It's the things you love and the things that you learn to hate. It's the feeling of despair and indescribable rage. It's the things you try to hide but you always seem to find

That the human aspects of life are fickle and flame. There's a communal need to pass on (not shoulder) the blame. When you stand back and look away, can you handle all the shame

Of the things you know you should have done but you chose to neglect? And you say you're doing fine but you're an emotional wreck. The things you try to hide cast shadows in your eyes.

It's the things you thought you knew and the things you try to forget. Is it a life well lived if it's a life filled with regret? If it's a shocking turn of events, will you trudge on through the end

Of the story to see how it all will surely unfold? Isn't there a strange sort of beauty in the perils of telling truths untold? When the questions that you have are the ones you'll never ask

On a search to self proclaimed enlightened truth and you seem to think you wasted time on this ill fitting youth. The things you try to hide turn my stomach and make me cry.

It's the things you did and the things that I know you regret.

The end of the world
Is covered in swells of sunlit tides
That welcome the day from a celibate night
With a spell of siren wind song

She is perched on the pier
a lonely mourning dove
rather than a stalking hawk.

Legs pouring over the red cedar //
toes playfully kissing the mist
of lulling lake waves against the dock.

She waits over the fish staring
at the drowning worm her father
pierced with the rusted hook.

Three fish // silver like new quarters
coming towards her //
towards this earth thing in water.

Every time they begin to kiss //
nibble // the worm // she tugs the
line and the creatures scatter.

She intends to catch one each time //
she flicks her wrist too soon each time
and each time she can’t catch a fish //

she doesn’t seem to mind.

or Portland, or Spokane
A two-bed hideaway with pale green shutters
and a patchwork quilt of a garden. Neighbours
that bring wine and friendly company late at night
me and you, and our future children
will swing in the backyard. Porch light blazing
and moths fluttering in the rays of gold
that penetrate the darkness beyond our little nest-egg.
Autumn will bring gloom and rain will patter on the roof
but we can snuggle up on the couch.
I'll do my best to cook at thanksgiving
have our families to stay, talking loudly for hours, then sleeping
in every quiet corner and dimly lit study.
Sometimes, I'll seem faraway, in the land of bad habits and strangers
I'll stare out at the stars and wonder - what if I left?
and I can't promise that house will be ours forever
but right now there is nowhere I would rather be
than that little house, timber and glass
everything will be snug and warm, I promise.

Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up

In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --

But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank

Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.  

I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills

Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,

Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.

Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,

Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,

And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling

To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.

I have a memory of those days
In Maine, with crashing coastal waves

When reading was a future right
Mom read, “Blueberries for Sal” at night

And that huge nameless tree in the field
At dark, a dinosaur concealed

Walking a stray black cat with a string
That ran up a tree and could not cling

Mom had to climb that tree, pregnant
And retrieve the remains and remnants

I remember those days, quite well
And the fake Christmas tree smell

The revolving multi colored light
That lit our fake tree until Twelfth night

In Maine there is snow, whiter than white
And memories that induce me to recite

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

whispers of sea
where the cold storm
gathers in the grey
sky, and the waves
pound the shore
running back
pushing down
arching like
fiery cats,
the ache of the storm
a tearful cloud
the song of
a poem.