I. Orpheus

My dog flees from pluckèd strings;
her fleas command my tune.

What hollow body holds a rhyme
as long as my neck’s breath?

I could domesticate myself,
but in taming our lions
we tame our pride.


II. Abel

My brother is his brother’s keeper.

I am uncle to no abomination.

As we lie in the Garden,
(our hair in the earth)
I question:

Is Heaven above
because our heads are the seat of doubt, or
because our feet are the root of evil?


III. Hector

I was not breast fed.

I am not a fountain.

I will not hector you.


IV. Adam

Even if He and I practice Our secret handshake
in the Sistine Chapel;

Even if He sends me an angelic bath basket
with ambrosial soul cleanser
and holy bubble bombs;

Even if I am the round reflection
of an ever-changing God;

I still have to ask:

Is Heaven above?
Because my head is the seat of doubt.


V. Odysseus

Poseidon hardly even knows me.

An idle king in heart
reigns with a swift lead open hand.

Life’s lees are far too bitter,
far too deep,
and the wine is corked.


VI. Atlas

The sky may fall;
the stellar sphere may crash with all its weight
and music;

god(s) may smite;
the clouds may freeze and bury me;
the sun may swallow me whole;

leaves may drop and leave me bare;
the mist may soak my skin;

I raise my arms only to catch
that snowflake that dares drift upward.

I hold my heart when thunder claps,
I hold it when the courier raps
Upon my door—to feel the beat
It often hides—it drums so sweet
And then subsides to tender taps.

My heart is shy when only maps
Can dare expound what hungry gaps
Consume the ground between our feet.
I hold my heart

And tear the envelope that wraps
The lifeblood printed on your scraps
And feed my veins like summer heat
Is supped by rains. Until we meet
At last again when storms collapse,
I hold my heart.

After a few flings
I'm starting to wonder
If I'm feeling nostalgic
'Cause their kisses
Taste like yours,
I see your smug face
Plastered across each
One of their haunting faces
And their voices are
Starting to sound like yours

And I can't get high
Enough to rid myself of the
Flavor of your kisses
Or your memory
That burns my eyelids
Evey time I close my eyes
But I've learned to
Keep them open

My body has become
A landmine
Waiting to explode
With one flimsy touch
I'll turn every substance
In the vicinity black

I'd apologise
But he doesn't love me
He's just in love with
The idea of being with me
Lust so rich,
Tracing the curves of my body
He leaves no inch
Unexplored leaving his
Fingerprints all over my skin
Watching him turn to ash
Wouldn't be such a bad idea
Then he'd know
Where I'm coming from

Watch as the sun
Slowly slides over the horizon
Leaving behind a touch of
Pearly pinks, dusky purples
And vibrant hues of red
Ah there,
Battered dreams quickly wither
Darkness settles in,
The crystal envoys
Paint a portrait of
Pure serenity



Hope is reborn
Our destinies are within our
Reach as our dreams soon
Come to realization
It's a beautiful ambiance
And the solid gold
Paints over the Eastern side
And it's overwhelming beauty
Is welcomed by those
With expectations of
Bettering their present

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.