I must be nuts to be sitting here
at one o’clock in the morning
when I have to get up at six,
when I have to put on a tie
at seven and walk in that door
at eight with a smile on my face.

But I’ve had such a normal day --
made a sale, ate lunch, made a sale;
made a ham sandwich for dinner;
ate it; ate a bowl of ice cream
between sitcom reruns and game shows --
that I had to wake up at least once before bed.

Out in the lanes where laughs not Mirth,
          Where maggots thrive 'mid offal fogs,
A mongrel ***** wreaked lethal birth
          Unto a host of puppy dogs.

Six guileless hounds were spewed in Hell,
          The dowager vaporing, dead.
Five unlicked pups heaved blind and fell
          Until but one might Being wed.

Then I, bereft of Pride's respect,
          My spirit cold spurned to this sty,
Touched humble fur -- O dim reject!
          For me his spark refused to die!

It matters not how mixed his blood,
          How flea-infected be his skin,
I now command this canine stud;
          I am the master of Chien.

And if the seed should take, what then?
Two souls would replicate, but one
would find itself, the other lose
itself in mystic legacy.

it’s in the blood and not the hand:
the corrupt blood of great great
grandmassa freret through great
grandpa cleo and grandpa cleo
and paps and then me;

the empty hand
to which grandmassa bequeathed
some of his fortune to be stolen
by his other (white) line
under the law by which the court
declared null and void the will
and legacy to cleo
because cleo’s mother
grandmassa’s daughter
could not inherit,

so the hand is empty --
empty of that fortune
but not of that blade
with which this disinherited one
drew the same blood
from three of the heirs
of that other (all-white) line
in the dark of one bleak morning
in the same garden district mansion
where grandmassa bed his housemaid
great great grandma mildred
who then in the same mansion
birthed the first cleo
to whom was bequeathed the blood
and the ultimately stolen fortune:

hence the hand the blood
the corrupt blood in these veins
i let onto the floor of the block
screaming “it’s in the blood! it’s in the blood!”

and so they took away the blade
and again the hand is empty
and still the blood is corrupt

They were married,
but not to each other.
She was the assistant;
he was the boss.
Her name was Sarah.

She stayed late often
and talked with him alone.
Somehow he let her know
he wasn’t completely happy,
and somehow she let him know
she understood,
which made him happy.

He should have been working;
she should have been home.
Before long he couldn’t work anyway,
thinking of her.  

So he fell in love with her.
But he didn’t know it;
He thought it was lust.

When he knew she’d accept,
He offered a kiss.
She accepted.

Once they started,
they couldn’t stop,
and still they talked
as they touched and kissed.
They were soulmates mating.

After awhile,
she talked of leaving her husband, Paul,
and he talked of leaving his wife, Rebecca.
Rebecca was his mistake,
and someday he’d leave her
or she’d leave him.
But he didn’t want a new wife,
or a new mistake.

So he let Sarah go.
She went in tears.

It was the best thing to do.
It was the worst thing to do.

Around him grew
a sad new aura: emptiness --
emptiness in the office,
where the new assistant played computer games;
emptiness at home,
where the dog got heart worms
and the pipes froze.

He thought in time
the emptiness would fade.
But Sarah was gone,
and he missed her.
In time,
he missed her more.
The more he missed her,
the emptier life became.

Then it struck him:
the magnitude of what he’d done:
he’d lost her.
He loved her.
He’d lost the one he loved.

He had to call her;
he couldn’t call her.
He’d made her cry.
She had to hate him.
Maybe she loved him.
He had to see her.

He drove across the river to her new office.
He found her car in the parking lot.
He parked where he could see,
and waited.

At five-after-five
she approached her car.
He got out of his
and approached her.
She stopped
when she saw him.
He stopped
when she stopped.

He said the words:
“I love you.”

She came toward him.
She stood before him.
Her eyes were gardens.

“I didn’t know I loved you,” he said.
“But now I know.
I love you.”

She turned to the car
and opened the door.
“I left Paul,” she said.

“I’ll leave Rebecca.”

She got in the car.
“Call me when you do.”
She shut the door,
started the car,
backed up
and drove off.

So there was hope.

That night
he packed his bags
as Rebecca raved.
Then he left.

The next morning
He called Sarah.
He took her to lunch
that day.
She cooked dinner
that evening.

They've been together
ever since.

Look at him. Look at him, they think. Pitiful.
His withered legs like empty promises hang
from hips as dead and shrunken as stillborn dreams.
It must be hell to be half wheelchair
and half man.

                          He understands. He understands
they think they understand how it feels to be
a wheelchair man. So well he understands
the wholesomeness of pity: for every ounce
of pity, you can count a thousand blessings.
So count.

