The same day comes
like a yesteryear of travelling
in the dessicated skin of a rainbow
sutured to the hem of a skirt.
The day that comes unredacted.
the full sun on your heel.
and all hells. marching
into worse, by Feel.

blind to the terrain.

but walking
still.

II

i have no problem with the truth.
it merely comes to me, like a shadow
as I feign sleep... as i click heels
in the pantry of our dense cakes
and jellied veal.
where I turn the soil
the soiling kills a Sun -
on your face.
i impeach the beginning
with a whirr of outlasting
naivete.
crippled by the bargain
of attachment
and Dismay.

III

as we may.

as i descend into the mad sun
i visit blue brothels and calm green seas.
i rip cables out of butterflies
to suture my wounds.
i change my course,
to my Fate.

As Must 
we all.

II

i've learned a great many things
about dead ends... they always start
where you live.
they bend the moon to your aspect.
the red death to a - 
false hope.
with a real
hope.

and as much despair.

III

gather where ye may, the very laurels 
of your heart. But, be neither spendthrift with your anguish -
nor copiously disarmed.
have your adventures where a god - 
can pardon you...
For having less faith
than an abandoned
thought of You.

go only to return.
and burn your memoirs in the attic
to **** the dream.

leave no fingerprints in the vacuum.
wash your hands of the spiral -
and feel what
It Means.

on the shore again,
away from all the lol's, the ***'s
and especially the brb's

because he doesn't want
them to brb, or fret they have
revealed the dreaded TMI

he wants all their cryptic
and crap-tic codes to disappear, to be
erased from memory

and he can again be on
the Pacific, with his dreams and illusions
making tracks between the two

knowing they too will be
washed away at high tide, as evanescent
as an imho or a ***

though not birthed by silicon gods;
created instead from sand between his paws
and washed away by sea and salt

the whiskey scorns the back of my throat
as I return to staring into Space. It's almost empty.
save for the holes.
I park my dark, near the tiny star -
on your cheek.
I go where the rain has feelings
and a drought is a flood
of affection...
scorching the tongue
in my besotted
skull.

a cavalry of orchids
forged upon the moon -
but anointed near the flames
at hand. the ready hells
at our door.
bathing in the ashes
of our dreams...
as our celestial trajectory
descends -
into the palm
of destiny.

or so I imagine.
eventually.

but the holes cannot be contained.
nor the spark that divides them.
we suffer for no reason.
the universe is feeling everything.
It is not Thinking,
It is knowing the terrain
of the unknown Grace.
and what the holes may consume
soon returns...
and what happened
was a life.

unconfirmed.

i can see from here, the lush petunias
of your mustard seed pavilion.
i may walk to your elaborate fountains
and make my wish.... but never
feel them.

and the eraser, so I can
clean up messes with a bit
of magic rubber

this **** ink is indelible,
even if it's scrolled on a page
in ephemeral cyberspace

delete doesn't count once other
eyes have made a meal of your meaning,
digested and crapped out your words

I long for a Big Chief tablet
and the art gum magic I could perform
with nimble fingers and clear eyes

I was in no hurry, for he was
past this world's impatience, there
in that quiet room, prostrate, manicured
so we could "view" him

before I cleared my driveway,
I saw a white dove--was this an omen?
until this eve I was not sure such a creature
existed--still no verdict on omens

at the first stoplight, a Harley, straddled by
a horse three hundred pounds soaking dry,
caught my eye--shorts and pink ubiquitous
breast cancer awareness tee (really)

at the funeral home, there was not
a space to be found, so I parked at the
Baptist church across the street -- I doubt
the lot knew the deceased was Catholic

in the entrance to this place of grief
and peace, and artificial flowers, two men
in twin black suits were arguing -- I heard only
one sentence, "His wife doesn't need to know!"

then, of course, I decided not to go, but did
stop for a Big Mac and fries on the way home, wondering
if the bulky biker had been through the line before me,
and if the mythic white dove was yet on my lawn

he sits on the curb
all twelve years of him,
waiting to be a teen

when he'll have to pay
adult price for a movie ticket
or bus pass

he usually has no cash
for either; but wishing and waiting
are art forms to him

he's learned to move
the brush of time slowly on life's palette
while he watches others whizzing by

on their store-bought skateboards
and Huffy ten speed bikes, while he has
only one gear for two feet

which now are clad in Keds
from the thrift store, and planted
firmly on the cement

by the drain gutter,  where he
last saw his favorite possession, a Super Ball,
get ****** into the sewer

when the storm ended, he yanked
off the manhole cover and crawled into
the dark, but the ball was gone forever

when he came back into the street,
yet lamenting his round loss, more boys
on bikes buzzed by

their circles safely spinning
on asphalt, far from the gutter and curb where
he once again sat--wishing, waiting

Baltimore, 1965

to look through you
i had to see Me
for myself.
i had to look
for the first time
at my heart.

and nowhere else.

this pin in the inkblot
has my name, but your features.
i reach behind me to sing
and the noise that gathers
has no voice, other than
Sirens, breathing.
we lurch to the advance.
but we cascade to the low point
of why I love you....
then sink below -
Why, You might Love me ?
if you take into account
how many words
were spoken....

then you account
for the silence between
Prayers...

and the
Love we
choke
on ?

till we burst...


II

i was one of those things that had no hands.
then I loved " someone " and the moving dart
of rain came down to the center of my drooling loss-
where the heart of my campaign...
still had your name... and a headful of steam
for the Doldrums and the Illness
of loving completely.  

III

Tomorrow is no curse
if I am finding you
at last
like a blind search.
the first thing
a revelation
that Life is
Real -and not
rehearsed

IV

and the next - thing
a simple clarity
that  we
Are.

as you seek from a dream
that you ****. ~ to sustain
the very wants
that you
Will.

but you won't.
but you
want.

a raw deal on a hot plate.
sizzling with all the swagger
of a fair shake.
a glib fraud.
masquerading as  a state
of grace.
and perhaps an apple pie
resting on the window sill
of your gullible house.

a fib in a wig of ice cold stars.

sprouting from the damp earth
we trod from the muck into the sun
and were glad in it.
we found there, the space to waste time in
and more space to explore with our riveting lives
boiling in the womb of all wombs.
we stride to the heavens undisclosed to religion.
and on approach , we find gods in teapots
steeping the illusions we crave
over hot coals on a sinking
barge.

we are happy as we will the suffering to continue.
but as a flock of flaming gulls
we singe the night sky and the ocean below.
they both burn as we commit to our purpose.
each a sovereign fool
and an angel
shackled to a
spot -

on the Sun.

fell off a horse and rose to my feet
bruised and dismounted... my eyes chiseled
into sharp orbs.
my bandy limbs, throbbing
from the test.

II

before the fall, i was born -
on the moon.
i never broke a bone
in my eye.