six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.

180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)

six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.

new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.

your welcome
welcomes more than poems.

ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance

some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.

the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.

perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.

all in. good time.

Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.

my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.

convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.

so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.

someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.

restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.

With this sole exception.

**I thank you.

Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

Because of you
I forgot how to write.

I used to drip with description.
They would try to bottle my tears
as souvenir.

I would scream at the paper
and it would color my anger,
punctuate my despair.

I could paint entire lecture halls
with the tangled mess
that came out of my veins.

Everyone knows that your prettiest,
most interesting and  intriguing
when you're failing.  

All of the geniuses,
the beautiful and the brilliant
thrived on torture

and it's so tragic,
the way they rely on us
to suffer for them.

But then, you.

As if life was suddenly fair
I wrote you into reality
and learned your language.

Summer stayed
and I no longer had the biting cold
as a muse.

It seemed I had nothing left
to say, and it's OK
because no one was there to listen.

But time is just as reliable
as you aren't.
People keep mailing me paper and pens.

So even thogh the mountains
and the moon
are staying in place for this one,

I'm blaming it on the dust.
This is  the stale, familiar taste
of waking up mid-dream,

when you try to keep everything good
under the covers
and away from the world.

I could go back to sleep,
or I could stay awake
and remember how to write...

Meet me,

Deep in the arboretum,
Between those majestic orants,
Praising the sun and air.

Wait under that crumbling arch,
The one whose body shivers
At the first touch of wind.

Sing softly that succulent tune,
(The one that blurs my eyes
with thoughts of home)
So the wind can whisper your arrival.

Do not take long,
Or you may miss me.

Time, that ancient thief of youth and vigor,
May clasp his knarled hands around us both.
And we many never become free from him again.

I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, from the inside out.

But they're worth the fire, because you look at them like

it hurts not to.



You won't tell me what's inside, so I take guesses.

One box for memories - the big one, with the heavy bolt.

One box for lost things (dog collars, wooden whistles,

A sky full of stars). Things you don't find when you're looking.



I'm made of broken gazes, an anvil and a glass basket.

I'm made of burning houses, and the way I lock myself

from the inside out (and I never wanted to be boxes,

but I can't help that they fit so well).



Won't you look for keys? Tear your eyes from the corner

where the heavy bolt sits, smiling at you with buckled lips.

Won't you look for keys? Stare me down, acid rain that

burns up glass and makes stars shudder (smoke and fire).



I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, and I wish they were cardboard

and flammable, like you're not, and I can't be (I'm locked

glass, I'm already lit, inside out inside out inside out).



One box for treasures (I can't fit in that one).

One box for memories, without any more room.

One box for lost things, and I could move, but my skin

against stars would clatter and melt (smoke and fire).

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.

There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.

Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.

He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.

Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.

Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.

Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.

Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.

You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.

On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.

Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!

Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
Come, come! the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death’s bitterness;
Hell’s executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player’s stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die—
        Lord, have mercy on us!