In the summer
a great blue sky
no ants
a warm blanket
but no fleas

the house i live in

40 acres of nothing
to the left or right

no one in my head that is not me

happy
with a man I love

and loving myself completely
as well

not old
not grey

wearing whatever I like

muscular
healthy

and going where I like to go

The 18th century
is here
30 million antichrists
and only one who
is not embarrassed

I am.

Three weeks
my face
bored
old
threatened by science
ate calories that
belong to someone else
a toad
a wart
another green menace

in the 80's
thirty was young
they say it's even younger now
I'm 33

cool breezes
ancient poets
gilgamesh
and a shirt that never fits
empty rooms
filled to the brim
with a long *****
19 days


the odyssey
pulls my left arm
my old brain
with nothing in it
sleeps naked
with my right

in the psych clinic's waiting room
a microcosm of
organisms react to their environment
eyes check a watch
a security guard yawns
a woman in black taps her feet
a man in a hat grumbles to himself
all searching for an answer to the thing
that seeps, silent, from their eyes at night

when my name is finally called  
I explain symptoms
to a man that doesn't look me in the eye
who asks,
can you laugh at the things that used to make you happy?

I think how those things have changed
and how I could turn to stone
immovable
sitting, unaffected, for a millennia

the last two days
the sunlight interrupted winter in California
bringing with it a brief pause
from a hectic electric winter
and leaving me waiting, impatiently, for spring

Again, like before
a lost walk in a manic rain
and the cold back seat;
Black, purple,
and some, older,
green and pink
my legs and arms, bruised.

It took a drunken sunless summer,
only one week of copper leaves for the fall
and this desert,
a month of a metal door handle turning, turning
Until, with a gasp, the dead black of December.

Here in the new year, a fat feast for death to add to my years,
a night dive into stone.

Why doesn't it come through the window, like it did?
The moon?
With it's white night thoughts?
Pouring in
Now, pouring out
Why don't you cry to me?
Now, I see the tears welling,
but, a steely-eyed anger holds them back.

I can tell you a thousand things.
Your hair, a black sky I look out on tonight
And where is it?
The moon?

I can tell you a thousand things.
You are my beautiful boy.
You are my beautiful boy.

Where is it?
The moon?

I am the weird wan wandering thought taker,
whispering in your inner ear
I am the dark daunting dancer
who snatches your lost dream in the morning.

Here it is, in my palm,
Aha!