you head-beckoning
soft-smiling deceiver.
you would have my heart again
(to break)
and i will not give it.

at the risk of sounding cynical,
you don't get to care now
you half-smiling
soft-watching deceiver
not even for the kindness,
the tenderness of your eyes today
(across the room, and gentling into mine)



vulnerability is a cruel thing
to play on

When I am not with you,
the earth is still warm
from hours that are seen no more.
I can feel the rhythm of yesterday
asking questions
when everything collects on the currents
of our own shadows.

I cast last night among the hills
where we were young and thoughtless
peered above the words
Standing
before my eyes.
Where butterflies lived inside a song
Waiting
for the world to sing.

Looking to tell a story
somehow different
from any
ever written down,
I began unlocking the mysteries of life.
I found that the beauty
of growing old
had kept its secrets well,
from my ears.

In the middle of the wonder
there must surely
lay a seed of hope in the meadows
where you and I saw fireflies
in the still of night.
Perhaps there,
we can still hear the echo
of its footsteps.

Eternity wanders through my mind
seeking praise
while the breath of truth
shows the world its strong arms.
Life awakens
to close the door on lessons learned
and yet, the earth
is still warm.

I guess you have beautiful eyes
all those straight lines you make in my mind
I have so much to ask for
you dont want it all because you forget
I know what I'm doing
When I see you walk by
When I watch you walk by

I guess when your lost in this world
where the one you love
doesnt have your name
burned into their mind

Please don't be much longer
It's already been clock after number
Please I know

Its fun to be so lost
but you should remain down there as long as you can
lost in the sky

Dark green seeds plant
tall and sturdy trees
of greed and jealousy
within my heart.

Light blue warriors of
wisdom fight valiantly
for the health of my soul
and mind, but in time
the trees become the
caricature of what
I have become.  

All I wanted was
to be something small.
To plant my own trees
from yellow seeds
that breed happiness and love.

Roses, gray,
lay still by the trees of my heart.
And until I finally find
the truth behind the
loves which I have made,
then they shall not depart.

night falls w/liverspot clouds
broken
               stars . . . deep blueness . . . fat-full moon.
nights are that autumncool again
(week of +20° unseasonality)

basement stone wall coolness
cigarette *****---
                                a smokestack!
peepings &
oo-ings &
                  cracklings
                  in the woods.
the ceiling creaks . . . creek runs
             bedroom lights a-burnin'
             & m'tired dart is down to the filter.

nightsong/fallsong
nippy nightfog, dark drive (solo)
breathy windshield, elmvale driveway defog,
a naked girl/thru the house panes
whose bareness
is shown teasingly. (full aware)

homestead.
lamplight, "goodnight!", golden readlight.
bowl of noodles -- broccoli,
darkly pacing silent upstairs/eight-track recorder loudsound (genesis/trick of the tail)
weedpipe outside cold fresh nighttime.
outdoor *******/rockwall/hosetap,
posters/scotchtape/pins
(troilus & cressida pages taped to th'wall)
alone with thinkcap, lady dreamin'
(that ***!---ahh!) (sighs)
ragged joint thru windowscreen . . . baked-up mouth pasted---ice tea sippin' (glorious)
warm blankets & an empty bed;
need to get out of this ****** old town
empty; lonesome songs.
---but, think better . . .
this pre-spain hometown transatlantic waitin' sadness won't last
forever.
& tripping gets you nowhere. (snoop dogg)
smoke again and maybe put on
more genesis.
. . .
*(tho it is fleetwood mac instead
that i slap on/toss myself into bed.)

writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
                            . . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
                     travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)

and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
                                          ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.

. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &
                                      afterall

                                  ... poetry

is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...