dipped in dark well,
i drink in
black water.
filled,
words spill
from the tip
of my
cleft mouth
appeasing the paper void.

stripped
my skin laid bare to bones

pull away the flesh from my face
and expose my broken teeth

I will drink cold water
poured from pewter
into tall glasses

hold my still beating heart
in your hands
and wring the blood from this muscle

drain away what’s left of me
collected in a kidney  pan
of stainless steel
and feed me to the dogs

I will listen for the clinking sound
of your forceps falling on the floor

hands pulled across
hard
hungry denim.

propelled by night
consumed in street
lamp fire.

in this cotton fort
you are safe.
I am ****** meat
fed to your wolves.
absorbed in your skin
quenched by your origin

the sun
is the enemy.
touch me now
while only we
exist

eyes rolled back
in frozen pain
ice
piercing the roof of my mouth
cold burgundy
drops
of blood
dot the floor in front of me

I like the idea of God having an ******
God stroking his **** to internet ****
And galaxies shooting out the end of his ****.
Oh, yeah, here comes the Milky Way
Or maybe he uses black holes like a fleshjack
spewing  cosmic *** into a parallel universe.

Would we all experience God’s ******?
“The little death” as the French like to say
God’s toes pointed and his eyes shut tight
All of us bathed in his celestial seed
Fading out for a time
Fading away from the incessant
Prayers and hymns
Levied against him in a non-stop onslaught
Of need need need.
Floating endless unaware
Devoid of conscious or thought
For a time… a short time
Until the world floods back in
The suns re-ignite, the planets regain their orbits
And we all feel gravity’s pull
Holding us down
once again.

Aggregation leads to aggravation
and the persistence of pestilence.
Compliance begets reliance
and a flash of orderly disorder.

As a structure it appears quite solid
But the sides are peeling away
Exposing the knobby-kneed skeleton
holding the whole thing together.

         A memo has been issued:
         ‘Dear Mr. Hardy,
         Thou shalt not [insert unacceptable social behavior here]
         Sincerely,
        
         Management’

The myopathy becomes my apathy
Which leads me to reply;
Who makes up these rules, anyway?
and why can’t we live without them?

Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Lifts a trumpet to his mouth.
Deep breaths blow notes
at right angles
into space.
The sound is worn denim.
The sound is Lauren Bacall.
The beat is urgent and syncopated
just like his last name.

Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Rests a trumpet by his side.
Reverb:
Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound;
reflections build up and decay
until the sound is absorbed
by the surfaces of this space.
Inhale.
Ambrose,
pulls the trumpet
To his mouth
once again.

In the meanest time of summer
when the sun cracks the pavement
and swelter fills your lungs
a call to the dispossessed is in order.
Consider the river washers,
and the alley dwellers
who are simply thankful for today.
Chew on a bitter piece of perspective
and ask yourself;
if you had to carry a cross to your own death
would you complain about the heat?

Bring me your fear and your failures,
I’ll wrap them in coarse linen
and hide them under the bed.  

Bring me your insanity,
I’ll trap it in a cage and drown it in the river.  

Bring me your nightmares
I’ll douse them in kerosene and build a bonfire
for you and I

We can warm ourselves by the flames
Imbued by the light of the sunset
and the rustle of dry of paper.

I couldn't begin to repair
His broken wing.

Born of the bluest of blue skies
Soaked in kerosene, sitting on tinder

his intentions have fallen
to a blanket, fettered with

pine bark, rotting leaves,
rich soil and dark magic.

His tiny heart, as small as a poppy
seed beats faster than a  drum

His tiny form yearns to catch the breeze
to the nectar of the next Trumpet Creeper.

Your luscious, languid, lips
Feather down my torso.
Unbuckled, unbridled
My pride awaits your touch
And your power to release
My explosive love for you.

Smoke and butyl nitrate
burn the membrane of your nostrils.
Unzipped trousers down
the crush of leather at your feet
spilling your anger and your desire
on the stranger knelt before you  
trying hard to remember to forget all of this.
Reveling in the conquest
while feeling strangely unsatisfied.

