mind shard stuffed
deep between
the lobes
adjacent to
the whirlpool
looking out through
a brain/body eyes
no separation
no points
no way out friend
but
how did "you" "get" "in" "?" " "

i live in a brightness
of worlds
paper-thin

a screenshot of
malleability
introduces my reckoning

today, the serpent
lays hold of
the egg
and starvation
is kept at bay

belly full
cut the cord
the descendants
hang heavy

all my life i've wanted
a reason to
die well

tonight, I hear it
in the sirens...
I hear it
in the coyotes...
I hear it
in my soul...
tonight, I hear it
in plain sight--
as clear
as a daisy

i was allowed
to slow down

to see my life
in a different gear

to venture a guess
towards life in payment
of a different path

i was
hungry
and hung-up

i was held-up
with my pants
down

i was a man
living his life
in the modern
mouse-trap

and nobody
cares about the
man in the
modern
mouse-trap

forget about the
cheese...

find your way
own way
out

in place of a
lover's embrace
I fill my chest
with smoke.

I suspect now
there are more
walls around my
heart than ever
before.

there was once
a light called hope
beaming brightly

but that light
was just a trick.

what was once
a raging pyre,
is now but a
few embers glowing
softly in a
charcoal bed
of gray and black.

...it's not any of you.

too much given?
or
the price to learn,
at least for
something like
me.

I sit quietly in
a dark room
just listening
to: cars, planes,
people and dogs
pass in and
out of existence.

there is a pleasing
chill coming
through the open
window,
a delicate intrusion
of Winter at night.

a car locks,

a pipe bangs,

a door opens
then
shuts.

you've never been
more beautiful
than when i
don't know you
yet

all that
hidden skin
ignites
my
raw furnace

every drop
of light that
kisses your
body
is an invitation
to rise
like the
sun and shower
you in
blazing
desire

every orbit
of your
celestial body
beckons
my flames
to lick and
lash
as we spin
through each
other's
gravity

coming

so close

you
threaten my
core
with eruption
as you
pass by

lightning-
tipped *******
at
twelve o'clock
on top
of orchid
petaled hips
perfuming my
garden of
thirst

i want to
do to you
what the
bee does
to the lily

these words
as
powerful as an enemy
as loving as
no woman
no woman
no woman
no woman
no explanation
no arms
no legs
no lips
no hands
no one
now just
one beer and a hit
is all i need
to forget about my
walls
to forget about my
blundering , blubbering past self
weak and desperate for
affection/attention
embarrassment shadow

two (or is it three...?) weeks in to the
overnight shift and never have i wanted
   to wash myself in
the golden rays of that nearest                     star
our sun more than i do now as the ineradicable
   cloak of night stretches
itself over these my newly waking hours.  this night
i feel massive but
diffuse, like the ghost of a
   glacier lingering amongst the scablands;  nebulous
and immense,
   like a short-circuited god-machine
cannibalizing itself in a forgotten
corner of the universe.    the sleep is broken, the
mind needs rest.  the mind needs
   rest.

the genius
of his spirit isn't
allowed to be
confident

the muses around
his works
laugh at his
shy hubris

his connections
to the creative are
buried under a
desert

his voice
is full
of charisma
and doubt

there's something
in the way
of love

his heart is
alone in hell

in his father's
home
searching for the
way

his life is a
lightbulb
as bright as
it is empty

just like his
poetry

here's to every **** poem
i do, have
and
will write.

- thanks
for all the fertilizer.

the sweet succor of
my own narcissism reflected
back to me from the mirror
in the bathroom; i am a crocodile
warming in the sun.

