a crack of light shines into the dungeon of my heart.
i see the dust motes float on by.

this too shall pass whispers across my room,
and the dust motes float on by.

as you walk on through your dark night,
remember, love, your pale shaded color
will gleam again brilliance in morning's light.

i have no answers for you, and cannot pull
you from your sadness.  yet i fly in circles
surrounding you, these slow tracing wings
feather soft and fluttering nearby.

if you can hear my words whispering quiet
calm upon your tender, broken places,
listen now, and know you are loved.

walk on through to me, love.  i will wipe those
crystalline tears from your eyes, and cover over the
torn places of your crepe paper heart.

a woman sits and drinks alone at her table tonight,
in remembrance of all loves past.  in her darkness,
glimmers of chance dance across the room, for
these are things born apart from the bottle.

hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams makes eyes at her,
and she raises her glass in a toast,
but the lights come down, and he swims away.  

the future is a place for young lovers
with stardust whispers and moonbeam glances
she reminds herself, and pours another drink.

People keep telling me I have a sense of humor.
I look around and wonder what drugs they are taking.
If this is funny to you, please get in the line on the left,
you will get a ***** prize.
If I am boring you, go shoot yourself now, as this is downhill from here.

And speaking of boredom, I read a quote the other day
that said that boredom is rage spread thin.
I've never really thought of boredom as something soft
and creamy to go on toast, but I can see it happening.

To the waitress at Jim's:  Yes, I'll have the eggs over easy,
and wheat toast, boredom on the side, please.

I'm trying this next time.  She will probably give me that look
that reminds me I am from a different planet.  I need this sort
of thing in my life.

nanu nanu

so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.

it's one of those intimate,
quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling,
art (originals) on the walls,
pieces of furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place.  

maybe that's my problem.

maybe it isn't impersonal enough.  

because i can't seem to get
my feet
to move
over
the
threshold.

i'm just standing here on the street,
staring through to
                        
                                                     the other side.

on the other side
sit the group of poets
i am supposed to be joining.  
they talk easily with each other,
they share their works.  

i'm wondering at this point,
what sort of poets they are,

they are smiling,
laughing
talking easily with each other.  

these are definitely not
my type
of poets.  

i'm wondering
what kind of poetry
these easy talkers
have inside themselves.  
what could they possibly
have to say?  

probably poems about
flowers
and butterflies
and trees
and stuff.  

this is not the group for me.


i turn and walk on down the street.  

a *****, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.

i seem to have lost words again.
the sense of desperation i feel over this is palpable.
i wonder, where did they go? who can i blame?
and will they ever return to me?

oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover
i gave my heart to you and you've taken
it and skipped town.

Angel on my tree is cantilevered.
This amuses me immensely.

ocean slams
into the breaking wall.
i build this wall,
reinforcing with steel beam,
concrete and stone.
higher and higher it goes,
deeper and wider i build.

ocean crashes onto my shore, washes over my sand covered feet.

oh, my sea love, take me back into your depths.
fill my lungs with your salty waters
so that my song can spill out
and i can once again
dance the delight of words.

we walked on down the road, following in the shadows of each other's love,
the sweet scent of the sycamore trees distracting us.

we saw a good distance down the red dirt road,
saw enough to know what lay around the bend,
yet we walked on, content in the knowing of the present day,
caught in that moment that felt like a forever memory from childhood.
it was hot cocoa and animal crackers until the third mile.

you, with your hand stretched out towards mine.
me, with my fingers thus entwined,
caught in that moment of the falling sycamore leaves,
the crisp fall air,
the red dirt road,
the lingering memories that blinded us to the changing seasons of our hearts,
to the curve of departure up ahead.

the poisoned well of my inspiration
no longer quenches
the thirst of my longing.

those crystal clear waters that once sustained me and were a balm
to my parched lips are now tainted
with the quick silvered spill of regret.

i stand here, peering into these waters.
i wonder, can this well be saved?
or should i take the advice of the experts, and cap it now, before it takes another life?

i beat my head
against the cold stones of my resistance.  

giving up is so hard;
it runs counter to my nature. 

i stand here, watching
as an acid rain falls down.  

i stand here, my eyes locked on the scattered image of myself in the water below.

i stand here, my feet frozen in their place.

 i stand here, tossing pennies
at a face with eyes accusing,

eyes with answers i don't want to know.

this silence is the other sort.
not the silence of stillness born,
that meditative calm that washes
you when morning's light shyly
peeks through your curtains.

no, this is the malignant sort, an out of
control cellular growth that pushes out
other thought and claims the territories
of your mind all for himself.

this silence screams at you, "listen to me!"
and you can't do anything but hear his absent voice.

this is the silence that shoves his way into your brain
and demands attention, stamps his foot and shouts
"look at me!" and all you can do is stare at his
invisible face.

you wonder, "who are you, to invade my sanctuary?"

