Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one continuous
loop severely kinked.

Reticent sun, a
soft, comforting blanket of
clouds over his head.

raskol tells me that
we don't have to live in a
mediocracy.

The ocean is love.
The tide comes in, I tumble
in wave after wave.
The tide goes out, I tremble,
fear it will never return.

Be of good spirit, child, and carry light
upon this wondrous, worn and weary world.
Seek wisdom, search for what is true and right.

For those around you may not have the sight
to see this precious gift of life unfurled;
be of good spirit, child, and carry light.

You will encounter thoughts divine and trite;
philosophies to set your mind a-whirl.
Seek wisdom; search for what is true and right.

The days will come that seem like endless night
with sharpened consequence unfairly hurled.
Be of good spirit, child, and carry light.

A man who lived in darkness, fear and fright
in foetal crouch took ages to uncurl,
seek wisdom, search for what is true and right.

I may not be around to see the height
you'll reach as you climb past me, darling girl.
Be of good spirit, child, and carry light;
seek wisdom, search for what is true and right.

Orange, raspberry
skylight, blue-gray razor's edge
water; fade to black.

Hug: four arms carry
the glorious weight of two
souls' love and caring.

I knocked; she came up to the door and smiled.
"The bed's still on the porch; we moved the rest.
We thought it might take you a little while
to get here; didn't want you feeling pressed
for time. Garage is open, I'll be in
the kitchen getting ready for the wake."

Taking down his bed, I thought of when
we spoke the final time, his strong handshake,
the glowing of his eyes at what he'd seen.

Said,"Call me if you need to"; hugged her, said
so long.
                  A few weeks later, as I cleaned
my truck, her face just popped into my head.
I knocked; she came up to the door and smiled.
"I called, you answered.  This is just too wild."

He lay in the bed
I had made for him,
emaciated, brittle;
the only part of him
truly alive,
more alive than anyone
else around:
                        his eyes.

His wife sits next to him;
serene, accepting, aglow
with his reflected light.

He fixed his gaze upon me
as he grasped my hand
with uncommon strength.
"I saw last night", and
gripped even tighter.
"I saw peace, and great light."
His arm shook, willing
his vision into my flesh.

"I saw, and was scoured clean.
I was purified!"

His hand fell limply,
and his head dropped back
on the pillow.
"I'm so glad I got to tell you...
I believed you would understand."

I believe you...
I understood what you saw...
and I bless your sandblasted soul.

The rust and grime
of a lifetime
weigh upon my spirit;
please pray with me
to your light
when the time comes.

I have a most insistent cat
who skulks unseen into my den,
hides until the moment that
I start to write.  Precisely then
she figure-eights around my feet,
nudging nose beneath my thigh.
Next jumps upon the desk, competes
for my complete attention by
a feline strut across the keys
with tail furled proudly in the air.
She then descends upon my knees;
her work done, nests without a care.
Just showing me her catty side,
or budding poet?  You decide.

Soft breezes of love
become nothing but passing
of winds in the night.

When I am still, it's not that I'm
pacific or content; for while
it may appear a quiet time,
with lips graced with a gentle smile,
a darkening meditation fills
the open space where demons roam
and angels hover for the ****;
I'm just about to write a poem.

A frilly card,
a ****** poem,
stale chocolate
on the clearance rack,
a fading bouquet
for my bruised flower
brings a budding smile
and a burst of color.

panem et circenses keep
the animaux at bay
while politicians sell out cheap
to lobbyists who pay
top dollar for the proper vote
the proper bill to vet
twould be enough to get your goat
were there a goat to get.
the clowns have been elected
and the acrobats do spin
no child left unaffected
and the bread is getting thin
elect the thief who steals from you
and wonder why you're broke
your budget strangled till it's blue
and you've no throat to choke
you've spent your time to buy their lies
the check is in the mail
the economic house of cards
stacked all along to fail
to think that wealth would trickle down
and feed the huddled masses
you're full of something rank and brown
and sanctimonious *****
so till the revolution comes
enjoy your present stations
sure, have your cake and eat it too
it's called regurgitation

Conjunctions creak, the adverbs ache,
nouns bear more than they can take.
Verbs are screaming for Ben-Gay
while pronouns atrophy away.

Adjectives have lost their bite,
possessives just give up the fight.
The subject's upset, naught agrees,
which weakens metaphoric knees.

Contractions all together moan;
the objects better left alone.
Ah, life is at a frightful stage
when poets and their poems age.

What gently falls around me now
and settles soft upon my soul,
fleecy coats on autumn's boughs;
drifting, shifting, white and cold?

Deeper, deeper, piling high;
at least chest level at my door.
I dare not venture out, for I
might lose myself forevermore.