Who I am
now.
Who I am
now...
  Who I am
becoming.
Who is yet
to be.
Who may look upon me
and wonder how he
could ever look like that
or
live like that
and
he may laugh truthfully.
Even knowing
doesn't change who I think
I am now.
I am bound
by the boundless.
I am tethered, somehow, to
each version of myself.
Every iteration.
Every refraction.
     L i g h t
     L  i  g  h  t
     L      i      g      h      t
lightness
existing in the most graceful weave
between each of me.
Constant
but impermanent.
Influential and free.

brief echoes of the past
arrange themselves in my present
like shadow puppets on the backs
of my eyelids while i sleep.  

there is an uneven fulcrum
digging into my lower back no
matter how i turn my long
body.

my eyes open into
the same familiar room, with
the same familiar speckles on the
ceiling that they always do.   the
shadows resume their innumerable
forms and i wake
to write another step towards
the beveled edge of immortality.

newspapers. everywhere.
it was yesterday
when they turned up.
must've been stacks
of them before they
were like this - scattered
throughout the park.

i've thought about
taking a garbage bag down
there and picking them up
but...
there's something
pleasing about watching
them interact with
their new environment;
the way the wind carries
them, the way they spread
out        into       all
       that                     space
as if nothing neatly
arranged wants to
stay that way.

i watch as they attempt to share
their news with the world.
but the trees are silent and
the grass is oblivious.
the print on their pages
means nothing to
them.

i wonder what news the leaves
tell of in a language we don't understand.
of golden and green.
of things passed and
of things to come.

"change," they say.

that is the message they spread
on the wind...
change.

sitting on the foot of the bed,
I look up at the burnt-out
bulb above me
--superior life--it tells me
a light moment of irony
before I lay down
to sleep

here's to all the burnt-out
bulbs above us and
the rest we find
below them

knock, knock, knock*

I open my door
and am immediately
greeted by
three 19 year old elders.

They want to talk to me
about Jesus and
their version of
a sacred text and I want
to talk to them about: God,
Philosophy, Religion,
Art, Music, etc.

but I just put a greasy
pan on med-high
heat to cook some
bacon and it's
filling my apartment
with smoke.

Yet, my curiosity of
these creatures at
my door temporarily
supersedes kitchen
safety protocols,
so I start to oblige
them and even
entertain some light
discourse in the
hallway.

I begin to explain my
perspective when
my attention skips back
to the pan
and the hot metal
smell tickling my nose.

-protocols back in place-
I decline their invitation
to visit their temple, now
or any time in the
future, then shake
their hands.

I accept a pamphlet
from the last one,
"The Plan of Salvation",
after he scribbles a
phone number on
the back.

I wish them luck
and close my door
without locking it,
stride over to the skillet
and take it off
the burner.

Good thing I removed
the batteries from
all the smoke
detectors.

I think about
the veil most
of us
live
under.  

the one
that seeks to
distance us
from
the ugly,

brutal,

severe directness

of the cold scales
of survival.

-we are not so far
removed.

   the 9 to 5
    the supermarkets
     the advertisements
      the entertainment
       the gas stations
        the toilets
         the dinnerware
          the morning talk shows
           the sidewalks
            the right angles
             the hot showers
              the doors
               the locks on the doors
                ...
it all adds
to the illusion
of
exception.

they're all
jumping
monkeys clamoring
to distract
and
avert.

this man-made
cacophony is
a powerful
hypnotic
and we
succumb
to our own
enchantments
quite easily.


                                                     I lost
                                                sight of  the
                                            sun below the  h
                                             orizon.   I had t
                                               oo many que
stions to ask before the earth came between us.  and now the night
                                reminds me that she never left.
                                            mute         music
                                            magic       mother
                                                          ­I
                                                        see
   ­                                                    you

"what, you're too good to say 'good morning' to me?"
     she asks me as she slumps through
     the front doors of work.

"no."
     I say,
"you didn't hear me say it back?"
     . . . she didn't.

some people try
     to drag everything
into their own collapsing
     star.

     but I brush it off and
               walk away, successfully
          escaping her gravitational
               pull.

later, minding my own
     ****-stick, she fires another
     shot,
     "you sure have a chip on your shoulder today,  I'm staying out
     of your way!"

this time I don't
even acknowledge
                         her **** bird trying
                         to land on me,
                                                  just smile right
                                                  through her.





I turn my
head to
look
outside.  

the smeared
clouds are
rippling in
a smooth cadence
of anticipation.  



a storm is coming . . .
it's gonna be a good one.

