I was sitting with my hands in my lap, my mind drifting toward
obscurity, on the bedside,
when his hands touched mine, pulled them from my lap, into his
lap, heat between us,
The needle pricked through the moon in the near starry sky bringing
screams filling the lungs.
I was standing on the edge of a cosmic chair that was burning from
the heat, the chair quickly rolling away after, quicker than I could
realize.
What enemy of heartbreak is there at the start, a Whitmanian Ode,
that turns back into loneliness on the bedside.
A Whitmanian Ode is what it is, the Irish Ballad, all tried and told, an
Ode to Uranus! an Ode to his ****
His *** was soft and my **** could slide into it, feeling pleasure, the
Ode.
Jazz music was playing from his record player, the music of sliding
into heat with ease, the softness never ceasing to get me hard,
Where afterwards I am neither the receiver nor the Lover, the learn’d,
virtuous, benevolent, may I be.
The eye-shaped earth that we walk across, upon the Western
shoreline, step-by-step, (making the motions that form the dance
we do step to),
That sees the dance done too far and around itself.
[Please, refrain.]
I was making love last night, it was in his bedroom, His hands cover’d
over my eyes and His **** was pushed inside me.
I was lifted up in the sunlights morn, after, brought to my car, like a
baby to its cradle,
In which the mother-role was left then empty.
Where then I drove home, alone.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 8:14 PM UTC
Skating o'er time, all time,
The learn'd one, the one who skated,
who returned home from o'er the sea,
with Death -- He will have Death in his eyes.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:53 PM UTC
It was twenty years ago, I was younger than I know, and the ground was covered with snow,
She was standing all around, her hand felt my ground, and her voice was the sweetest sound
I’d ever heard.
I couldn’t believe that she was walking right towards me and then she walked right past,
It was in the old school, we were getting eighteen years, I was so afraid of my tears,
I was too afraid to speak to her, her hair was so unique with it’s soft brown curls hanging down.
She left on a train while I stood behind on the tracks, my heart much too reaching.
It was just the other day, my wife was turning ‘round, and I swear I saw the face of that girl in
hers, lord I know I’m wrong.
We’ve been married near ten years, and our kids are getting by, but why do I still feel Her?
I saw her last night, I was softly drinkin’ by the light, and then I really saw her, I swear, I swear, by god I really saw her.
She was good as I once knew, her eyes still could shine right too, and her hair still it curled.
My hair’s always been grey, but my body now is grayer, and my voice now cracks when I pray, so I don’t pray, lord knows now I don’t pray.
She was standing right there, but I can’t face her this way. Forgive me but I can’t face her this way.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 10:41 AM UTC
Where are we going, O Allen? And soon again we will be alone.
Soon again, I know, we will be alone, in the doldrums of the deep pages we hide ourselves within,
And in the jeans we wear you will hold me in your back pocket, and in my back pocket I will hold the memory of you.
My back pocket which has stray fuzz and lint, a place too cold for you, but the only place I have which I can put you.
I’m sorry, but my pencils are being put down and the white boards cleared for tomorrow to replace me,
And tomorrow is unclear for me, the fog not yet set in that I will have to walk through,
The fog that was put there by yesterday, which will lay until next week when I am far passed.
And as I’m walking through the fog I will pull you, Allen, from my back pocket and walk through taller.
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
My love, she holds the flowers
She counts clouds as she counts the hours;
The moon hangs over softly,
The wind’s gentle songs have taught me
That her heartbeat has a rhythm–
It’s the rhythm of the warm spring showers.
Some men will try to hold her,
In which case she’s like a steel rapier,
But you know for me she’s like the flowers
That she holds when the snow devours
The green grass waiting for spring;
The spring is always true within my lover.
People sit on porch steps,
Walk in supermarkets
And across dance floors;
Some discuss abstractions,
Additions and subtractions
To the wonder of who we are;
My love, she knows herself too well,
She always holds the candle
Even when the warmth won’t tell.
The wind now cracks the windows,
The bridge crumbles under who knows;
Why can only the leaves stand still?
Keyboards now are silent,
Along with the airplane pilot,
My love knows where she is with me.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 8:19 PM UTC
It is hard for me to put my feelings onto the page, because of America–
Because America takes my hand and pushes my cheek toward Her;
America, I’m tired of your corporation schemes;
America, I’m tired of your political lies;
America, I’m tired of waiting for love to trickle down from your eyes;
America, I’d rather put my hand into the firepit than lay with you.
America, you put your eyes on your *** and complain that you are blind, and I am putting my hand into the firepit so that I can reach in and remove the log keeping you burning, O America;
My downtrodden mistress—Whitman and Frost abandoned you long ago, and you never could replace them.
The fire of Evil is keeping your flame burning, and it would be better to put that flame out than to replace it with another.
It is hard for me to be myself, because of you, America, the mistress my parents loved.
America you were beaten generations ago and now they are old, and their treasure has made them rich, while freedom has gotten old;
And old is the way of the world now, everyone has gotten old! The young are Old and the Old now refuse to face their caskets.
