gold fading away
and crowds of young women ignoring
crowds of men in cruel bowler hats.
I started with an idea today to
Raise up an crystalline island
for a novel to live on like saying
II
I know a runway girl in East Paris
who makes it all go down easy like transparent gin.
I know of a runaway girl from Kansas who makes
Birds go bursting in flight into the sky
like raw white rice rising on a wedding
day in the spring and her spiny hairbrush
spins rust red cloth out at night in moonlight
and her lilac nightgown is hot sticky
with love’s perspiration and guilt.
Her guitar string fingers forcefully
play on the cool light about her body
and she sings of ashes of opaque glass
whirls and the simple human longing
into wooden covered bridges and mystery
window panes blasted with sand and weather
with simple wood frames blue sky the color
of mother's milk and summer
days and nights that won't quit.
I know a girl with copper shine
pot summer eyes and bang bang, I'm lost
again and I'm praying to the heavens
of all the religions I can think of
because I think I will really really
really need them all to save me or
anything that is left of us this time around,
let's talk about it some more in the cool of this summer.
I
Today I had another crazy idea to go see
Rebecca or Geraldine this oracle
summer all the way through sans absinthe
grape leaves and large copper pot eyes
Got to be thinking about it in walking
shoes of green with red velvet
stanzas there out in the crunchy leaves
and I got to thinking outside and staring
there’s a girl for the seeing!
One with golden hair roller
blading down the hill, laughing
as usual, crinkly nose, beautiful
young crow’s feet pointing right
at me and the traffic gears buzzing
and I smile cocky like smooth as a shave,
the way the old snake charmers
in East India do with mouths turning
corners raising a cobra up like smoke
out from white wicker buckets
Got to see it all today in the green
tea leaves swimming at the bottom
of a borrowed paper cup the sodden color
of wet brown sugar shaking tea concentrics
and surface tension with the rhythms
of a bullet train coronation hammering along
like an iron bell cracking thunder vibrato
crescendo!
and at the end of the morning glowing hall
someone is playing trombone pointing
the O of it's throat and mouth sliding
up to heaven in the rain, just so easy
like it's praying for the pure fire of sexual water
to dump down on the crowd as the poplars and birches
over there in the damp grassy woods rise up so high
as in exuberant flames the color of autumn
and a beautiful Hindu boy with a red dot
in the center of his question mark brow
sings a low song to only me and the thistles
a song about dreams and dragons
and a taste like the blood taste of roses
on his mothers' lips whistling and pouty,
practicing the bamboo swoon on a cryptic flute,
a walk to a cobalt glass colored lotus pond silver
with a timpani tickle of a working class band
lost in the park another girl I don’t know
but would like to hovers past in a blue
sky dress twirl and cloth shoes laced up
with black string dancing with a sweet gypsy
sly smile on her lips and eyes all fixed
like a goddess in heat and remember
it is not easy being in my fever
especially when skies warm water
waves scintillate sand we listen and feel
like the best to come is simply in being
alive and reading the poetry of these black days
(ignore the tick of the modern soul
just read the day like a script).
My main idea today was to look more closely
at the movement of brushes, like outside
in the artist's market me leaning easy
like artists do it on their easels
my main idea today ended with paint
on the tip my big nose, an arm sling
from a scenic cloth woven with red
and gold and white picnic swatches
and cups the color of May with a saffron
tinted blowing wintery west sky tied
up with a ribbon of gold fading away
and crowds of young women ignoring
crowds of men in cruel bowler hats.
I started with an idea today to
Raise up an crystalline island
for a novel to live on like saying
II
I know a runway girl in East Paris
who makes it all go down easy like transparent gin.
I know of a runaway girl from Kansas who makes
Birds go bursting in flight into the sky
like raw white rice rising on a wedding
day in the spring and her spiny hairbrush
spins rust red cloth out at night in moonlight
and her lilac nightgown is hot sticky
with love’s perspiration and guilt.
Her guitar string fingers forcefully
play on the cool light about her body
and she sings of ashes of opaque glass
whirls and the simple human longing
into wooden covered bridges and mystery
window panes blasted with sand and weather
with simple wood frames blue sky the color
of mother's milk and summer
days and nights that won't quit.