"isn't that something you
want?" she asked.
"no" i replied. "what i desire cannot be given. only by providence can that which is unattached be realized and only by letting go can it be integrated."
"well then...", she said with a smile,
"...perhaps it's time, hmmm?"
and at that she folded
in on herself
over and over
like complex origami
until she became
a butterfly.  

then she fluttered
into my
chest and took
root in my heart
like a seed.  

she grows there
now like a low moon
lover bathing in moonshine,
dripping in starlight,
changing in
the glow.

shirtless screaming through
the heartland and I used
to smoke cigarettes
too.

she never wanted
to stay: the youth
she had
left demanded it.
now, I'll wager
she's somewhere
in an apartment with
some dandy that
wears sweater vests
to Thanksgiving dinner.

maybe she thinks
about me and my little
twisted heart every
now and again:
like when she's away
from the sweater vest
on the toilet
behind a locked door,
"be right out, babe!"
or toting groceries
through a parking lot
to her car,
or signaling a
left turn before
changing her mind
and deciding to
go straight instead.

and
maybe I need to
stop thinking
about her
especially after
three years
incommunicado

but what can I say?
I've never slept on
a bed of nails
I couldn't
dream on.

Just outside, the
rain

plays.  An iron gate is rusting shut
across from

traffic lights
maintaining perfect
indifference
to
a newspaper
on a bench losing its
ink to the gutter.

I get the feeling
you've done this
before.  Now

I see,

I         was             just
                       one
                 part
            of
      the
cycle you like to repeat.

And so it was,
the brief respite attained
through our
lips and arms

and

bodies,

a sunset
mistaken
for a sunrise.

I was just happy to see those
colors stain my sky again,

I refused to
see
the
sun
sinking.

I get the feeling
I've done this before.
Now I see, you   were   just
                                  one
                           part
                     of
               the
        cycle  I  like  to  repeat.

stars align in
a blanket of
        future snow
dusting time's
plateau with
        a smear of
red paint across
the fallen angel's
        face shedding
tears in the naked
light from the
        hollow of a
mirrored heart
playing shadows
        like a work
of art

it's an expansive
drama of forgotten
         leagues keeping
memories in silence
between the ravines
         of what has and
what has yet. digital
ridges serrate the
         landscape of quiet
burdens borne by the
beings of beastly
         countenance
counting seven in
perpetuity in honor
        of the bell that
tolled so long ago now.

there is a low roar
bellowing from the
         womb of novelty
coming to upset the
balance bristling with
         charged particles
of transmutation and
flashing in a dance of
         lightning from
the void. born from
eternity to create in
         time those wildest
dreams from the
darkness of God's mind.

Displaying myself for the auction of love, I stand poised in the light of anxiety.
     "we'll start the bidding off at ten dollars, do I hear ten dollars?" cries the auctioneer. I run my hands down the buttons of my shirt making sure it's neat and straight. "come now ladies, surely one of you lovely creatures would trade ten dollars worth of paper and cloth for this tall drink of water! Do I hear ten dollars to start the bidding off?" I use the sweat from my palms to tame my hair down. Scanning the crowd from under his sharply slanted brow the crier retreats a step, "alright, how about five, do I hear five dollars?" I put on my brightest smile, conjuring every ounce of good-heartedness I have in me. The room is silent. No hands go up and it's clear that lowering the price of bid won't change it. The auctioneer bangs his gavel and declares 'no-sale,' then gestures for the staff to remove me from the stage. Two sharply dressed men then lead me to the back for 'processing' where I'm told that 'someone will be along shortly.'
     Behind the door is just an alley with dumpsters and trash bags full of glass bottles. They shove me out with a pat on the back where I land right next to another man dressed just like me, only much older.
     "how long you been waiting, pal?" I ask him as I sweep away the garbage from me.
     "any minute now," he says weezingly.
     "come again?" I say.
     "she's going to turn that corner," he says, raising a brittle finger towards the end of the alley. "I've been expecting her for some time now, but you know how women can be, she's probably just doing her hair." he laughed and it turned into a hard cough.
     "look buddy, I don't think..." I begin, but just then a beautiful woman comes around the corner and starts toward the gentleman caller.
     "ha! I told you, didn't I tell you!", he says through a mostly toothless mouth. "My lady, you are truly a vision, just as lovely as I remember!" he proclaims, holding up a bouquet of long-dead flowers. When she reaches the man she pulls out a pistol from her purse and sends one straight through his flowers and into his chest. He falls back into a bed of garbage bags still holding the flowers, his last smile frozen on his face.
     I look at the woman and she winks at me as she puts her pistol away, turns and walks out of the alley. I stand there for a few moments, processing what just happened. Then I bend down and pick up the dead man's flowers, run my hands down the buttons of my shirt and tame my hair. "Did you see that," I think to myself, "she winked at me!" A smile stretches across my face. "I wonder if she's coming back? Better wait here, just in case."