but then you remember, you left your key laying casually
on the window sill outside your door, red ribbon tied on,
an exclamation point.

no, you can't blame this silence.
you are the one who left the light burning in your window all night long.

cramped in the close quarters of my logic
there's a painting party going on.

but i've brought some shellac to seal
the tender places, the cut out picture postcards
of memories i saved, savor, slave over so carefully.
their disconnected connections splayed upon my walls.

i should paint over them, i know.
i should cover them over with a nice, bright white.

but the colors, the patterns, they
are a blueprint on the bones of my house.

they are my proof, my logical proof of illogical theories.
my picture postcards of impossible possibilities.

the decoupage of dreams' dalliance
dances upon these walls, definitively,

the cogent evidence of our coup de coeur.

i've locked away my love
behind steel bars of remorse
(i forgot my pen was in your pocket)
and now i've swallowed the key.

muse sits and laughs at my predicament.

i stand against the cold stone walls
of a prison cell i never meant to back into,
wondering about the cruel hands of fate
and other such nonsense and predictable phrases.

phrases that make me want to *****.

i stick my fingers down my throat and gag,
wretched heart, too full in my mouth,
that copper penny flavor,
this poor man's meal.

i am a leaky faucet.
the crescent wrench of control
tightens,

righty tighty

but i drip, drip, drip.
a stronger hand has gripped my handle.

lefty loosy, let it flow

my dripping waters spill into your ears,
where earth flower seeds fell in late summer sun

oh, quick! quick! knock out the dirt
somebody call a plumber

blossoms like these
won't survive the coming frost.

*blossoms like these
will make your head explode.

cooking pots simmer on the back burners of my mind
steaming, steaming

wordy vapors rise,
spreading syllables across my bone-dry ceiling

letter clouds are gathering

i stand below,
head raised,
mouth open,
hoping to catch the rain of inspiration

stick your head in the sand, ostrich.

when you finally decide to come up for air,

you will find me sitting beside you,

stroking your feathered neck.

i want to ask you,
why is the orange peeling?
which is the pulp?
how will the zest be
grated?

and what essence, once distilled,
will i find?


juice runs down my chin,
and i am sticky.

my tongue,  numb and tingly, together.

i want to spit it out.
i want to devour it whole.

sadness settles on this sandy shore.

suffocating,

song of silence.

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory,  too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

this music plays on and on,
and the melodies i hear are the
sweetest taste upon my tongue

i kiss the pen that sings to me
and embrace the lover who
whispers stardust into my ear

Today is a hollow day.
I am a shallow voice
in a tin cup.

I rattle and clang.

I am five copper pennies
wanting to add up to more
than a nickel.

Brother, can you spare some change?

listen,

you, who are of my heart
you, who still the breaking waves upon my shore

i am but a scratchy grain of sand,
yet i knit the pearl of your longing

crack the oyster shell you cling to
and know your beauty

see that your heart's desire
has been within you all along

misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint,
all reason is spilled onto the table,
wiped up by the ***** bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew

the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile

that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career

oh, Alice!  how could you?

tumbling down rabbit holes
curiously

there are locked boxes inside my closet

here is fear, loathsome and cold.
with icy fingers that ply the hasp

this one is joy, i bring it out from time to time,
watch it dance around the room

here is anger, with a fire's breath, burning away the sacred
it lives next to the fear, it is a patient one.

this one, love, slipped out when i wasn't looking.
hard to put back, how did it fit inside this tiny box?

i try to shove it back in, but it keeps just spilling out.
slippery love, velvet and warm, is a liquid form
i am unable to contain.

and already
i see the lay of the land before me,
all it will bring.

i travel up this mountainside,
for what else can i do
but move along?

the cold fear grips my head,
leaves my hands bloodless,
frozen upon the reins.

and i dig,
i dig the spurs of my resolve
into this steady steed.

to this place i go now,
this hot burning land
where all my anger dwells;

and the music there screams my name, screams

my complacency.

i train my gaze upon the horizon of

my freedom.

and i dig;
i dig the spurs of my resolve
into this steady steed.


Here be my dragons!

and their hot, fetid breath
will scorch my vapid plain.

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
its surging depths, a frightening display

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
tide's pull would have me drowned

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
breathless within its fathomless measure

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
but you may hold me to your ear
and hear it still, and hear it still.

whispering, whispering
(for who can contain an ocean?)

within a single letter
of a single word
of a single phrase
of a single line
of a single verse
of a single heart

there lies enshrined
all the stars of the
heaven of understanding

what mysteries there are
enfolded within all of creation

how many the parallels
that may be drawn

how deep and wide
flows this river of
connection

how vast this ocean
of remembrance

i hold my mind up to the light, and turn it this way and that, examining the cracks, peering into it,
checking its clarity.  
i can stand this way, outside of myself, and say 'this is a clear mind', 'there are cracks, but nothing too serious, nothing that can't be mended'
but my mind is a tricky thing.  it breaks glass.  it slips and oozes through my fingers, falls to the floor, spills.

