pubescent love,
like the love between
the otherwise married,
creates leaves of wilting poetry
curling crisp for the oncoming
winter
winter of our discontent
but not literature
not the song of the bards
just the whimpers
of the wounded.

Only the love of would-have-been strangers
bound like the living
to a corpse
an albatross formed
from naive hopes
produces music.

a step to truth
where she tells him
that her dance card’s
been full many times over

with experiments in heartbreaking

and he, a dip
and a sore heel for not being first
the little verbal twirls
he does
to step to truth

with trepidation and inadequacies—

no one knows who should lead

she said the movie was scery

then he said
it’s SCARY

rabbits scurry
there’s a difference, you know

and in another
little way
he stole her

if i had
that one little
moment back

between the passion
and the abandon

if I could hold it tight
under glass

examine it with prods
and slices

i’d finally know
if it was my best
moment

or my
worst

in Chicago?
We came dressed for
Florida in January,
drank till the headlights
blurred into long
lines of lightening,
did lines of *******
with a *******
from Ohio, ate
steak and eggs
for breakfast.

You were bright
and hot as streetlights
on Clark Street.
In a compact car
we contorted ourselves
to steam the windows.
Then we went home
and broke up
because our fantasy life
was better
than our real one.

he didn’t say much—
the thinking type
i suppose—
but every once in a while
he’d click a
little northern turn
of phrase—

rabbit quick
fox sly
and a little bit like
a Jersey Buddha

I’m too old
too slow
too weak
to win the race
or take the prize.

What I lack
in beauty
or in grace
I make up for
in compromise.

sometimes you just
      Don’t
want to think of it
anymore,
—you know?
but it keeps comin’,
  like you’re in an
  ocean or a toilet
or any sort of place
where you can do nothin’ but drown.    

     and it’s the same
            for all
            of us
whether we’re drowin’
or burnin’, freezn’, or bein’ crushed…
—it’s the same
ya see?

     and it keeps comin’
even when we don’t want
to think about it.
          so just let it come…
     like a stinging wave,
       or a sunburn,
           pin ******
or pressure…
  and let it go.

Because that’s how
    it is, sometimes,

for all of us.

I lost a battle
when I was hiding
with you—
casualties made way
for false saviors,
sweet lovers—
*** and snow,
that froze the pain.

You never said no—
not ever
not once
to me.
—A butterfly emerges
without permissions—
you might have said
(if you had said
anything at all).

You were that type—
that wide river,
that spanning branch
—a zen koan wrapped
in flesh

One fall evening
I stumbled through
the roses,
was bitten by the thorns
came clattering in,
fell limp on the
corduroy cushions.

You smiled,
always smiling—
serene like the Dali Lama
or some other
*******  

you never said
anything—
till you did.

And when you spoke
I heard
the truth of it
the truth of it
the horrible truth of it

thank you

………………………………..A transmission to my son:

sometimes i can catch
            a
glimpse of you
through the
                     slipstream
our   galaxies al-
most
align
THEN we can both Hear and See and SPEAK! The super-nova brilliancy of it is…
   .
   .
   .

   everything.
those
moments
so
precious
i
i must
i must
  (just breath, just breath)
…please

“That ******* town your obsessed with”
you said
like you were accusing me
of lying in bed with another
life (worse than another man)
another future
one that I was shaping to fit me

and you
left
left in my shadow
I’m Sorry.

one must be Daedalus
and one
must fly straight toward the sun
leaving only shadows.

I always wanted
to be the wilted flower
in the corner-
lashes petting two demure doves
folded over slender thighs.

But, I am the bull
and you are the china-
my loud braying
and pointed sharpness
shattering etiquette.

Your politeness
is a starched collar.
I itch
and fiddle with my cufflinks.

in this moment

fleeting

fluttering

gone

i have stolen your eyes

and replaced them  with the heat

of my breath.

That last needle to ***** your skin
will set you free
from every prison you’ve lived in
or dreamt of.

But the Fathers will be too old
and the Sons too young
to carry your casket.

Does it bother you that women
will be your pallbearers?
Or have you always known that
we would put you to ground?

Mary

I swallowed something
like a watermelon,
like a deep burden and a great joy
wrapped neat and round in blood
and work raw fingers.

I feel it growing, making me
a bit sick, slightly nauseas of the future
part to rid myself
and part to never be full again