Oh decry the weakness of our condition,
sets brother on brother,
us versus them
as we march under banners
we’ve made to define us,
hurling words as stones
to defile and ****** the other,
huddle and glorify those loose strands
of similarity that bind the camps
we choose to be in

There is no such thing
as peace we've ever made,
only those lulls which prepare us,
tracing shapes
of the next enemy faced,
togetherness an ideal for armies
marched in lockstep.

Good God!
Were we ever in His image?
Recalcitrant, misfit
creators of the better death
Then suffer so, those who love the weak;
they own multitudes of sins
never answered,
intent yet to invent one
which will make Satan quiver,
finally prove mastery of all universes.
But they are our kin, so love them we must

My many
faces in a mirror - multiplying
faces of one being,
dully and mistily ever changing,
erring
till the death.

My voices of many pasts and buried pangs
looming into the uncertainty
of the fleeting moment's anxiety
for arrest and release.

My memories -
generations flowing into generations,
like clouds of permanent change,
wind across the circles
of earth's heavens

and there are waters rising
dangerously higher
with the engulfing of  unforgiven faults
and tragedies not sufficiently drowned
in tears of blood and anguish

and there is the baptism
in the bath of self-confession
leading to glimpses of patches azure
in a sky of cold and brittle
shining glass.

The mirror shatters into its atoms
and while they escape
I remain
none the wiser
just being those faces,
those voices,
those memories,
those waters,
that baptism

both recognizable
and totally alien.

Hello my sweet friend.
It seems I have been asleep forever.
My eyes have been closed for numerous ages
And have not seen your heart.

Your heart is so bright and achingly beautiful
That I must go back to sleep
And turn away as to continue looking
Could pull me into places I am afraid to go.

I have seen you with my eyes closed
As you are in front of me.
Yet I have not seen you as you truly are
With my eyes and heart wide open.

This revelation strikes chords in my soul
That I never knew existed.
How could I have been so blind?

I must take leave of your heart's beauty
And find refuge in my sleep
As remaining here in this revelation
May change my destiny in such ways
As I am not prepared to see.

falling with you to catch me,
i am Icarus.

wings of wax.

the man in the air of your dreams...

I

i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
                            believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.

i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
               and toss
of its fabulous force
     rippling
     churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
                          so indistinct,
flapping,
                  furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
     and i know

a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
                      and goes
out of its own control,
but,
                                               i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.

II


when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
      rolling
                    rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
     driftwood
sailing
             slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
                                running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
                                 rumbling,
                                                                                  rolling
                                                                                       away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
              i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
          submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.

III
__

these trees towering
                                         above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
                              (in my lifetime)
                                blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
                              dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
                falling,
                              dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
                     again...
                                    --and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
                                            i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
                like a seed
beneath
                  the ground
                                        never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
                                                                 of being.

When I walk alone and by myself
for a day or two or perhaps a minute,
nothing makes sense and everything does,
and I want to write without words
and love myself while hating me, too,
and prove to you the world is ours
or maybe just yours
when all is paved in pain
like some puzzle missing pieces vital.
But only when I walk alone.

When I have to be with you
for an entire day or a few minutes,
it all makes sense and it doesn't
and I want to talk in silence
and be your friend and maybe more
and prove virility while wrestling the lions
or just by simply holding you
when the tears fall from your eyes
like the blood from one thousand wounds
but only when I have to be with you.

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

There's a rainbow of forgiveness
there's a sun glazed with content,
there's a sweat bead of serenity
racing down my head.

Your gaze is overwhelming,
I'm flustered by the view,
your sweet smell compels me,
this is what you do.

There's a field of maturation
there's an insect of desire,
woven through your hair-
star lily, color fire.

Your immaculate constriction
consumed by your embrace,
lips succulent with passion
I love you and your grace.

her voice, in imagination,
is a moonlight sonata
to which I listen
when I'm alone, eyes closed;
covetous heart unwilling to share
painful beauty of the adagio,
explaining pain only angels know;

then, effortless transformation into
playful allegretto, delicate hands
already caressing bruised soul,
nestles fingers into mine;
we stroll, entwined as lovers will,
along lonely paths together,
each holding up the other,

building to passion of presto;
pace quickened, chastened steps
abandoned as flesh echoes
electric crescendos of bliss,
all that's real ceasing to exist
save sweet sweat,
fragrant breath of the other;
then I listen again,
to impossible moonlight,
and imagine.

Honeybee hands
Follow honeybee eyes
Sticky sweet, all for the hive

He snapped her stem,
He plucked her leaves
And died of poison from her thorns

And so she built
Upon his knees
A house for boys to play in

On the streets of heat and movement
lie the evidence of pain,
she walks, he talks, the children run
throughout the burning rain.

I can smell the smoke of lifelessness
along the living death,
we talk, they walk, the sirens wail
today may rob our breath.

In the rooms of waste and apathy,
sit silent the insane,
she writes, he writes, the samll hand ticks
the hours fast away...

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