liquid truth stains the carpet of my interior.  no spot remover can take this blemish away.
and i cannot just leave it there on the floor for all the world to see.  i'm down on my knees, scrubbing and scrubbing through the night, but liquid truth just moves on down the hallway.  it is mercury, skittering away from my frantic hands.  

all the while, my mind sits in the corner and laughs at my futility, recording everything on film, news at 9.

and here it comes again,
the cold winter chill
darkness falls and icy
fingers are never far from me

feel the crack of breaking,
the aching of my need
taste the bitter sweetness
that makes the poet bleed

the rain sheets upon my window,
drives away my joy
breaking aching tasting
the loneliness of need

how do you take an ocean and hold it in your heart?
won't it leak, won't it spill, won't it leave you exploded on the shore?

how do you keep an ocean locked away inside?
won't it drown you? won't it leave you surging in its depths?

how do you receive an ocean and not be able to give it back?
won't it sink you? won't it just break your heart?

this boat just floats and floats in this fathomless ocean
no rudder, no rudder,  no bay here in which to drop anchor.

the lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
as minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
he struggled to wake from his trance like state,
as he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
wondering how he had found himself wandering
in green valleys, how he had been so easily lulled to sleep.

he wondered, too, if dreams are ever real, and what he
would see at morning's light.

minstrel sang on, into the night, singing all good things
into his heart, breathing love into his pillow, playing for
light, playing the tune of her heart strings that night.

she was not sure what song she sang anymore, but
wanted to sing, and sing some more.

While driving the backroads last night, I cranked up my stereo
and let the music take me where it wanted to go.
I'd heard the songs before, but I began hearing a different tune.
Must've had earplugs in before. I drove on, and the music played me.
When I'd driven as far as I could, and lost myself completely down those roads,
I pulled over at some strange station I'd never seen before.  
I thought I'd sit a while there and rest, do a little reading from
the book I've been writing. **** my eyes for seeing words there I'd never
read before.  My book was writing me, I had never said a word.  

I thought for a while about how you can wake up one day, hear the same song,
read the same words, and they tell you something you've never known before.
I realized then, I'd been driving with my eyes half closed.  
Then, as the sun came up, I saw with my naked eyes a strange landscape I had never seen before.

Road signs were everywhere.  One showed I was on I-9, another read, 'Welcome to Idaho'.
I heard gentle clouds roll on by, and felt alone in my wanderings.
I saw paint blistering off the walls of some hotel, and wondered who would save me.
I thought about wicked games,and felt accused. I saw crossroads, up ahead,
with a ***** tonk on one side, wanted to go inside and order a case of finest wine.
I felt so alone, sitting in my rudderless boat (you know how dreams can go).  

Then I looked up, saw a man standing at the crossroads
with a golden hammer in his hand.  I wondered if i knew this man,
and wanted him in my boat with me, to sail on the uncharted seas.
I wanted to drown in a deep blue bottomless pool with him.  Then I wanted to
accuse him, for walking into my dream, for standing in the middle of my aloneness.

I looked up at the sky (it was night again, as dreams go) and saw the
stars in the sky.  I wondered if the stars were real, or painted on
some false ceiling.  I wanted to climb a ladder and break through,
to find true.  I wanted to tear down the veils that kept me from
knowing all the secrets of the universe, to burn up the clouds
that hid the sun.  Then I wondered again if the sun was already
shining, if my rudderless boat was being guided by the soothsayer
of dreams.  And I wanted to know if this dream was a nightmare, just a picture
show, or some prophetic vision.  

I felt pushed and pulled, with winds blowing a strong gale, and wanted to know if they blew from
the east or the west, but I could not tell, I'd dropped my compass miles back.
I wondered what the man was thinking, if he saw the same strange landscape.
I wondered if he had driven me here, or if we had sailed here together, our backs to one another.
I turned my radio on again, but only heard static, and wished that I could find the perfect song,
to express exactly the strangeness of this tale, to sing the truth.

I wondered again if I was dreaming or awake, if my ears
were hearing the real music in songs, if my eyes were reading
lines as they were written, or if I was still asleep, only dreaming.


Sometimes, when you wake up, you just
want to go back to sleep, and dream a little longer.  And sometimes
you think you've woken up, but you are still dreaming.  How do
you know the difference?  How can you ever tell? And where is
a good soothsayer when you need one?  

I'm still wondering.

she had thought to extinguish.

but she could not,
and would not be able to,
as the fire burned curtains
and consumed the air she breathed
and flames licked the blistered panels
of her sweating walls where she had
hidden the secret letters of her youth

tides pull, stars burn
comets chase their tails

waves that break upon the shore
return to ocean ever more

sun shines down on shadow land
cleaves the clouds, the darkened band

moon rises, star falls
comet streaks the sky

sun shines down on shadow land
burns the clouds, tips the hand