In 63 years
as a refugee,
I have never really
unpacked, not once.

Every place
is just a place.

People arrive
and disappear.

Home, hearth
and household
do not adhere
to me.

This morning
rain drips
from the trees;
birdsong
fills the air;
in the mist
across the road
from my cloud cabin
three deer graze.

A good place,
but not home.

I belong nowhere;
I will not stay here;
I know that.

I am the shade
of a Long Hunter,
always passing through,
never settling,
or a Hungry Ghost,
observing, remarking,
but never involved.

I am not
a determined king
and no Ithaca
awaits me,
no rooted bed
or loyal hound.

Yesterday
I followed a path
through the woods
that went nowhere,
simply ended.

Perfection,
of a kind,
existing for itself,
no reason
or destination,
just a way.

But it is my path,
and I will follow it.
- mce

Eat, sleep, breathe, excrete,
a body living does not a life make.
Oh! Black dog do not my heart devour.
Only the lonely know only the lonely.
Know thing not without touch lives.
Do you smell that smell? Do not inhale.
Kick hard to keep the burly beast at bay.
Or cross the bar onto wine-dark depths,
Song of sirens. Whispers of doom.
How soothing simply to sink. Down.
Sometimes, the brain may prefer the drain.
Make the judgementally ill be still.
In my mania is my maintenance.
The abyss remains to revisit always.
Difficult balance: live or cease pain.
To resist. To defy. All that does remain.
Good morning, blues, how do you do?
To keep it or to give it away.
Bump. Bump. Down the funny steps.
Bear up. Hold on. Call that another day,
though sand through the glass’ neck still drips.

In the World's eyes,
the only things
I have ever succeeded at
are war and failure.
Fortunately, I never look
through those eyes.

  ~mce

Americans scramble about
like hyperactive lemmings
trying to fix themselves.
Vanity; egotistic futility;
pointless self-obsession.
How can you fix yourself
when you are already you?
  - mce

If I can but
squeeze through
the narrow Bardo
one more time,
perhaps
I'll get it right.
  - mce

Woke to sunshine and lawn mower song;
either the world is speeding up
or I am slowing down.
I daydream of being the beloved dog
of a wanton ***** in Ontario
and no one is less Canadian than I.
It takes longer than ever
for my discordant head to awaken fully.
I planned to be a Pirate, but I got drafted
and the ship left without me
and now I am stuck ashore in Pennsylvania
without even a scar or tattoo.
It needs coffee, cigarettes, Mozart and time.
Still, it's the only world there is
and eventually I must clamber back into it.
Let us prepare for anything. Semper Paratus.
The apocalypse could happen today.
I would hate to miss out.
Or the Second Coming; I missed the First.
It is all mumbles and blather and babble,
so I am still working on a new language.
Difficult to understand, is it not?
The sky is vivid blue but not in a bad way.
Let's call it a day and just show up.
God morning Blues; Blues how do you do?
If you find this poem incomprehensible,
rejoice, for you are probably sane.

"This is the end, my friend…"

Take refuge in the Golden Years.
Retire to an inevitable monastery
plopped on a suburban mountaintop.
Immerse yourself in the lost writings
of Nikita Khrushchev and Harry S Truman.
Learn to cook gizzards and meditate.
Find solace in obsolete atomic weapons,
enlightenment in the raw, butchered
expressions of the naked thermonuclear.
Wangle, ******, fire, and maneuver.
Get in touch with your inner Eichmann.
Devour baskets of tasty deplorables.
Stop clinging to guns and religion.
Love the fascism of the ordinary.
Become content with mere content.
Stop waving daggers at the innocent.
Wash yourself in the blood of the lamb.
Accept that Woodstock was futile.
Admit you can’t get no satisfaction.
Penetrate the goddess of unreason,
and come screaming to your senses.
Declare the dawn of the Age of Onanism.
Keep your fingers out of Pandora's box.
Bid farewell to the ghost of Joe Hill.
Depart the smothering, smooth life
of lust, corn flakes, and competition.
Expand your mind in a mushroom cloud.
Travel upriver to the ****** of Darkness,
legendary source of honeyed generation.
Attain new heights of perfect despair.
Discover the latent bliss of cassowaries,
rooted in their strong disdain for kale.
Play poker with the spirits of the dead.
These are your days of lucky revelation.
Lick magic frogs and witness lost dreams.
Arrive at the perfect wisdom of what is.
Everything and nothing, just what it seems.

I only want to
be your heart's physician
keeping our love strong.

