You peered into the camera once,
And you cried
And I held you

I should have realized then
That all the love in the world
Would not make the damnest difference

He remembers my birthday.
His mother told me so,
last night
when I found myself in her immaculate home once again
...my best friend is seeing his brother.

I ditched them to catch up with
"Mama."

"I mentioned your birthday-- it's coming up!"
Wine bottle in hand, the old appendage intact;
things haven't changed
much

but he doesn't live there any more.

"I said I know it is in May,"
she continued,
"Try this new red I picked up at a tasting.  Dry.  Musky."

Elixir of truth.

"But I couldn't remember what day--"
She gulped, and licked at a crimson stain
hugging her upper lip
"--then he said, 'The Fourteenth.'"

an inscription on the side of the door
that I didn't see
upon entering


I like visiting you when you spit real
you hop from moon to moon
and never tire of handing out
your remarkable brand of smiles
as you go


you see
the thing is, you
are probably the most rare
of humans
I've ever known
you're the kind of person
I didn't realise it till now
I've always been on subconscious search for
no longer bereft of beauty
I am



so many sides
and so much fire
sometimes, it's hard
to keep pace
with mental fireworks

out on rocky shores
some sweets can cut the tongue
my feet edge tentative
over uneven edges
and move forward
slowly


there's a golden child in a tunic
who walks miles to learn of this wonderful world
which dips its ever-pen into the inkwell-head
of innocence
polluting the sweet waters there
changing for all time
the complexion of healing time

there's always hope in the smile of a child
thank heavens for the eyes of children
yet, look what we do...


yes, he's walking to his next lesson
if he only knew what waits
when he grows up
something inside will die
something so beautiful and deeply precious
will simply perish

when we grow up, we actually die
innocence is replaced by blasé crap

young girls are advised to carry
silver spoons hid in drawers
to spark their chaperoned freedom
sleeping families never wake
as silent clouds settle insidious
placed by forces
no cherub wants to meet
the wicked are pardoned by the blind
and yet another child is trapped
and Babel's tower lives once more

the world is such
we **** our own
for the merest pretext

yet hope must live
keep candle of humanity lit


taking the time to find
that beautiful inscription
a prayer of infinite beauty
follow the steps to your heart
love comes
to light*




S T,            25th augs

The reason I write through the tears at night
Is to get it all out--and if I get it just right,
If I use pretty words like catharsis and plight
And if they rhyme like a song, I think they just might
Make the pain a bit prettier, a bit softer, a bit light.

The end was quick and bitter.
Slow and sweet was the time between us,
slow and sweet were the nights
when my hands did not touch one another in despair but in the love
of your body which came
between them.

And when I entered into you
it seemed then that great happiness
could be measured with precision
of sharp pain.  Quick and bitter.

Slow and sweet were the nights.
Now is bitter and grinding as sand—
"Let's be sensible" and similar curses.

And as we stray further from love
we multiply the words,
words and sentences so long and orderly.
Had we remained together
we could have become a silence.

In spring rain
a pretty girl
    yawning.