                   Meanwhile he rolls. He rolls and rolls.
Legs – legs he doesn't see. Hips – hips he avoids.
Looking up he sees faces, tall faces
with glass eyes fixed on objects far too high
for him to spy from his lowly throne.

                                                        ­          He rolls
and counts and rolls to a stop before
cathedral steps. The doors are closed today.
He cannot see inside today. No matter –
He cannot genuflect on any day,

but flexes the muscles of his faith each time
he pities them, who stoop to sympathize.

There's something square about a city block
that boxes the mind in concrete, brick, steel,
iron, wood, and stone, as if one could not
look in or out, or dream or dare to live
upon a liquid sphere of blue and green.

The elements of poetry escape
me at the moment, run amuck among
thought-dogs roaming, sniffing in the night

the dry earth for the scent of something without
a scent, hastening the dismemberment
of poetry's escaping elements.

A lucky man
(I forget his name)
gathered his winnings and retired young.
He enjoyed peaceful mornings
in the garden, afternoons
on the golf course, and evenings
with cable TV.
He enjoyed leisurely vacations
in Vegas, Honolulu,
Cancun and Orlando.
He enjoyed health, prosperity,
friendship and love.
Then he died.

She’s a good and beautiful woman.
But Grandad won the Gold in Swimming
in Thirty-Four, Mom won the Silver
in Diving in Sixty-Six, and I won
the Gold in Swimming again in Two Thousand.
So good and beautiful might not be enough.

From day to day they consume themself,
inhale themself into themself --
smoking butts on hot afternoons,
becoming nothing.

They have an aspiring artist friend,
a silent screen on which they dare
project themself like a shadow
in hell.

The artist friend understands well
how one might forget to exhume themself
from themself, and how one must remember this
by themself.

through an icy windshield white panoramas,
cubic landscapes witH crystalline fractures
breaking off revealing blackness and rude
eyes glEaming lustily in the darkness.

whining in the windows, crying in the wind
when you roll the window down, whEel bearings
wailing like prometheus enduring
somehow the uneNdurable.

the cold
smell of unfamiliar territory.
the taste of carbon monoxiDe and fear.

          wheels locking -- steel
          crunching -- lungs
          releasing one last
          breath --

I love you, true, but no fine words can say
how much I do. It’s more than that -- more
than simple terms can express, more even
than simile or metaphor could capture
had I Shakespeare’s wit and pen. But I’ll try:

Because of you I’m the luckiest of men.
Whatever made me love you at the start
was my good fortune, and has intensified.
The trials we’ve survived now make me smile
to think how we survived them with each other,
and how all adversity diminished
and diminishes still in your presence.

I love you, I know, because when, as now,
we’re apart, I can’t be happy unless
I talk with you, silently, here in my heart,
and know you’re there, and know you’ll be there, and know
that heartbeat is the sound of what we are.

abound where we loathe:
in impassable bogs,
chronic shadows, lingering fogs,
and matter decayed.

Others thrive where we live:
on our lawns and pets,
in our homes — our food gets
eaten, but not missed.

Some infect our machines:
our programs and apps;
our code and mind maps;
our digital dreams.

And sometimes they grow in our heads:
in electrical nests,
sticky webs, hot threads,
and muffled echoes.

Aldous the cockatiel lives in a cage,
and loves it -- he’s comfortable there, and vague
enough to sleep while a man would linger

nearby, free, uneasy, watching the fingers
enwrap themselves in invisible knots,
tighter, tighter, with every sweep of the clock.

Relationships of divers nations
          crystallize in Terrible Times:
alliances divide along
          Terror/Anti-Terror lines.

The paradigm is surgical:
          eradicate the cancerous cells.
So privy nations operate
          on Terror's malignant network of Hells.

The human species balances
          upon the precipice of Fate:
voices clamor on Freedom's side;
          dogma grips the side of Hate.

And one God watches, knowing They
          have and will defeat the Beast.
But who's the Beast? "It's them!" points each.
          May the best team win, the other cease.

I'm planning on plotting a novel about
A ravishing beauty, a former boy scout,
Her longing for him, his passion for her,
And the love they made forever and ever.

Or how about a detective, jaded
By betrayal, loneliness, and faded
Memories of something about a woman
And a time when he’d felt almost human?

Or what if I write about damsels and knights,
Or giants and dwarves and elves in fights
With assorted villains and torturers,
Like dragons, magicians, and sorcerers?

Or maybe the world would relish a tale
Of invasions on a galactic scale
That threaten the earth with annihilation
Till superheroes deliver salvation.

But whether the myriad books I might write
Would even be read or might kindle delight
Is academic, unless I proceed,
From start to finish, to do the deed.