  ~mce

I cannot
make my bed;
the cat is dozing
peacefully
upon its ruin.

   mce

by W.H. Auden*

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly ******* they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings ***** the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Life lasts but an hour
that cold winds devour;
all that we love and know
smashed by the winds that blow,
leaving nothing but the cold
to chill the still living old.
  Ashes, all that soon remain…

To The Woman**

Yes, you remember,
You certainly remember
The way I listened
Standing at the wall
As you walked to and fro about the chamber
Reproving me
With bitter words and all.

You said
That it was time we"d parted,
And that my reckless life,
For you, was an ordeal,
And it was time a new life you had started
While  I was fated
To go rolling downhill.

My love!
You didn"t care for me, no doubt.
You weren"t aware of the fact that I
Was like a ruined horse, amidst the crowd,
Spurred by a dashing rider, flashing by.

You didn"t know
That I was all a-smoke,
And in my life, turned wholly upside-down ,
I was in misery,   downhearted, broke,
Because I didn"t see which way we were bound.

When face to face
We cannot see the face.
We should step back for better observation.
For when  the ocean boils and wails
The ship is in a sorry situation.

The world is but a ship!
But all at once,
Someone, in search of better  life and glory,
Has  turned it, gracefully,  taking his chance,
Into the hub of storm and flurry.

Well,  which of us
On board a mighty boat
Has never brawled nor barfed nor fallen down?
There are not many of them that will not
Despair when they"re about to drown.


Me,  too,
To loud hue and cry,
But knowing well what I was doing
Went down to the hold where  I
Might keep away from scenes of spewing.

"Hold" was a Russian pub
Where I
Drank,   listening to the loud bicker,
I tried to stop my  worries by
Just drowning myself in liquor.


My love!
I worried you, oh my!
Your tired eyes revealed dejection,
I didn"t hide from you that I
Had spent my life in altercation.

You didn"t know
That I was all a-smoke,
And in my life, turned wholly upside-down,
I was in misery, downhearted, broke,
Because I didn"t see
Which way we were bound.

....................................

Now many years have passed,
I"m not so young today.
I do not  feel the same, and I  have new ideas,
And here at festive table  I will say:
Long live the one who"s at the steers!

Today I,
Seized by tender feelings so,
Recall your  wistfulness,  and I am happy  
To tell you straight, for you to know,
About what I was  
And what has happened!

My love,
I"m glad to tell you that
I have escaped a bad descent, an"
Today I"m in the Soviet land
A staunch supporter and defender.

I"m not the man
I used to be.
I wouldn"t hurt  you now
The way I did.  So silly!
And I would follow Labour, feeling free,
As far as English Channel, really.

Forgive me please,
I know that you have changed.
You live with an intelligent,
Good husband;
You don"t need all this fuss and all this pledge,
And you don"t need me either, such a hazard.

Live as you do
Lead by your lucky star
Under the tent of fern, if there"s any.
My best regards,
You"re always on my mind, you are,
Yours, faithfully,
           S e r g e y   Y e s e n i n.

Poetry as a mental illness.
Interesting proposition.

Poets do not see like others.
Poets do not feel like others.
Often, they do not live like others.
Ergo: Poets are not like others.

Assuming others are normal
(assuming that normal exists)
then poets are not normal.

Does that make poetry a mental illness?

I haven't a clue and the mad-hatter
is throwing a party for which
I cannot be late. Forget normal.
Come along. We shall take tea
and play croquet with
flamingoes and hedgehogs,
while speaking in puzzles and rhymes.

That feels normal enough to me.
   ~mce

many flowers, only one blossom...*

the singularity
of it

even a king does not
ride the same mare
twice

each particular
and unique

each time a new
first time
whomever the
writhing body
beneath

whether upon

the car hood
or cemetery grass

behind a dumpster
or in a bed even

one's red ****
explodes
disturbed
only by a
ceiling fan

another clutches
screams and howls
out an aria

a third comes
silently with
giant moon eyes

tenderness
of thighs
and the
sweet wet
mystery
between

none admit
comparison or
nostalgia

each one complete
and unique

satisfaction is
not a number

whether one
or a hundred

even a king cannot
mount the same mare
twice

each woman
always singular

not one
ever twice.

Sorry to interrupt this program.

The print version of my new book, The Biology of Strangeness,is available today from Createspace and should be on Amazon in three days. Even if you aren't a poetry person, some of this will make you laugh. Currently available as an e-book on Amazon. Just search my name. Read for free if you have Amazon Prime. Don't forget to review. Please.