Each a crystal, each unique,
when multiplied by billions they
inundate my world with bleak
and heavy stillness. Children play
in brilliant sun and cloudless skies;
the blizzard blows behind my eyes.

fossilized, my brain
bridging eternity itself
searched for two
working     synapses
(if i had another brain cell,
it'd be lonely)
failing that, it had
to find a spark
to jump the gap(no
problem there, son...
just find the third rail
and grab on)

The spring-head bubbled forth,
and ran in two separate streams.
One, sparkling, swift and cold:
the fount of eternal youth.
The other, unthinkably clear and deep:
the fount of age-old wisdom.
He was brought here by the elders,
and told he could drink from one alone.

Which would you choose?

He took the ancient wooden bowl,
dipped it into the second pool
and drank his fill;
saw with clarity and depth.

That day he became a poet,
using the gift of the second fount
to drink from the first every day.

When you have wrung
the last droplet of agony
from the blood-soaked rags
that cover and expose
your wounds,
remember this, my friend...

pain is
a standard feature
of life;
suffering
is an option.

Let's see...Mom died in
oh-three; nuclear family
reached critical mass.

Now: yesterday's dread,
tomorrow's history; the
only time we live.

Now, listen here, Bozo...
You had no right to up
and go where even the
silvered back of
my mirror can't access.

Can't blame you though.

I've heard from
outside sources
that the Wonderland
through your looking-glass
is wholly wonderful.

Enjambment: meaning
and meter bumping bellies
in holy union.

Gray sky-smoke smoulders;
cuts off morning sunshine.  Good
thing I pack my own.

I have a gift for you; okay, it's no
big deal. It's just a little something you
might want to have around when feeling low,
when life's just thirty different shades of blue.
Afraid the present banged around a bit
while I was on the way to meet you here.
Two corners rounded off; they look like ****,
the huge dent in between came very near
to breaking what I wanted most to give.
Be careful of the other pointed end;
it's sharp, and I'd be devastated if
my battered treasure hurt a trusted friend.
Reciprocation's needless, I don't mind;
you haven't got the heart to give in kind.

My last senryu I
wrote yesterday...seventeen
syllables...oh no....

Come, let me lavish love
upon your shoulders to start;

thumbs probing for stubborn
points of stress, rolling them
about, plump grapes of pressure
aching to pop.  s  l  o  w  l  y

s  t  r  e  t  c  h  i  n  g  

long ropes of back muscle,
langorous luxurient strokes
all
     the
             way
down to cup the flexors
around
(your parenthetical)
hips.

you didn't even know
you were tight there, did you?

I can but reach a hand your way;
nothing says you have to take
it up.  It's all I have today,
but grab hold hard, for god's own sake.
That path I know; you've gone astray
and farther on, the going's rough.
Times like this I can but pray,
and pray that that will be enough.

I asked my teachers this for years;
no answer to be had.
Why is some awe very good
while full of awe is bad?

Whenever I visit the savage side
there's a hangover to be had,
drunk from the darkness
of uninhibited desire.
The streets there are familiar
but the characters have changed.
Not much human left in their eyes
as they glance sidelong at me,
sizing me for hunter or for meat.
I pull my trenchcoat tighter,
stand a little straighter
and emphasize each step,
staring them down one by one
with eyes hardened by
the memories of when
these streets were my home.

Would that I'd be as
kind and gentle to myself
as I am to you.

it's morning, and your arm cradles my head
gently, after such a long and torrid night

i roll over to watch you sleep

your eyes half-lidded, unfocused,
unmoving, unconscious

tenderly, i move your arm;
you do not stir.
slowly, i raise up on one arm
the better to see you my dear
delicately stroke your breast,
your ******, proud, *****, unaware

trace down with my fingertips
your firm abs, now rippling with
your steady, slow breathing
and lower, to your loose
and flaccid thighs which
flashed their strength on
the dance floor last night,
now so unresistant to my touch

your calves, (my breath catches)
what i noticed first
about you, smooth yet well-turned
and solid, what made me notice
and want you

the last drink i bought you
hit you hard
and still works your mind
as i speak softly in your ear
and watch your eyes respond
to what i say to you for later

Shall I take you now?

All in good time, my dear
All in good time.

I carry the ghost of "what was"
along with the spectre "to be",
still chained to the rock of "I am";
the birds of time swoop down on me.

Graying, overweight,
powerful bearish
body a-crumble from
years of bullwork.

Didn't matter what
the day job was
when the stage was mine
four nights a week.
Now the voice cracks,
and crowds giggle or
avert their eyes
when it blows up.


There was a time when
whatever I put my mind
or body to, got done.


I got a standing O from an orchestra
and carried a waterbed up 3 flights of stairs.

This morning, I put word to byte
because it's one of the few things
I do better now than then.

Sunrise absorbing
clouds which hug the earth closely,
absorbing sight, sound.

Water a website
with depression and watch all
the poets pop up.

