drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

Don't eat those pomegranate seeds
Don't gloss those beautiful lips
With the sticky liquid of death
Heaven seems so far away
When you're stuck in hell
And the devil has an incessant need
To deform all things beautiful
And to separate you
From everyone you love
And the ashy snow will fall
Until you're with me again
Because all I have is memories
Of you dancing in the spring blooms
But now you're laying among asphodel
And I know it's hard to see the other side
Because depression has a relentless need
To touch all things pure
But I know
Spring will come again

You write so beautifully
In the dead of night;
03;47am
Most people are asleep,
Their minds at a rest.

But you;
You are a wild fire,
Your thoughts are fireworks
exploding through your veins.
Every idea that comes to mind,
Becomes art;
Scribbled on a page,
Desperate to form
In the real world.


Thinking is a necessity,
Without it we would go mad.

The lotus wades

     Shallow water

          Even and calm.

Her petals brighten

     In the beating sun's rays,

Glowing of tranquility.

          The onlooker grows jealous

     Venom green with envy

While the lotus rests,

          Mockingly green leaves.

what fate is this that we cannot look away
from extreme beauty or extreme ugliness
yet we are blind to the majority inbetween

I will not put melodies behind your madness,
I will not create metaphors for your mistakes.
I will not write poetry for your sadness,
I will not turn this into something beautiful.

That is not how this works.