the closeness of
my soul is
upon me
with the
right music

the body eats
and eats
and
eats - i can't
help but
feed it

the heart cries
and sings
between each
stranger it lets
in

madness encircles me
like a kettle
of raptors

my spirit reeks
of death
and
the genesis birthed
from it

the greatest
opportunity to
develop and
grow beyond
my tired limitations

i am not
done yet . . .

patterned love responses
spiraling outward from
the chest in search
of hearth and
hemlock to
soothe the brittle
bones of a
generation lost
to time.

I remember a feeling
once felt in
the spacious quality
of my life
in its infancy.

a 'coo' to my
mother--her face
beaming through
the unknown
harshness of life
yet to touch me.

father was out
working, adding
more and more
points of stress to
his life to provide
for the seeds
he sewed in the
soil of his youthful
ignorance.

adulthood snuck
up on me too and
now its too late to
go back.

these days
the only coup
that will save me
is the one
I perpetrate
against myself.
the one that
corrodes my beliefs
and illuminates
the extent of their
misconceptions about
the world and
what it means
to be me.

loyal are the lashes
that lick my flesh
serving the blood
that drips and
flows to the
soil of my own
wasted youth.

all I can do now
is look forward
to the unknown
that looms ahead;
terrifying and promising
failure and change
alike.

pray to your altars
and cry to the
invisible mute gods;

they will answer
in kind in the
laughter of children
playing upon
your spent life.

and so it goes--
life eats life
and mother's die
too.

use your voice
while you have
it--speak of clouds
and storms that
broke you, of winter
and the living
silence you've endured.

praise be to the
broken and the
weary of heart, for
in the breaking is
the great gift
of life

and what you
become after each
shattering is nothing
short of your
endless potential.

she's in my mind
only, ever
in my mind.  i am
a beast drinking blood
in cold shadows.  she's on the stairs towards the gods with gold-flake mirrors on fire.
i can't be soothed by their plasma flesh pixels anymore.
i can't be soothed by their carbon copies.
i will soon be below their real for good.
in need no more of the soft same semblance displayed on the shelves.
i swim in deep pools collecting aloneness on high. the
romantic disaster laughter is muted. these days i can't
help but feel, every now and then,
that death
is
a great kindness
in disguise,          but

not in the
way you
think.

There's nothing more
true than letting
go.  Ironically, there's
nothing to hold
onto anyway.

Flowers blooming in
a wide field
following the Sun's
arc - there is no
zenith, only what
they're after.  Still,
they move with
the wind whether
it's gentle or
violent.  And when
they are uprooted
and torn apart
they do not blame
the wind for they
have done what
they could and still
are.  Even in pieces,
with ripped petals and
broken stems, they
know how to give.

what we become in
    rejection to the templates
        we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
    describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it

bathed in a beam of distant light, i'm
dangling from the mouth of
the sun today. it won't come like
Fante. it won't come like Bukowski.
it won't come at all. it's rusted
chunked blood calving off from
graveled glaciers onto dead sea beds.
it's a joke, it's far away, it's not
meant for me. and so it seems...yet
there still exists a tiny heart somewhere
under all that pumping away almost
imperceptibly.  funneling what blood
is there to send life to these
fingertips. i don't know if it will
ever reach the page though. odds
are good that death will take me
before those veins reach any words
with weight.
but in the writing they have a
chance to stretch and feel and
find their way through the
labyrinth of time and being
human. they have a chance to
beat the odds. a trickle becomes
a stream. a stream becomes a
river. and a river becomes an
ocean. these dead seas will fill
once more whether i am: the glacier,
the trickle, the stream or the
river. my blood runs to that future
ocean...one way or another.

here is a man, alone but
okay.
here is a man, longing but
guarded.
here is a man, tired and
resigned.
here is a man trying to find a way
to try again; to forgive all the women
he's never known for the way he
was treated by those he has known.
to forgive himself for the tears he no doubt
caused to fall from the women he no doubt
hurt.
he is a broken man
but
glad for it; every crack, every piece, every splinter,
every jagged edge, for he could never know himself
without shedding those parts of him that could
not survive.
the ones that are left are the ones worth being,
no matter how small or irregular they are.
here is a man, in pieces.
here is a man.

