each tree has a secret
I swear it is true

the way fountains runs red
when the moon is blue

they stared at the veins
exposed on her hands

sweaty palms
sticky lips
ticking time
swollen glands

tricks trickling down alleys
on cobblestone paths
where a lady in black lay
red on her lap

blank stare compress
the distress left to hide
the people all saw
from pale windows inside

screams like white noise
but the people they knew

the trees all have secrets
the people do too

A sluggish haze
blocks the smell
--vanilla--
from next door.

I sneak into the shower.

i have a burning in my chest ...

i am a mad poet ...


words are spilling out of my pores ...

the words that don't get used and make it to paper ...
are all over the floor ...

glad to be anywhere near me ...

knowing they have come thru me and that at any time ...
they might get the call ...


i love them as my children ...
i love them as my partners ...

i love them as my allies ...


they love me ...
knowing they were born in my blood ...

remembering how long they have waited ...
for the time to be right ...


they recognize me ...
as their father and their mother ...

they ride the burning in my chest and wait for the moment ...

knowing i am a mad poet ...

It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.

The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.

In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't **** me.

It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.

I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.

The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.

I drip ashes on them.

There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know
any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.

This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.

On the bus,
the other day.
I saw a man who had nothing to say.
He was talking on his phone outloud, everyone could hear.
I never get that.
How can people be so open?

Are you one of those people?
Do you talk like that on purpose, trying to show the world who you are?
Like you do with your clothes and hair and music
This is ME, Look, I'm fun/interesting/intelligent
I'm a little quirky, I don't give a ****, I fit in
I BELONG

You what?
I BELOOOONNNGGGG

Or is it just where you came from, your family?
They were open - they were loud and confident so so are you.
I guess, like most things, it's a bit of both

W
E
L
L
L

I listened but as I said he had nothing to say.
So I looked to my music and pressed play                 <=========Super Cool Rhyming, So good at poetry
- to listen to more people with nothing to say.

But at least the way they said it sounded good

I want to truly have
What I feel I understand
But my mind is tied down.

I'm a bit more than most but nothing special.

I see it and that makes it so much harder
That I almost wish I could not.
To be like those who do not care
Who don't see past the next day
Who ask for more than their share
And repeat what others had to say

Would it be better?
Would my dissatisfaction away?

But even that is a lie
The truth is I don't mind
Most of the time
I don't mind

In love they wore themselves in a green embrace.
A silken rain fell through the spring upon them.
In the park she fed the swans and he
whittled nervously with his strange hands.
And white was mixed with all their colours
as if they drew it from the flowering trees.

At night his two finger whistle brought her down
the waterfall stairs to his shy smile
which like an eddy, turned her round and round
lazily and slowly so her will
was nowhere—as in dreams things are and aren't.

Walking along avenues in the dark
street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads
with a voilence they never understood
and all their movements when they were together
had no conclusion.

Only leaning into the question had they motion;
after they parted were savage and swift as gulls.
asking and asking the hostile emptiness
they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone
and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed
to see them form and fade before their eyes.