Now back to regularly scheduled poetry program.

Thanks.  Mike

You shapeshift
in my dreams
and whichever
shape you take
fits perfectly
with mine.

~mce

Today I am holding on tight to nothing
and it is just enough to keep me breathing.
How marvelous to be an ordinary artist
who can survive on so little.
You taught me that a kiss matters
more than all the pain and terror on earth.
I leave the world's problems to its big men.
I am a small man working only on problems
a small man might hope to solve.
Why are there birds? What do dogs think?
Why do cats purr both when happy and sad.
Why do you taste like lost oceans?
These are the mysteries I care about.
The curve of your cheek matters more to me
than stock markets, earthquakes or wars.
My hands caressing your human *******
matter more than tsunamis and revolutions.
Your voluptuous *** speaks ****** volumes
about where the world should pay attention.
I would gladly lie down with you in Eden
smelling of apples and the loss of eternity.
I sing only for helpless humans and animals.
Let the wealthy and powerful purchase their
own poems though I doubt they even care.
I am content to feel the texture of your hair
and celebrate your green eyes with humble words.
We are human, we are warm and we are here.
That's enough for me, maybe more than I can bear.
I am holding on tight to nothing and I do not fear.

~mce

wake up and forgive your wrinkles...*

Women. Drink cultural Kool-Aid. Believing it.
Grey is old is ugly is useless. So very wrong.
Not fruit for one picking. Fecund. Many harvests.
Fifty is not over. Nor 60. Simply is. Immortal desire.
Time makes changes in everyone. In X and in Y.
Every human age has its own allure. Wake up.
Each woman, any moment, beautiful in her own way.
     Lovely laughter, soul, thoughts, feelings, touch.
     Forgive the lines around your eyes and such.
     Worthy of desire. Desirable. Desired. Much.

  ~mce

In the end, it won't matter
how many breaths you took,
but how many moments
took your breath away.

Bad karma bleeds
across centuries of hate;

one blind eye for another,
one scream of pain for another.

No escape from suffering.
Accept the world and move on.

Try to be the light
that you already are.

   ~mce

i prefer them because

they hurt my brain less
consume less blood for ink
demand fewer memories
are easier on my readers
cost less in alcohol and despair

so i'll just stop this now
before it stretches too far

and loses itself in difficulty
and disappears in pain

   ~mce

An old man smitten against the odds;
what could be more pathetic?
He knows a lot. He knows better than this.
He has been to war, married, divorced.
He knows all the games from both sides.
He knows she is young, beautiful, far away.
He knows that she chooses whom she wants;
that she runs the game.
He knows he brings nothing to her
but empty hands and a worshipful soul.
He has stayed alive this long
by knowing and covering the odds.
In that, he has always been smart.
Never play the other man's game.
Keep a clear head. Surprise your enemies.
Know when to laugh and walk away.
And yet, he wants nothing more
in the world than a seat at this table
in this most unlikely game.
A chance to win what can't be won.
A chance to have what can't be taken.
One very much last chance.
An old man smitten against the odds;
what could be more pathetic?

  ~mce

The day's inertia grips an old, cold body.
Too dangerous to doze while ice melts.
Early morning commotion at the brain station.
An unnamed bird tweets but lacks followers.
Gesticulation of unknown parts. Shake the
waking brain: dissolve the haze of logic.
A Day Of Decision: to shave or not to shave.
Curse all the rules you learned in schools.
The difficulty of simultaneously breaking out
and in. White boys with hoodie-heads clearly
ignorant of color wheels. Each word waffle
in the mind meaning means. This craft makes
crazy but air and fire clarify these lines.
Poets voluntary outlaws in American eyes.
Who needs shrink wrapped verses? You are
implicated in whatever you choose to read.
Do not interrupt and demand exegesis;
we do not deal in scripture or litany;
you may only get the interpretation of wolves.
Only this blinky moment of alphabet unites us.
You are changed by this reading
if you get my memeing or not.
Armageddon is your beard to scratch. Have at it.

Quit acting like
a hungry alley cat
or a salivating dog.

Pounce!

Just kiss the girl!

What, other than
stitches or a black eye,
can really go wrong?

And imagine what could
go right...