1.


2.


3.

all the
great religions
of the world
are ships

i am more
interested
in the
ocean

the one to let go of
the one that doesn't                                                 fit
the one that is too nice
the one that is aimless
the one that
is more emotional
than you may have
thought
the one that
does not believe
in himself
the one that holds
the knife
the pills
and
n  o   t   h    i     n      g
the one that dropped out
the one that isn't
good enough
the one that is unconscientious
the one without purpose
the one to cheat on
the one to use
the one to leave
the one to forget
the one you don't remember
the one that is a coward
the one that is a fool
the one that is broken
the one who will disappoint you
the one who is oblivious
the one that smothers
the one that is scared
the one that is too skinny
the one that can't defend
himself
the one that will drag
you down
the one with the bleeding heart. . .



Run.

somewhere there is
a man sitting
alone in a cave.

the immensity of
the cavity is obscured
by darkness, he
cannot tell how
deep it goes.

he has resigned
himself to whatever
this absence
holds.

the man hears
nothing but himself
echoing back
at him.

he can no longer
discern whether he
is going deeper
or just laterally.

he stopped here
for a moment
because here
was as suitable
a spot as any
in that Cimmerian
womb.

his heart is heavy
as his mind projects
the images, memories
and emotions
of his most recent
love lost.

he is afraid that
all this shadow will
swallow him
or that
maybe it already
has.  

that ultimately,
this ritual pilgrimage
to the underworld
would claim
him as payment.

but he knows that
this place also
offers unparalleled
boundless healing
and metamorphic
growth to those
that traverse
and
converse
authentically.

all that you find here is you.
all that you face here is you.
everything you didn't realize you were capable of.
every deeply malevolent impulse.
every twisted thought.
every terrible act.

but also the courage
to face them,

the grace to move
into them

and the love
to understand
them.

you will lose
yourself here.

you will find
yourself here.

...once more into the dark.

i never thought this day would come
with death's dusty pink collar
blooming in senescence as
the goldfinch flies with
exuberant locution.

what tome have you written in your
faulty hand? blameless brokenness
becomes me as
the light of tomorrow's sun
reaches these cracks today.

i'm no puzzle...i walk the line
of cynicism and bitterness
leaving yesterday's
nubile romance face down
in a shallow puddle of rain water in the
street. the sign said 'STOP' and that
was the end of its instruction.

days go
by
like cars
go by
like days
go
by like
cars go
by
like days
go by
like
cars go
by in fashion
in form in
unison in
seconds

awake to repeat
on time
today as skeletons
flame contagion
bright against
your ripe apple

again arranging
your pattern to
fit   /   feed
the mouth sloppy
below bit-beady
black holes

as i live and breathe
and
as i die and shed:
moult,
transform,
undulate,
flourish.
a line or two
for vitality,
for becoming:
   a lake,
   a chasm,
   a riverbed.
a line or two
for mortality,
for becoming:
   a library,
   a prison,
   a crossing.
bodhisattva,
i drank the sun that morning,
golden brew,
a potion upon
my face.
bathing in warm light
eyes closed,
lungs sky,
my blood is a river,
mountains for bones.
my resonance is vitality.
i am becoming;
through death and life
and
through death
and
through life
i alight.

