I have a steel trap
mind; easily triggered, shut
down painfully tight.

my mind opens to
unlearned knowledge
unwritten words
unspoken voices
unrecorded lives
untold wisdom
unearthed by
unceasing
undertow of
universal
understanding
undeterred
unless
my mind closes

o splendid child most whOlly pure and sweet (
angelic, come to claim your worldly place)
de
    scend
              ing, born to mother of the street
Leda to some (on the                  
                                   down-low) Zeus
effervescent incandescent  eYe  s
illuminating darkened cornered souls
of passers-                                                  
      ­            >snappingsnarlingstomping< 
                                                            ­        by                 
with savior's grace found now(here)
                                                       ­      perfect whole
unearthly beauty neon ((halo)) glows
               mirrored
                               on her palest golden hair
from reddest lights and bar signs
                                                         Her steps float
above the concrete-footed walks and stairs
to which we're tied.
                                 Just child's play (yet it seems
that in her wake a cityblock's
                                                  )re­deemed

Her beauty leaves the gods to weep and beat
their chests from unfulfilled desire.  Her legs,
slender, strong, with graceful dancing feet.
Full of life, she understands the dregs,
the darker being lurking just below
my skin, the lust-filled poet-mystic. She
chats of cummings, karma and tarot
while cooking bolognese sauce with me.
Post-dinner, melting on my arm beside
me on the couch with baseball on the tube.
From there, off to the bedroom. Once inside...
well, kiss and tell is just extremely rude.
Ah, to be Young Frankenstein again;
creating love from Abbie Normal brain.

I pull back shrouds of memory
and mourn the child who was
and is no more. Now I can see
just how you died; because
innocence, morality
gave up one day (applause).

Strange, I felt but apathy
when I watched you die,
my child, but when you ceased to be,
my eyes were all but dry.
Just yesterday you swore to me
you'd always be alive.

And there you are. You lie in state.
I grieve your passing. See,
no one knows the massive hate
that caused your life to flee.
Perhaps I'll find, as tears abate,
how much of you was me.

Scent of hyacinth
in *** fills the living room
with shackled springtime.

Would that my words would lift you from yourself
and take you far enough away to see
the wonder-fullness of your soul; the wealth
of wisdom, love and generosity
bestowed by you on those who cross your path,
should it be for a moment or a year.
Too close to see yourself, you'd think I'm daft
if I would tell you; you'd choose not to hear
the loving words of praise, be cracking wise
about senility, or loss of mind.
I shake my head. Pray that within my eyes
reflects a tiny glimmer of how kind
and gentle you have been when I've been lost;
how grateful am I that our paths did cross.

i walk a fine line
drawn between challenging read
and scrambled word-hash;
incomprehensible and
sharp-edged cutting clarity

if any
one
were to be
no
    thing,
then every
one
would be
(supreme)ly
being.

You're allowed to show
your pain; I can handle yours
and mine together.

I gave a child my name one day;
abandoned her in three short years.
Divorce and dreams pulled me away,
but not without regrets or tears.
A lousy father, that I knew; still
wondered as time wound along
if she remembered as she grew
the man who'd sing her favorite song.
One Saturday, a Facebook friend
request reopened memories past.
Acceptance and a message sent;
a chat precise as cutting glass
more than enough to be convinced
of standing. Not heard one word since.

cool afternoon breeze
quenches red-hot sun-baked morn;
a well-tempered night.

I love my gun.
I love my gun.
You can drink and chase your women
Till the morning sun,
But Lordy,
how I love my gun.

From the time I get to work
My blood begins to boil,
When I think of gettin' home
To rub her down with oil.
With her **** against my shoulder
Lookin' down her sights,
I could hold her in my arms
And keep her close all night.
Well, my trigger-finger's itchin'
for a little fun...
Lordy how I love my gun.

Though not in pain, I
ache for the times not far past
when I ached for you.

He hums his happy-making tune,
she ***** a brow, one dimple shows,
then slyly spreads across her lips.
She knows full well what is to come.

Sun feeds energy
to earth; ninety-three million
miles feels much farther.

A fleeting glimpse of who I was,
a second sight of youth regained
was paradise to blinded eyes;
a gift of passing time detained.
A shaggy bear with angel's voice
was how a critic once described
my work. Through age and not by choice,
the golden tone grew tarnished, bled
of grace and wings. Last night...last night;
the angel burst through graveled throat,
dipped, soared in unfettered flight
through every song and spot-on note.
Expressive, strong, no cracks or strain;
what joy it was to sing again.

shattered hands, ribboned skin
blood-soaked, sliding down
the unforgiving edges
of ungraspable beauty
     keep on reaching, kid...
     that's what heaven's for

Gifts phenomenal
at fourteen, merely average
forty years later.

whispered aroma
of salt and oysters, perfume
of ocean mother.

Though a married man,
I can consume you with words;
poetically
tease, caress, enfold, inflame
far better than in person.

a piece of flotsam, tumbled, pounded
on the rocky river bank, she
scrambles, slipping off the rounded
mossy stones of misery
no purchase gained, no breath recovered,
no graceful saving branch nearby
just searing icy pain that hovers
circling, striking mercilessly

a passerby hears desperate pleading
sees her in above her head
as he wades in the flood's receding
settles back to riverbed
she's leaning, gasping, sobbing, asks
how'd you escape the undertow?
he said don't feed it power it lacks
let it flow and let it go

orange spread of sun
compressed to laser whiteness
by focused blue sky.