Hey kids!!
Why don't we play
an exciting game of
"Who Shot the Arrow?"
while a nation
lies bleeding to death
at our feet?

I was stupid and starved when I started;
my feral fangs snarling and bared,
only fit to be fed from a distance
by a few brave souls showing they cared.

So slowly by slow I grew human,
so slowly by slow I grew strong.
When I tried to repay all their kindness,
"Pay it forward," they said, "move along."

I can give only what I am given,
small wisdom enough for the day;
if you find something worthwhile for taking,
that would mean more than poems can say.

Life goes barefoot, and
we walk in fear, wait for the
other shoe to drop.

The dark may wrest your hand from mine,
from winding way I'm falling;
the sweetest sound comes just in time,
your poem, your voice a-calling.

Something prehistoric does arise
approaching Mother Gator's birthing mound.
Reptilian brain, primordial pair of eyes
see naught but food or danger looking 'round
at local parents, tourists, kids, and I
as we stare back in awe.  We hear the sound
of striped-back alligator babies' cries,
seeking out the warmth of higher ground.

We move to see them better. Her cold stare
and shift in murky water lets us know
that not by grace of boardwalk are we there,
but her ancestral patience.  As I go,
I turn once more to see her lying where
she has been since a million years ago.

Usually I'm
too busy being happy
to write about it.

What do I say
when a telephone rebuilds a bridge
I burnt some time ago?
What do I say
to introduce me to a stranger;
someone I already know?

It took time
to swallow pride and understand
some feelings had to end.
It took time
to set aside a love gone past
and see you as a friend.

What do I say?
I know a hundred writers
and a thousand of their rhymes.
What do I say
when all of them desert me;
I create these naked lines?

It took time
to tear you from my dreams
and once again to make you real.
It took time
to be assured that I could feel
exactly as you feel.

What do I say
when life breathes in a friendship
that had died some time ago?
What do I say?

Maybe put away my poetry
and simply say Hello.

I have forgotten
the song I wrote for mother
just before she died.

He staggers in, bellies up to the website...
"What'll ya have, bub?"  "Whatever's fresh...";
takes a good long pull from the draft on top.
Pounds down shots of shorts, savors
a good 12-year old sonnet with legs.
His wife knows he's here; doesn't approve.
She just doesn't understand...
but you do, dontcha?

When I was ten, I met a man who sailed the ocean far;
he came across from England with his suitcase and guitar.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.

Old Ben, he was a wanderer who roamed this country 'round
and wove his tales of travel into tapestries of sound.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear him play;
the words I wrote for Ben one yesterday.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.

His music whispered magic with its pain and with its joy
and gently cast a spell upon this fourteen-year-old boy.
But as my life was starting, I saw Ben's life start to sour,
and watched him age a year for every hour.

It's hopeless and it's helpless when you just can't understand
how the bottle Ben was draining drained the magic of his hand.
When his voice took to creaking like an ancient barn-door hinge,
he took off on a desperation binge.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed: to live, while others just survive.

Some say you're in Nashville; others say you're in L.A.,
but if these words should find you, may they find that you're OK.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear you play;
the words I wrote for you one yesterday.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed to live...I hope it's still alive.

Boss looks over my
shoulder; no morning respite.
Poems over lunch.

Each day is a gift;
some days send me off in search
of the return desk.

Woman

     as the

object

     of my

                  desire

you are

      much

                   less than human.

I cannot

       ((let))

you be

yourself;

                   I do not have the

power

                   to give my

permission.


To be

objectified

          is to be flawless;

you are imperfectly

                     warm, soft,

flesh and blood.


I am

          sick and tired of

object

                    lessons.

come, teach me more
of what real is.

Pouring some coffee...stirring up thoughts of you;
they settle down slowly.  Look at all we've been through.
Darkness of morning covers you in my bed -
candlelight's warning blinking out above your head.

It's not dancing out in danger, doesn't signal right or wrong;
but your love leads to forever, so I cannot go along.

I'm seeing too clearly, even blinded by my tears;
for though I've just met you, seems like I've known you for years.
The one that I prayed for through those long and lonely nights.
The one I was made for...all the pieces would fit so tight.

But that picture is a puzzle scattered all across the floor,
'cause the man whose prayers were answered doesn't live here anymore.

You're the woman someone wanted...
that someone who I was.
It's good that you've been good to me
but you'd better go. Because
I'm not looking for a wife, babe
though I love you, please believe
that I've missed you all my life, babe
and I'll miss you when you leave.

I can tell you what's not right, babe,
but I can't say what is wrong.
It's been just out of sight, babe
since the day you came along.
Now my dreams are all in tatters,
scattered all across the floor.
You're the woman someone wanted...
I'm not someone anymore.

Warming up coffee...washing down thoughts of you.