those long legs
and hips
to sink into

blonde , college girl
in my building

sometimes , if i'm
lucky , when i sit down
to eat some
rice i catch a
glimpse of her
starting her run
across the street
from my balcony

those three seconds
are sometimes the
best part of my
day

i'm embarrassed to
admit it but
the other day
i took my time
eating my
rice , hoping to
see her again for a
few seconds at the
end of her run

i waited
and the sun
went down
slowly

through
orange and
crimson and
purple and
indigo

until there
was only broth
left in my
bowl

and not
a long blonde
miracle in sight

ring the
bell
crystal chime
shimmers

ring the
bell
my mind is
a stallion

ring the
bell
to all the people
that at least tried to
love me

ring the
bell
break like the ocean
against the cliff

ring the
bell
and watch every
crown melt

ring the
bell
and bless your
enemies

ring the
bell
and fade away

ring the
bell
you are no
more

ring the
bell
you never were

ring the bell
    your time
     was here
     was now
     was yours

did you drink it deeply

did you try

every moment
was treasure
every moment
was fleeting
every moment
was hiding
every moment
was yours
every moment
was beautiful


like first
heartbreak


like a crying
child


like a
predator



like sleep





ring the bell then and
rest

your smile
was here





and it had
more power
than all
the gods

born from a splitting
ache in the back-left of my head
like a drill bit whirring in an empty paint can.

i'd give you pearls for hands my love,
ever-winter washing over our foaming cerulean eyescapes.  

inside your drums I hear
a pulse that cries for
hips and thorns entangled
under your
navel.  

one more summer breath from lung to lung
exchanged
under moonlight for the promise of elevation.  
you are not
who you say you are
my dear - you are a
future memory
stalking sweetly today under the guise
of novel pleasure , but time will
reveal your skin to me
under the electric lavender
of my
eyelids.

you are wood grain
and strata -
born too, it seems, from a splitting.

"This is a collect call from: 'Darlene Ryder', at the Nielsen County Sheriff's Department, press '2' to accept charges and be connected."

beep

"hello? Bill?...you there?"
"**** Darlene, how many times we gotta ******' do this?!", he threw his voice at her through the phone like a fastball wrapped in firecrackers.
"I dint do nuthin' wrong! they jus got sumpn' against me s'all!"
"uh huh, the **** d'you do, huh?
"the ***** had it comin', I was jus tryin' to have a few 'n relax then she come 'n talk 'bout how I was lookn' atter funny but I watn't- I was jus mindin' my own talkin' to Charlie. So all's I need from you is to get yer lazy, belly-picken', beer-guzzlin' hole fer a face down here and unpinch this ******' mess!" and hung up the receiver on her end of prison.
      The guards shoot each other a look then raise their eyebrows.  They'll be recounting this over beers tonight beneath the monstrous glow of 47 90" TVs in between attempts at the waitress young enough to be their daughter.  They'll shovel in the wings of a total of 18 birds drowned in hot sauce and butter before the sports bar stops feeding them.  Then they'll all drive home drunk with hot breath and testosterone like molasses, ending their nightly routine with their ***** in their hands and their pants around their ankles drooling at tiny glowing screens.  
      Long live the American gods of New Olympus.

your name
spoken
in ceremony,
no aid will
come.

this fragmented
colossus screams
through my
skull.

my love is poison.
my love is poison.
    
there is no antidote.

my love is poison.

see it now in
full light.

my love is poison.

tell me the
truth, that
my love will corrupt me,
that
my love will devour me.

tell me the
truth, that
this horror sings so sweetly
it draws every moth
to its flame.

tell me the
truth, that
my love is poison,
that
someday,

my love will
**** me.

heather is a feminine body
in a suede chair under charcoal ceilings

perry is wearing
sweaters to evening dinners

katie is a black light poster
in newspaper print

alex is an origami sailboat

spoon feed yourself some more cathleen,
the cats are waiting

I burn
beautifully in the
fires of
vanity

I got lost
in my reflection
on the
frozen foods
doors

I was
displayed
with all the other
products
on ice:

three fifty-nine
for four
egg rolls

six twenty-nine
for frozen
bread dough

six ninety-nine
for wild
blueberries

and
superimposed
among them
my long mug
doing its best
to fit in

according to my
forehead
I am
three ninety-nine

but if you
ask my solar
plexus
I'm clearly marked
five fifty-nine

however,
my **** is apparently
on clearance
reduced by thirty
percent and
selling for
one dollar and
nineteen cents

and that old lady
at the end of the aisle
is eyeing
my biscuits
and rattling
her coin purse
like she's about to
roll
a yahtzee

my eyes dart
back to
my reflection
on the doors

what did I
come here
for again?