I know a girl with copper shine
pot summer eyes and bang bang, I'm lost
again and I'm praying to the heavens
of all the religions I can think of
because I think I will really really
really need them all to save me or
anything that is left of us this time around,
let's talk about it some more in the cool of this summer.
Hartavayrern
Finalization of the skin of impurities
Small cracks of the red clay in a vast and empty canyon
Indigenous people fight fire with heathers
Red veins, yellow clay, fat of the land bruised
separated by colors of skin and a thickness of eyebrows,
Black, thin vegetation, lines deleted from history
mist Indian, thin brush arroyo
Sweat rolling rocks dust plume, horses disappearing into
the dry tumbleweed of time, scraping winding notes along Wind River
into the grey womb of the distance
Rock edge Arapaho children
hard like chips of flint
Wonderful bay horse gap whisper, laughters stolen skeleton
On the playground of the god's powder called for in the evening.
spicewood shadows, jagged thirsty worms
roadrunner and blue high, such are the devil's spiders feet
Salt and bloody carrion trivial tear
Barbed wire, the transfiguration of the eye,
of the soul, artisan creek wild with arrows and currents
Comet grease from bright pink horse hides
an empty wooden room, gasping pulsations of night
The moon is a feather tied to a stick
rubbled Sand and winter monsoon in the desert song
stars so big they break legs, night chills
To break into the dances of morning dew spirits
Sprinkle with a little clear coyotes, memory song
battle cry of a fierce and mighty forgotten wind,
warpaint of a brave and beautiful funeral
of the gods.
Finalization of the skin of impurities
Small cracks of the red clay in a vast and empty canyon
Indigenous people fight fire with heathers
Red veins, yellow clay, fat of the land bruised
separated by colors of skin and a thickness of eyebrows,
Black, thin vegetation, lines deleted from history
mist Indian, thin brush arroyo
Sweat rolling rocks dust plume, horses disappearing into
the dry tumbleweed of time, scraping winding notes along Wind River
into the grey womb of the distance
Rock edge Arapaho children
hard like chips of flint
Wonderful bay horse gap whisper, laughters stolen skeleton
On the playground of the god's powder called for in the evening.
spicewood shadows, jagged thirsty worms
roadrunner and blue high, such are the devil's spiders feet
Salt and bloody carrion trivial tear
Barbed wire, the transfiguration of the eye,
of the soul, artisan creek wild with arrows and currents
Comet grease from bright pink horse hides
an empty wooden room, gasping pulsations of night
The moon is a feather tied to a stick
rubbled Sand and winter monsoon in the desert song
stars so big they break legs, night chills
To break into the dances of morning dew spirits
Sprinkle with a little clear coyotes, memory song
battle cry of a fierce and mighty forgotten wind,
warpaint of a brave and beautiful funeral
of the gods.
|
Warning
the following program contains adult language these themes ARE critically intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is crucially advised. (close your eyes). |
Last Kiss
lips apart
an emergency
wet and split like
plums pressed hard
up against it here,
and there my emergency
against a glass
airplane, ten thousand
feet dissolving
sexual sugary still
now silver contrails
of vacant energy urgency
between them
an elevator of upwards
time spun backwards upon
arriving home and it was
three years before
I could listen
to any orphans or musicians.
lips apart
an emergency
wet and split like
plums pressed hard
up against it here,
and there my emergency
against a glass
airplane, ten thousand
feet dissolving
sexual sugary still
now silver contrails
of vacant energy urgency
between them
an elevator of upwards
time spun backwards upon
arriving home and it was
three years before
I could listen
to any orphans or musicians.
stepping lightly from bubble to bubble
the Buddha nature, he said, was an illusion
yet realized once, maybe four times a year /
this morning after last nights shower
the air was a cool red mist
like the interior of a watermelon /
I slid inside the genie bottle a skeleton
in a thin cotton shirt, backward, faintly
reminiscent of yesterday's working
hating to be stained by the fragrance
but nothing more than the color blue, work
to do and last night in a dream of flying
we were together also floating ever so on,
on an airplane over that chasm of light
though the ice on the wings
made it difficult to talk
you called to me Diego with a treachery
I didn't know
it was for another \
a lemon twist yet indeed the sun
is just another star
and after clothing myself in cotton
today for an instant I realized wolf like
a wild self recognition of pure energy
and falling down again
to the realities of a new day
find myself lightly stepping along life
as we once together did,
as on a stream bubble to bubble.
