often poets
have their choice of images
turkey,
duck,
goose,
or chicken.

language is
cooking
each poem
has its own
smell

as the flavors
and sounds boil
reduce
into an incense.

people
are often
surprised
when they  visit
the i
at my poem desk.


why do
i wear an apron
and a chef’s hat ?

the pockets
you see
are  perfect to hold pens
and 3 by 5 cards  aplenty
and a  metal ladle
to stir
faithful
the sauce
of my compositions.

...It always seems...
            that we come to
               beginning at the end…


I disagree
              we are at a table.

Technically at a table
      but more al fresco
                              than inside...

I do not  agree  
                      with your
                                   misuse  of metaphor.

What a surprise...
                       To  understand inside
                                                       on must understand outside...


No you miss-understand!
          Please stop drinking
          you are a waterfall in reverse
pouring liqueur down
          the pettiness of your throat.
Oh! you spilled again…..

… Gin...i think its more
           likely libation
than your crocodile tears
           splashing like thorns on our salty dinner table...

You treat our wedlock
like pinata
and keep on swinging  

<lifting a glass of sherry>
...the mermaids are singing
the crickets are  chirping
can i  join in the luminous tunes
under moonscape & street lamps...
  i  am not sure if the
narrator or the voice
  of our disconnect,
is just a  ***** or an effaced  harpy ...

Monologuing  are we?

    That was always your problem….

No i was hoping for a liqueur
& well-lit soliloquy
unfortunately
you hearing is
too good & your plates is
too clean.
Never trust a skinny noun
for a lover...

                                              Your using the wrong fork….

No fears,
           as my empty
            overturned glasses
                               tremble around us
                               like our nonexistent children.
          Impossibilities
                 that  haunt the spaces of our words
                 like overcooked spaghetti  
...here too our invisible similes
at our
        evening repast...

                                        No worries
                                                        I was written that way
                                                                                         and you are a miserable lush.

indeed….
not on the menu
but our relationship
is a taco
with not enough lettuce…



I would say there are
                              losts of green words
                              missing  between us
                                                 and echo of your ego
                                                  swims in the whiskey.

the beauty of a glass  
             is its final emptiness;
the difference between          
lust and lush is just  one letter.
              you my dear  
             never lets the letters
            of your alphabets
free to flap

to the porch lights
                  
              except for a price...


It   might  just be the
                             spaces between
                                                   stars and ignorance of moths.
Your ignorance
                        always steals the narrative
                                                                  in my fortune cookie.


  no desert tonight i guess.
i hate this  mistaken table …..

Misspoken...you mean
miserable table!!!

your reflection my dear
will always reflect
            in waxy wood rings….
           returning to where
we first met
making one
            want to drink
            deeply the forgetful draught
                                          from the Styx
                                          my cold little-sphinx.

first you
            must imagine
                                  a shiny poem
           new born
           printed
like moses  between
          two-pages
          of bulrushes.

Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.

You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
    long addicted
           to poetry’s  
   chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
          of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
        Run down the isles
        with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
        of all the unread
                                  poetry books.



How dreadful
       the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
       speaking fiery sonnets.

If you  should  go that route
       be careful never gaze directly
into their  burning  orbs
        of controlling  metaphors.
Then the poet
        in you will turn to stone
like the gaze  of basilisk.

Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to  eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for   lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and  when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take  that mysterious chapbook
and hold it  
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and  read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
                           descending
           as the flickering of flame
                            and wax
                        begin to pool on   candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors  kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
                      before you  all
                                    its tropes
                                    sing-like sparrows
                       and  then its images  
                       build new stairs
                                                  in your inward mind
                                                                ­                    as lines proceed  
                                                       ­                                                   up the  sky-stained                          sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
                                       and you must obey
                                                            ­        and follow
                                                          ­             until
                                                           the last page turns
     and luminous  ink letters
         emerge
                                     from all your
pores.

poems
should not have
bullet points.
• why not?
• because textbooks
say so…

• Just because
• the herd needs
• a period
• not to test
• the great
• expanse
• of blank page
• --below --
• The hooves of their conformity

so do

• i not
• require
• the use
• of bullets
• between symbols
• and words
• that i
• drip
• sound though .

to splash…
for poets
often
delude
themselves
in their
poems.

The shadow
will never
stop following
you

no matter how cold
it presence
as it embraces you
one hand on
your abdomen
it slows the flesh
with inward stillness.

it shares
an eye with you
like greek witch
from a story.
a kiss within a cup
a vision splashes from
the eyelid.

So you can see
in the shade
of its presence...
clinging on
my poor shadow
afraid
of my
friendship with the sun.
shadow
do not fear
love is not forgotten
no matter the depths and shades
of darkness may surround.

For their always
is a comfortable dark and room
in the humbleness
of my sewn
mismatched pockets
that i unworthy offer…

Such Fruit
is according
to its season

To Early
the fruit
drags on
the lower branches
as the stars reflect
on its waxy rind.

To Late
the remaining fruit
resides to high
in the upper branches.
Winter is coming
and only
the high flying birds
can drink
from the saucers
of the moon.

The Secret
to eating its fruit
at its proper season
as it grows on limbs of the tree
and deploy your talents
and you may
as you consume
and receive the gift
too eat from the tree.

Imagine
        A poem

                Is a small room

                       With words

                                 Walking in,

                                               And out the doors.



Periods are door knobs,

And symbols closing doors.  

Stanzas balance beneath

the blank expanses
In cycles.



The unites

compacts & splashes



cascading

Into the

pond of

consciousness

    at the end.



The goal

Is to

reach homeostasis

Of the heart

  & the inward eye.



For Imagination is  inking

a strange cosmos

one letter

& blank space

   at a time.



Poem makes

It home among words

    that It nests in.



What is,

              Is spoken

                     Upon the paper

                                 Of poets.