you are a fisherman's
net.  

you stretched
out
as soon
as you left my hands
to catch all the
fish you
could



and



i'm sure you did -



schools
of them.

you're very good

at catching
lots
of
fish

but



you're not so
good at
catching just

one.

i'll raise an electric fence around
the gods up there
in mountains and ivory towers
and they'll all wear shock collars
too

i'll spread peanut butter on bread
and send it to them through
the mail

i'll write them letters from the
lower world saying that 'time
really isn't a bother anymore
because apples rot in home
baked pies down here'

i'll reach through my own
tainted build up of corrosive
discharge and pull a petal
from the flower of life
to eat in front of
them with a coffee toothed smile

i'll throw weeds over
palisades into
groomed gardens

i'll **** on the flaming sword
spinning like i do
outside
heavenly gates

i'll put AA batteries on
my ******* and force
feed the north star
until it bursts

i'll stain the glass in windows
extolling failures and shining
blunders under vaulted
ceilings

i'll be nothing less than
the imperfect son of
an imperfect man and
an imperfect
woman--

human
all too human
after all

i'm no good, but
here I am anyway,
again
typing words
into poems.

i'm afraid that
all this is
a waste of time.
that I read some
poetry somewhere
long ago and
mistakenly believed
that I too could
do that.

but I can't
help it,
these words still
show up
somehow.

even
when they
don't end
well.

She steps outside of what
I could fathom.  A soft
recollection of nothingwoman, a
spectre splitting me like firewood.

In time all my memories
will burn me out leaving
behind what I always was without the fuel
-some sort of holding pattern
for whatever courses through
the circuit; molting matter
in continuous expression of itself.

I am immanence incarnate.

sent you
a
call
from a
space
no one
knows.

I long for the days of
no man.

here, I
could
stay
forever,
gleaning
endless
insight from
this tree
moving in
the wind.

no romance has ever
shown me such wisdom.

no human has ever
displayed such power.

yet,
somewhere
there is a
movement
that escapes
me,

that escapes
us all.


may it always be so.

when I stop
and
just let the
silence
be. . .

everything
is ok:

the tattered
tarp partially
buried in
the
hillside is
ok

the broken
bough used
as a toy
by the
poor
children is
ok

the
jaggedly
chopped
tree stump
by the
parked
car is
ok

the
unevenly
placed
stairs
that force
you to
change
your gait
are
ok

the
distant
tower
with the
blinking
light
is
ok

the
solitude
among
other
mortals
is
ok

the
whelming
sense of
being
lost is
ok

the
neat
glass of
scotch
from the
isle of
skye is
ok

the
divorced
lesbian
with two
kids at
the end
of her
rope
is
ok

the
minuscule
fly that
landed
on my
forehead
in the
bathroom
this
morning
is
ok

everything
is
ok

even the
things
that
aren't

they're
ok too

i am Orpheus in the clouds
playing clown for the masses.

i'm half of the shaft of light
breaking mosaically into
millions of pieces across the kitchen floor.

i'm a smoky chandelier swaying with
the bravado of a censure on high-holy-day.

i'm the royal velvet lining your blood.

i am a poem, without reason, read to you
by a stranger.

i am 200 tons of cracked granite one thousand
feet above you splitting off from the face of
the mountain.

but more so than any of that,

i'm a peculiar kind
of nothing

typing words onto
screens before
i die.

torn free from the ground of
pregnant ideas and withered
internal dialogues.

aloof in the face of destiny, crying
for refuge among the disowned,
the dismembered, the disinterested.  i
alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction
crafted painstakingly through my ages
and seasons.

a mind as sharp as mine
to raise me without feathers
and place me
among the mulch.

i blanket my canvas with
woes and worries alike, neglecting
the foul-mouthed begotten son
arranged among the pillars left standing.

crooked trees and iced stone to
vibrate
through these ears of clay.  

i miss the days of youthful
ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my
future like a cannon of pride
and confidence.  

today the final summer flowers exhale
notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling
with the hum of nature's eternal embrace.  
the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and
swirl in irrevocable sincerity.  from rise to
fall, through night and naught, the world
recurs again to weave itself anew.