the Buddha nature, he said, was an illusion
yet realized once, maybe four times a year /
this morning after last nights shower
the air was a cool red mist
like the interior of a watermelon /
I slid inside the genie bottle a skeleton
in a thin cotton shirt, backward, faintly
reminiscent of yesterday's working
hating to be stained by the fragrance
but nothing more than the color blue, work
to do and last night in a dream of flying
we were together also floating ever so on,
on an airplane over that chasm of light
though the ice on the wings
made it difficult to talk
you called to me Diego with a treachery
I didn't know
it was for another \
a lemon twist yet indeed the sun
is just another star
and after clothing myself in cotton
today for an instant I realized wolf like
a wild self recognition of pure energy
and falling down again
to the realities of a new day
find myself lightly stepping along life
as we once together did,
as on a stream bubble to bubble.
No One Here
There have been more rains sweeping in now Chicago.
Evenings upon evenings alone none except
I resting singularly eating raw chocolate
Upon a red patent leather cow skin
Couch which in turn firmly and stupidly
Rests upon a thick cream fiber carpet
While the rain ravages the tinfoil rooftop
As I look across the room into a shimmering
Mirror reflecting a crystal red-and-gold-glowed
Chandelier I speak: “There is no-body else
Here.” I say this is correct in part all though
Another important part is embedded into
The deepest red grey core of memory where
A woman I once loved so and so after all
Despite my bravest and longest shadowy toils
Is here with me tonight and always always,
my friend.
There have been more rains sweeping in now Chicago.
Evenings upon evenings alone none except
I resting singularly eating raw chocolate
Upon a red patent leather cow skin
Couch which in turn firmly and stupidly
Rests upon a thick cream fiber carpet
While the rain ravages the tinfoil rooftop
As I look across the room into a shimmering
Mirror reflecting a crystal red-and-gold-glowed
Chandelier I speak: “There is no-body else
Here.” I say this is correct in part all though
Another important part is embedded into
The deepest red grey core of memory where
A woman I once loved so and so after all
Despite my bravest and longest shadowy toils
Is here with me tonight and always always,
my friend.
Last Summer
Main Street downtown stopsign sidewalk
an infant elm uncurls through the cracks
Saturday morning the cheer and sunlight,
farmers from outside are the honered guests
evaporating bursts of Fourth of July firework
displays like the “Going Out of Business” signs
Mom and Pop spending time and dimes at
the Superstore now and as childhood friends
forget about homework, prom, and jet above
to another state, Job Corps, or simply to get
the hell out of here. Innocence died for me
in stages, Fathers first anger, mom's crying
in a pile of broken dishes on the floor, the
bully who floored me when I naively dared
him, the bravest girl who dared the boys
to show her their pee-pee – all innocent enough,
then small tremors, the animated cartoons on
television fade in appeal, lipstick for girls,
boys loving cars, thirteen years can start to
grind on anyone, get it? Let the last Summer
be sweet as the first kiss, like golden chill
glasses of apple juice in August, like my
mothers laughter, like my brothers and sisters
taking my hand, like the first sunlight of spring
after a month of rain. Like it is still all so
very easy to gloss over. Amen.
Main Street downtown stopsign sidewalk
an infant elm uncurls through the cracks
Saturday morning the cheer and sunlight,
farmers from outside are the honered guests
evaporating bursts of Fourth of July firework
displays like the “Going Out of Business” signs
Mom and Pop spending time and dimes at
the Superstore now and as childhood friends
forget about homework, prom, and jet above
to another state, Job Corps, or simply to get
the hell out of here. Innocence died for me
in stages, Fathers first anger, mom's crying
in a pile of broken dishes on the floor, the
bully who floored me when I naively dared
him, the bravest girl who dared the boys
to show her their pee-pee – all innocent enough,
then small tremors, the animated cartoons on
television fade in appeal, lipstick for girls,
boys loving cars, thirteen years can start to
grind on anyone, get it? Let the last Summer
be sweet as the first kiss, like golden chill
glasses of apple juice in August, like my
mothers laughter, like my brothers and sisters
taking my hand, like the first sunlight of spring
after a month of rain. Like it is still all so
very easy to gloss over. Amen.