To say “I love you” is equivalent
to saying I breathe air.

                                         Such sustenance
as I derive from oxygen devolves
so liberally, so reflexively upon me,
yet were I deprived of atmosphere,
the words “I breathe” would not avail to fill
my lungs with what they need, nor would the words
“I am a fish” convert my lungs to gills.

Ethereal by nature, not by choice,
I’m bound to love you notwithstanding my voice.

The children's photographs hang statically
from mobile threads training in the wind
of time and memory, flashing faces

smiling frozen in the blink of the eye
of mind as it focused at a time within
memory, impelling eternity

toward me now as spaces stretch between
the real trees grass sand and gulf
and places where the real faces move.

Grown-ups are too big to see the ground.
They watch the costumes, masks
and arms, the throws
into the crowds from giant floats
like little clouds.
They catch stuff in the air,
but if it hits the ground
they leave it there.

Grown-ups hide even the highest floats.
Backs and backs of heads and hands
like tiny treetops block
the view, so all I see
are tractor wheels and legs
and big shoes.

Grown-ups don’t know what they’re missing.
Dodging knees I stoop and scoop
up tons of treasures
in a blink. They think
they’re smart, but down here
I’m the King.

It’s hard to define the word love,
But it’s easy to know when you’re in it.
I’ve got a feeling higher than the heavens above,
And I swear babe it’s growing every minute.

I’m longing to be with you day and night
With a longing that’s different and new.
It’s getting so strong, it’s blinding my sight
Because all I can see now is you.

Abounding in beauty within and without,
You’re a goddess of goodness and grace.
If I was a baby, I’d cry and I’d pout
Till I rested my eyes on your face.

I’m unworthy of you, but lucky for me,
You picked me instead of another.
I am what I am, but with you there may be
A better me to discover.

And best of all, you’re a truehearted friend;
What more could a boy ever need?
My love for you will never end,
But will grow like a flowering seed.

There’s no way to say everything I’m feeling,
But I just thought I’d give you a clue
About one little fact I find hard concealing —
I’m in love, so in love, with you.

So I’ll say it again and again, I’m in love;
I’m in love, so in love, with you.
With you I’m in love, so in love, I’m in love;
I’m in love, so in love, with you.

This nameless potted specimen
          appears about to die.
Perhaps the wilted, browning stem
          (thank God it cannot cry)

is starving for a richer soil,
          or just a larger ***.
(A plant needs little room to toil,
          but even less to rot.)

Perhaps the shriveled leaves need light
          uncut by mini-blinds,
or air that’s not conditioned quite
          so centrally by minds

averse to nature’s crude extremes
          (the spice of a plant’s life).
And what bird’s song, like human screams,
          cuts through roots like a knife?

Every morning at six-thirty I sit
at that table by the window and drink
my coffee. No, I’m retired. As you see,
I can see that corner, and most days the kids
come there to wait for the bus to take them to
the high school. Two boys and a girl, usually.
No, I don’t know them or their names, but I’d
recognize them. So, they stand there talking
and smoking -- whether cigarettes or something
else, I don’t know, but sometimes they shared it.
And I’m thinking the boys shared the girl too,
because one day one’s kissing her, the next day
he doesn’t show and she’s kissing the other.
That was yesterday. Then, today, the first boy
walks up and bang! bang! -- he shoots them both,
the girl and the boy, point blank in the head, like
Pacino in Scarface. Yes, I’ll testify.
But please catch the little ******* before
he finds out I’m a witness and pops me too.

The husband of the mother is presumed
          to be the father of the child.
We think it best that one man should be doomed
          to bear the risk the seed is wild.

Terror evolves in the pure open space
where sparked by the doubt of one who resents
the consequence of living and knowing
nothing of the terrible, terrible
confrontation, it propounds incessant
problems of being and ceasing until
entangled Reason entangles itself
in implications of implications,

confounding the space, conceiving a place
of refuge bounding Nowhere’s edge,
where ponderous dreams of life without care
augment the power and anger and dread
of Terror itself, thickening like air,
glutting the infinite heart of the head.

That I can blame ice for freezing my fire,
night for eclipsing my day,
wind for eroding my mountain,
or worms for eating my leaves,
I don’t suppose.

That I’m frozen, dark, flat, and barren,
I won’t deny.

That I can hope for a sudden spark,
a ray of dawn,
an eruption,
or a sprout
is all I ask.

One windless evening the bass started biting
just before sunset as I glided along
the bayou in a pirogue with a ******
of the paddle here and there for direction.

I was casting a topwater up against
the bank among the cypress trunks and stumps
and overhanging limbs and shrubs and twitching
and popping the bait until the fish struck.