   ~mce

Some days
nothing
is the most
eloquent
statement
you can
make.
Shout it
out.
- mce

Once you understand
there is no truth
beyond magick,
you know
that sometimes
silence is a poem.
   ~mce

Silenus, sad old satyr, wearied of seduction.
He'd cultivated enough nymphs
to last an immortal lifetime.
They were all the same anyway,
ubiquitous, their beatific bottoms
lifted and eager to be impaled.
He dreamed of mortal women, wary and with wiles.
A bit more of a challenge.
But a job is a job, even for a demigod.
Onward. he plowed another furrow.
Back to work. Hard at it. Poking eternity.
Once more into the breach.
  - mce

The silence
of morning;
the silence
of midday;
the silence
of evening:
all subtly
different.

I don't
understand
why,
so I'll
just be
silent.

mce

Simple Song
a wooden room:

waking in the morning light
beside you in a simple bed.

we drink from simple cups
subtle waters.

simple wood and light
simple cup and bread
simple warmth and calm.

difficult -

the simple world
is difficult…

or

simply open the door:

the breeze calls us
the birds sing
our mortal names…

plain table,
subtle fire.

two plates as round
as owl’s eyes.

your heart and mine:

simple,
simply,
beautiful.
  –mce

Wovon man nicht reden kann, darüber muss man schweigen.*

Within the
scrambled syntax
of lust we seek
the certain
grammar of love.
Choose any noun
I’ll become
your adjective;
Choose any verb,
I’ll modify you.
Together we will
birth a single
perfect sentence:
complete, simple,
compound, complex,
wholly… us.

  ~mce

Let us sink and seek the miraculous,
steal from the clothesline of nostalgia.
The crushing weight of a pith helmet.
The quandary that every exit out opens in.
What is not remembered still exists;
the song never plucked rings still.
Cease stifling epistemological *******.
In the end, very few will comprehend.
Hard feet on a bare-wood floor. Then flush.
Iced sausages and cold blood for breakfast.
French toast boasts an aftertaste of paper.
Sign on cafe: Enter ye and be devoured.
It is always eat up or be eaten up.
What is the reference of it in that sentence.
Converse with horses in a dingy sushi bar.
Horoscopes promise passionate promiscuity.
Sometimes cigars can act like ******.
Two hours of smoke an extended ******.
Purchase a pack of Godzillas. Enjoy.
You are responsible for whatever you read.
Do not assault my ears for explanations.
Pluck pantaloons from that nostalgic rope.
Wear them well where you will wear them.
Feel the miraculous swell and understand.

“The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night”* - Nietzsche

He slept alone,
the nights were long;
suicide
sang its song.

Walking in
the light of day,
its melody
seemed far away,

but in the night
the song rang clear,
tantalizing
in his ear,

promises of
rest and peace,
oblivion
and sweet release.

He slept alone,
the nights were long;
suicide
sang its song.
  - mce

Different places, different ages.
Space time dilemmas.
You have a plan;
I have a past.
Where in this
phenomenonal  world
can our paths cross?
No answers,
only hope and questions
and time to think.
  ~mce

Make a Zendo
of your hovel.
It doesn't matter
where you park
that lovely ***,
it always floats
on nothingness.

  ~mce

For a few minutes
you are the Buddha.
A gift to yourself,
though you know
there is no
giver, gift
or receiver,
only quiet and peace.
Not difficult at all.
Sit down; be quiet.
Listen for the nothing
you really are.
It will come and go,
but when it comes,
you will be real
and you will know.

I have wasted so much life
learning the unimportant.
I will spend what's left
sitting and unlearning.
Nothing is as important
as letting the breeze
flow through you like
an ocean current that
only exists to exist.
Current, wave, no-thing.
I am on my way.

  ~mce

Tempus pro nemine manet*

It's the day there comes
a knock on the door
and you open it to find
a government agent
with a glowing, hot iron.

You drop your drawers
and OLD is eternally
branded on your ***.

It is painful, sad,
absurd and funny.

Sweet relief, too.

Never again must you
worry about getting old
or dying young.

You are old. It is official.

From now on there is
only older and older
until there isn't

and then the mystery.

Merrily, merrily,
merrily, merrily,
life and death,
but the same dream.

I am 64. On New Years Eve
I was sleeping and dreaming at 10.
You are 20. On New Years Eve
you were being kissed on the mouth at 12
Ten is the difference between 64 and 20.
Don't bother thinking about this.
The time will arrive too soon
when you will understand perfectly.