You watched me, raised me, taught me how to use
my hands to make a fist and give massage.
Your home became a haven from abuse
that I endured, that you left home to dodge.
The friends, the barflies buzzing round your flat
would treat your old-soul brother as a peer.
They answered patiently the questions that
the man-child asked to understand his fear.
We were so close until the very end,
when Mom would live with me and not with you;
she wasn't sure you had the strength to tend
her, watch her wither as she chose to do.
I never thought when leaving then that I
would never hear your voice before you'd die.

from unlikely size
(breadth depth mass) words
slice pummel caress
nothing is sacred
but love and feeling

precisely
               ;so

We've heard the tales of eyes and smiles a hundred times before,
but for this one I write about, I'll have to add one more.
Though songs of faces say so much, they cannot tell the all,
so I shall sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.

The signals of her hatred for this world of little lies
is registered within the tell-tale candor of her eyes.
On this plane of human falsehood, such honesty stands tall,
and so I sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.

The poetry of words alone has not the grace to give
her passion to discover all the love she wants to live.
A warmth too great to be contained in her body, largely small
flows through the hair of she who wears the golden waterfall.

So from aside I watch, a half-read book upon her shelf
as she throws light upon the unkind mirror of her self
and wonders if the things she seeks will listen to her call -
look!  See them run to one who wears the golden waterfall.

The boundless end of universe is curved
and sharp, and where you've set up residence.
Unhinged and edgy, wary and unnerved,
your mind time-shared by madness and brilliance.
Both seeking, fearing being understood,
with eyes in feral dance avoiding mine
because a hooded glance told you I would
and could continue on through space and time,
by simply tracing notches carved along
a trail blazed, breathing vacuum, years before.
Think I don't know the way there?  You'd be wrong.
I understand the path you choose and more;
an understanding far beyond those bounds
that trespasses on love's unholy grounds.

Stealing hours from jealous time,
surreptitiously I write.
If that theft's criminal, then I'm
as good as busted every night.
Life rolls on; work, marriage, sleep.
Each busy day renews the fight
to find a quiet time to keep
unto myself; not out of spite
or hiding out from jaded eyes,
but understand my place aright;
at peace with all that might arise,
to see life through my Spirit's sight.
I gift myself the time I stole
to mend the patchwork of my soul.

A prayer offered
that he might outlive her so
she wouldn't see him
die as her last husband died.
Nice thought till her cancer came.

lovely, banal, *******,
she smilingly slides the
respectably slip transparent
around the resistant
pleasurable hips
thighs riotous pulsing
cleaved calves clever
neatly witha3inchheel
                                       sli n  g   s
it into the hamper
clicks her sway into
the bathroom,
plum-ripe lips juicy) saying
(i'll be out in a jif, hon

In bed unspringing
hot syncopated rhythms;
now you're wailin', man!

Hamlet wandered Elsinore;
saw father's ghost appear,
"Son, stick it to your uncle
who stuck it in my ear."

As much as I am nature's man,
in spite of all my hopes,
I'm just a walk-on in her plan;
the one who interlopes.

She never knew that her love
freely splashing around
on the parched, bitter soil
of my heart, saved my life.
That she was a literal gift,
an answer to lame, limping
prayer, the gift that would show
me that Spirit would hear
my halting and gimpy attempts.
She offered me all that she was;
despite being far beyond desperate,
I refused, for I knew that she could
find a better man, rather than battered.
That night long ago when I lay
on my bed, when I hadn't a prayer,
knowing only that I had to find
one, to grab onto something to live.
My last prayer that night was a Thank You
to the Universe for the pure love
that she showed me.  I asked that she
knew that I loved her for loving
when I contained nothing alive.
Next morning I woke, made my coffee
and ran to the stand for my paper.
Took a shower, poured my cup, and then dropped it
as I saw her smile on the front page.

Humid evening's womb
filled with expectation of
thunder birthing rain.

We are not blood, but blood we have become.
Not by way of rituals arcane,
but common trials on common trails we've run.
Spirit calls us both; we must stay sane
to aid our brothers, sisters on their way.
We may be relatives in law, by name;
we grow in kinship, stronger every day
the journey's shared. I'll tend the gentle flame
which lights your path, and shows me paths of peace
unseen, untrod by my unsteady feet.
And as you offer souls their pain's release,
you channel Spirit, make relief complete.
My spouse, your sister, made the crossroads where
our travels could merge close enough to share.

Whispering waves call
invitingly, not caring
if I sink or swim.

Good thing Buddha found
light; ascetic had but ribs
to rub for good luck.

The oak tree stands with one worn branch
of perfect height. This rope well used,
'twill serve its purpose for a year,
just as the forty-two before.
With practiced hand the knot is formed;
its loop a perfect fit around
my neck.  The bitter end goes up
and in the grooved bark, wrapped three times
then ******* firm. On tiptoe now,
a deep breath in, a snort, a sigh,
a firm kick of the tall wood box
I stand upon.  The rope, stretched, squeaks
as my full weight is caught and stopped.

Most only hang themselves but once;
I'm not as fortunate as most.
I am the ghost that haunts myself.
I know the what, I know the how,
I know the why. It matters not.
My hang-up looks me in the eye
and mocks my repetitious swing,
aware that every time I fall
another piece of soul will die.

Spring's rush of warmth, the
morning breeze edged with the chill
of winter's last breath.

So much unsaid
with voice unsure
in years unspent,
to be undone,
unthinkable.

slinking down the canyoned street
stalking, nylon-smooth to prey
on predatory eyes who meet
her own. some smile, some turn away.
some know she'd eat them to the bone;
they know that they would die to let her.
some'd use her, drop her like a stone
and say that she deserves no better.
the first she calls her daily bread,
grazing as she culls the herd.
the second brings a smile instead;
male ego, cocky, brash, absurd
to think that any man could claim
to beat her at her chosen game.