To see and hear and feel the violent burst
of each strike and to set the hook firmly
in each jaw and each battle kept me out
until the mosquitoes and the gator came.

At first a bumpy head at least a foot wide
and three feet long with big shiny black eyes
inched toward the pirogue and me as if we
were just what he had in mind for dinner.

I dropped my rod and thought I’d better paddle
fast and hard before Wally got too close
but Wally sensed panic and to my horror
I saw the swish of his tail fifteen feet back.

The gator accelerated smooth and quick
and locked its gaze upon the very spot
the paddle broke water to push me away
as the jaws snapped shut and cracked it in half.

I slid away watching as the gator shook
its monstrous head free of the broken splinter
and I realized now he’d be coming again
for me down the bayou with half a paddle.

The pirogue rocked on the wave Wally made
during all the commotion and sure enough
he came again stalking the little boat
now stalled and adrift so I had to act fast.

I untied and lifted my stringer of bass
gasping and wet like a shiny green fleece
and hefted and hurled it aiming precisely
at the slashing jaws of the reptile beast.

The gator struck at the fish with a splash
of his big toothy head and chomped down on three
huge bass and swallowed them whole in one gulp
then snapped up three more that were still on the string.

So Wally was happy for now as the sun
went down and I wondered how to get back
to the dock half a mile away in the dark
with Wally nearby and perhaps hungry yet.

Then I got an idea and picked up my rod
and cast the old topwater past Wally’s head
and chugged it back popping in front of his face
where soon he attacked it and hooked himself good.

Wally went down with a **** and a swirl
and made such a wave I grabbed the boat rail
with one hand while holding onto the rod
which bent almost double as the line stretched tight.

The pirogue took off like a rocket boat
as Wally swam up the bayou to flee
the pressure and drag and the alien hook
underwater and then on top with me.

In no time I neared the dock in the dark
and slackened the line until Wally shook free
then glided right up to the dock and *******
and got out fishless but at least in one piece.

He too saw the promise of a distant light,
but unlike him he renounced the gold hat,
and unlike her she did not renounce him.
His parties were simpler, but she was content
with what he could offer: a romantic
readiness, just like his; a gift for hope
for a life together; a capacity
for wonder at the promise of a dream.

Even now he remembered the sad things
that happened to them -- the deprivation
and the foul dust that floated in their wakes.
But through the smoke he peered into her eyes
and saw the light there, green as ever,
and knew they’d turn out all right at the end.

A pitiful wretch inhabits my brain;
In a boiling cauldron they writhe in pain.
When I perceive beauty or feel desire,
On impulse the cognizance feeds the fire.

The prisoner screams, they blister and burn;
They suffer and die, and then they return.
As long as I love, they'll never rest;
The hug of a child puts them to the test.

Nothing will comfort this inmate of life
But hunger and cold, aloneness and strife.
They'd pluck out my eyes, cut out my tongue,
And make me a bed out of thorns and dung.

Yet I’ve known those who were quite insane
Because no wretch lived in their brain.
I hope until the moment I die,
My head resounds with that sobering cry.

I may be just a partying sort of guy,
But that’s the sort of guy I wanna be.
I intend to go down laughing when I die.

I like the ladies, that I won’t deny.
I give them what they want, and they like me
Because I’m such a partying sort of guy.

I make love, sleep, wake up, and then get high.
My days and nights are filled with revelry.
I know I’ll go down laughing when I die.

I wear the finest clothing I can buy
And drive the fastest car you’ve ever seen
To prove I’m quite a partying sort of guy.

I never get depressed, I never cry,
But those who do have all my sympathy.
I’d rather go down laughing when I die.

So why are some committed to the lie
That life is hard? They must love misery.
Myself, I’ll be a partying sort of guy
Until I go down laughing, when I die.

You can see the moon
as well as I
from where you are.

Perhaps I can stretch my arm
up to the wandering crescent
and grasp it firmly
to swing myself
across the meager gulf.

I'll lightly drop
into the lap of your land,
before the moonlit vision
of your loveliness.

At once he feels the magnetic tug upon
His bones muscles nerves & fingertips.

Aflame she glows, her ice blue eyes ablaze
Amid the fire of her hair & lips.

Proximity mere bends space-time & light --
Captivated, into orbit he slips.

The snapshot of Now
folds in the middle:
me on one side,
kids on the other.

The snapshot of Then
split in the end --
me torn apart,
them with their mother.

I apologize
For my half-rhymes
It’s a habit I can’t break no matter how I tries

Hope you pardon me
For how I sing
Like a scratchy vinyl record or a gagging geek

I’m so sorry for
My poor guitar
Got no rhythm when I strum and fingers fumble chords

All apologies
For my deficiencies
Please excuse me while I flush my latest masterpiece