America, I have fantasies of making love to your younger self, the self that is now only a memory.
America, you make me so hungry I could eat California, eat Florida, eat New York, but never in a million years would I be hungry enough to eat D.C., where the shadows extend the length of skyscrapers and the darkness within those shadows is infinite.
America, you are an infinite jest kneeling at an open casket, only teasing to go inside.
America, I am a son of a ***** and you are that ***** –
By the sweat of your face you will sit at your kitchen table pouring over taxforms and wonder where you are going?
What about America, the place we live, brings someone to insanity so that they have to write a 1,000 page novel to cure themselves?
America, is it your sad hands that reach far beyond it’s limit?
Mistress America what about you forces families to become addicted to opioids? addicted to *********** addicted to lies? addicted to the fire of evil?
America you hack minds and force them to commit suicide, much more than, having been justified by your blood.
I hear America screaming, the violent wrath I hear,
Screaming as it goes to work to home to work to home to work to home over and over again
While the robots throw kindling to the fire of America.
America why do you continue to drift to fascism, though you will never reach there, why do you continue to try?
America what will you be called after you are changed?
America I hope you will shun change and return to the America I know my parents loved,
And will you be able to bring the old into their caskets that they shun?
Does not love call every day on the telephone and lift up her voice to all of us?
Is it now Absalom for America?
I say to you, America, you are my foundation upon which I build traincars moving toward the red sea that I can see now splitting,
And America, what you are now is the nightmares that will haunt my dreams when I am gone.
America, how I wish that I could make love to your younger self, if only that self would come back to meet me in my room.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 6:59 PM UTC
How do I sit on the porch step in morning time
When you do not sit there beside me, or
Do I sit with the shape of waste – for
In sunlight without you I am wasted,
Because love as yours is rare to be tasted.
To share a life with her that was once mine,
And face all pangs of love with true great grace
Is what loves takes: all sorrow you can face,
But also the softness is all I ask;
Moments in which one can remove my mask –
Though there is a tree in my yard with thyme
On its branches which hangs over my porch,
And I sit there in the morning shaped of waste,
When you are not there, and wonder of your taste.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 6:54 PM UTC
Wednesday 3am when nighttime is high and love is low, the stars are there and so am I lying with you on your bed, last night, a long time ago–
And I slept in your bed last night so that we could be as close as the air and as warm as a summer’s beach, keeping the cold standing eons away.
When love reached its peak last night, and you were tide to me in the water of our love that soon raged against the air in the sky.
The cold air between us bites into our skin to turn us into shriveling crests of moons and drifts into us the moonlight of love, which is vain to beat our hearts.
Do not go gently into the after-loving sleep of holding in each other’s arms, but stay unable to forsake your lover until morning, whereupon you realize he’s been itching to sneak away to the outside.
I’m far away now and lonely, and not afraid to say it to myself in wintertime when snowballs fly on buildings' sides to make patterns.
I dress myself heavy before going outside my new house, and still I wonder: am I in your mind?
Thursday 8pm when you came to my house, my old house, and found me in bed lying side to a boy when he was about to enter my *** minutes after kissing, ************ loving, sweat,
And you screamed in terror and ran away, leaving me alone on my bed after he left too, whereupon I cried into the bedsheets that he laid on minutes ago, and I could still smell him, I can still smell him.
I walk with my heavy clothing on the street-side when I wish that I could whisper goodbye and I love you, but I only have empty bags to carry with me, unable to fill them with love or, just as bad, unable to fill them with ***
I still feel your shadow in the buildings' alleys when I turn corners of life, and maybe I can hear you whispering to me as I walk along; walk along
My livelihood that no longer walks but crawls along. And the wind weeps where I lay now, in a bed with no blankets!
I am reminded of that time, Wednesday 3am when you, a girl, were in my life for a brief moment, and the next night when you were in my life for the first and last but stayed far longer.
The air bites the man in me and the flowers in my backgarden, when again I feel young, for she is in my mind again, reminding me to stay far and keep away from flowers, for they are not my love.
There are loose strings tied to me, which I am unable to cut from, and the tides I no longer feel tide to have sunk into the water they lie in; the wind still weeps too, I don't know if I'm able to whisper to myself anymore,
Goodbye and I love you.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 8:19 PM UTC
Sorrow reaches away from my bedside–
When I sleep there and fall to dreaming
Of a beach with warm sand and water’s tide,
Where then I rise to the looming light gleaming
And at the end there seems to be bells banging
Where I reawake in my bed without warm sheets
And I’m turned into my day
And there’s no warm sand nor waters tide
Where here the wind cries,
My body stands on the burning tower
Leaning upon the fallside
Before I return to my bedside and
Can sit back upon the warming sand
And I’m dreaming of rising up away.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC
Buddha was once here;
In the falling green leaves.
I’ve walked the field they land;
Now the field is empty,
And where has Buddha gone?
The fallen green leaves,
The sun shining down,
The reflecting waves,
The river that sings,
The raft floating by,
And where has Buddha gone?
And the gone green leaves…
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 10:17 PM UTC