  ~mce

Er träumt davon, eines Tages frei zu sein.*

Must I sleep much longer?
Must I sin so dispassionately?
Shall I find an open portal
and leap and splatter?
All of the roads seem sinister
and dogs wag their tails but snarl.
Beneath a dead Elm I witnessed
an Angel weeping and murmuring.
His tears were pearls; his sighs prayers.
A hag with ******* like needles
beckoned to me from near a ruined wall.
I no longer possess an ****** appetite.
Instead, I am gnawing at the sinews of time
which taste bitter as death and bland as chicken.
My brain is a luminous, transparent sponge.
Dare to take a look inside.
I wish to wake in a solid world,
but who heeds my wishes?
Perhaps I must sleep forever.

  ~mce

Finally a day devoid of sharp edges.
The world in focus. For a moment. Enjoy.
Insomnia burns like Saint Augustine's fire.
Nights much longer than swooning pig *******.
Days that shimmer, stab, shake and ****.
Aching eyes and aching I. Queasiness.
Every eternal question demanding answer.
Random blasts from unwelcome pasts.
Useless drugs. Alcohol too much pain.
Eventually, to sleep, to dream. Oblivion
attained. But then, it all begins again.
  ~mce

Darkness
leans toward me
like a lover
for a kiss.
So difficult
to resist
her charms.
Darkness,
sleep,
respite.
Perhaps
this time
I'll simply
relent,
surrender
and disappear
inside her
forever.
- mce

The best lesson
to learn
from the past:
pleasure
is fragile,
but pain,
built to last.
  - mce

Nice people
can only make love.

Sad people
can only ****.

Smart people
learn to do both
at once.

Smart couples
create that
kind of luck.
   ~mce

You wake
in a warm bed
and feel her
female presence;
she wakes,
opens her eyes,
and smiles.
What is more
lovely
and reassuring
than waking up
next to a lover
who wakes up
smiling?
The entire
coming day
seems to smile
along with her.
Small instances
like this
make the world
not only bearable
but beautiful.
- mce

Mykonos, 1969*

I met you on a tourist island
bright beneath the sun.
I met you back when we were both
in love with being young.
I danced with you in an empty bar
and looked into your eyes,
for that only moment you get in life,
I gazed into paradise.
We wandered on together.
We knew it wouldn't last.
Our lives were much too different,
no one escapes their past.
I walked with you on the sand dunes,
I walked with you in the rain,
I walked with you in that instant
before life dissolves into pain.
Where are all those bright days gone,
those days beside the sea,
when the mystery of your freckles
was mystery enough for me.
That was nearly fifty years ago,
but you know I love you still,
for your innocence and your courage,
at a distance, I always will.
You taught me love and beauty,
in a lovely, beautiful land,
I've never quite let go of that,
never quite let go of your hand.

Ten years ago when
I got divorced, I
owned 6,000 books,
a riding mower,
a house on an acre
and enough other stuff
to supply a Syrian
family for a  year.

Now I live in a three
room shotgun apartment.

A year ago I embarked
on a minimalist frenzy.

Out went the LPs,
the vintage stereo
equipment and radios,
the remaining books
(a Kindle is a
minimalist's best
friend), most of the
furniture (no one visits
here), boxes of magazines,
all the clothes not
worn in the past year,
all of my gadgets
and, best of all, my
wretched teaching job.

I wanted to pare my life
down to the essentials
and see what remained.

Now I live on practically
nothing with practically
nothing. I give my
occupation (when asked)
as Poet. That gets
wonderfully baffled looks.

I am eccentric to the
extreme and love it.

The cat and I, an old
anarchist and mute feline,

make the perfect minimalist
family living out the dregs
of an obscure, minimal life.

We are what we are, free
from the tyranny of things,
content to quietly
careen into whatever bit
of future remains to us

enjoying the minutes,
ignoring the years.

   ~mce

The gentlest eyes
I have ever seen
but also, I think,
a bit fierce,
like a baby tiger.
Such an exquisite,
elegant contradiction.

   ~mce

I am not the kind of man
who wants to possess anyone;
We are not things to buy.
You can only give love,
you can never own it.
    ~mce

What was a storm
here and there
has become a tsunami
of catastrophes.
We are subsumed
by flowing disaster.
We open futile umbrellas
or furiously doggy paddle
to stay dry and afloat
without result.
The Ten Day Forecast
calls for doom, gloom,
and genocide with
a sprinkling of famine,
war, and pestilence.
Turn on the news,
everywhere the waters rise.
Sixty-five million refugees
bob upon the swells.
Compassion founders
like a  rusty ship.
Simple decency
takes a dive.
Don’t bother to
hold your breath.
Morally speaking,
we are all
fundamentally sunk.