Nem élhetek, se nem pusztulnak tovább
(I CANNOT LIVE NOR DIE ANY LONGER)

For Miklós Radnóti

I build this
bridge of words
so that I can

walk back over time
and take
your hand

you to me
this man
made only of words

talking out of a book
and I only able
to touch you

with these
used words
of mine

I clasp your hand
in mine
call you friend

*

Miklós Radnóti, the Hungarian poet, was shot by guards after a forced march from a Serbian labour camp in 1944 and thrown into a mass grave. When his body was later exhumed, a notebook of poems was found sewn into his clothing so even from beyond this lonely grave his words insisted on living.

"Don't walk past me, friend. Yell, and I'll stand up again!"

I reach out my hand made of words and touch your words that still make you a man.

One strand of your hair,
one kiss of your neck,
one whiff of your fragrance,
one touch of your cheek--
all make me meek.

One brush of your lips,
one moment in your arms,
one moan of your arousal,
one cry of your pleasure--
all are my treasures.

One memory of your pulchritude,
one scintilla of your charm,
one taste of your sweetness,
one ineffable feeling of love--
all are heaven's doves.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I just found a treasure
Still in the field
Playing in sunshine gentle rays
I could pick it up
However
Who is to say
The field might be where treasures
Wish to stay

The Coronation is
A
Royal
Pain
In
The
Cosmopolitan
****;
The crowning achievement
of
Royal Navel Gazing.
Chuck it (them) all.

Flew into the heart of the storm
To afraid to look over my shoulder
I know it’s nothing but an empty seat
Co pilots missing
As always it’s only been me
A message from the tower
Chimes in like the voice in my head
But it just comes across as static
Message unclear
Warnings missed
Is it my fault?
Alone in the cabin
But I still decided to take off
Couldn’t hold on
No applicants deem fit
All protocols cleared
Now I fight to keep the plane in flight
Carrying the hurt and hate
The pain and fear
Saddens and embarrassment
All seating in their separate chairs
But this is where we might all go down
Engine one failed
Brace for impact
The turbulence was stronger then we feared

only
the steam pushes you toward me

  the floor is flying, smashed
like marble

lying
under the table
is licking my feet and  
palm

we look at him
swallowing the void like the night is swallowing the stripper,

and the rain falls on the window
  drop by drop

Words will be my
food today.
I don't want
to get dressed,
eat breakfast
or go to church.
I'll stay in bed and write,
until the demons stop whispering,
and humanity quits
******* on me.

Last night,
on my way to the
bookstore to get some
Bukowski, I found a
mourning dove,
not a baby
but, too young to fly.
It was huddled against
a concrete wall.
I picked it up and put it through a fence hole in some tall grass,
so that the dock cat, Prozac,
wouldn't **** it.
She caught a lot of birds,
and ate them.
When I went outside
the other morning at five,
She was stalking sparrows and starlings with a murderous
look in her eyes,
and I thought to myself,
Someone should have put me
In the tall grass, a long time ago.

Smoke drumrolls dance,

indigenous
verve,

observed
conserved
preserved
reserved

a shaman's stance

reduced

to an historical prance.