Firm, ripe, temptation red,  
the pale green-yellow flesh
floods my mouth
with Sweet juice and the sting of tartness
like a gift from a serpent
I know I should be ashamed
but I have been bitten.

Who knew he'd be so charming?
The bed made just for me.
The lights grew slightly dimmer
as he pulled me closer in.
With a single, gentle kiss
The seduction was complete;
his bony fingers held my heart
making it skip it a beat.

He grappled with his ****-
sure attitude. True, it was hard
work, and he could have used a hand.
Jobs like this don’t come
along often.  If he shot
his chance moaning
and stroking
the ego of his new boss, he might pre-maturely
lose the momentum he was building.
As he got closer and closer
to finishing, he realized
he was proud of his member-
ship at this new company.  It was a great feeling.
After he came
to complete his work he was relieved
to have done this one,
on his own.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
must linger in the room
where he died
in his sleep.

Words float like atoms of dust
visible only in the light
of the afternoon sun.

There is comfort here
in this quiet room;
the unmade bed,
an empty glass,
the dog-eared pages of books
carefully stacked on the nightstand
waiting to be reread.

His last poem
does not slice the air like the jagged edge of cut metal;
rather, it succumbs to the
inevitable forces of entropy
tearing apart its metaphors
until they no longer resemble verse.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
falls to the shadowy corners
of the small room
unseen,
undisturbed,
at rest.

I thought I would write you a poem;
I wrote 100 lines of prose instead
only to unearth
3 lines of poetry
buried beneath the wreckage.

In the stillest moment of the night,
When nothing more than the soft glow
of your cell phone falls across
the gray of your beard and the wrinkles on your face
I remember those nights
I wanted to crawl inside
your burning skin and harbor there
hidden from the world
deep inside you; cradled around my
ache and longing
holding my desire
for you,
as long as I can.

Trembling,
you said to me
“Put the potato down”.
I examined the raw tuber,
clenched tightly in my hand,
like the first man
on a distant continent
to discover
this strange and ugly meteor,
with earthen smell
and cold rough skin;
it’s dead eyes staring back at me.
“Please, put down the potato”
I glanced at you,
wordlessly,
unfurling my fingers
the potato fell to the ground
in an unceremonious
thud.

“A lovely moon tonight” she said.
“It’s the same moon it was last night” he said.
“It looks slightly different somehow” she said.
“It’s exactly the same ****** moon” he said.
“I think it’s fuller tonight” she said.
“Of course it’s fuller tonight” he said.
“It’s brighter and gayer tonight” she said.
“The moon is no gayer tonight” he said.
“It seemed so sad last night” she said.
“How could the moon seem sad?” he said.
      “The moon dies every night” she said.
      “And ferries the souls of the recently dead,
        Into the darkness just out of reach
        It circles the globe unseen and *****  
        It pries open the sky at evening’s breach
The moon has been reborn” she said.
He gave her a look of scorn and dread
“What’s gotten into your head?”
“A lovely moon tonight” she said.

Chalk built, bone-dry, breathless
your dusty lakes, your empty seas,
your hulking mass,
tethered by an invisible rope
in endless retreat.  Endlessly, returning,
reflecting the muted warmth of the sun
in total darkness,
illuming ancient sailors and lost loves,
whispering  to the world;
“you carry your death with you
along with your salvation.”

Tonight,
heavy and full, he drags
himself across a prickly sky, slowly
ascending, he surfaces
from tidal depths, slowly
descending,  he slips behind  
majestic  cascades
bathed in his silver light,
extinguished
by his own absence and the breaking
of tomorrow.

The freshly severed heads
of dandelions
explode, silently, at the gentle
puff of a child’s breath.
Their hollow stems shed milky tears;
the seedlings fill the air.

I.
Take a plane to San Francisco.
Drive north on 101 across the Bay Bridge,
Through the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island
past the frame houses of Oakland,
past the oil refinery that ignites the sky
past the dry, brown coastal hills,
which were emerald green just a month ago,
that unfold like a hardback novel
and flatten out into the valley.
Drive north on 80 until you get to 99
and keep driving north,
past orchards that line the road like soldiers bearing fruit
past vast fields filled with soy and sorghum
and the ancient dead volcano which breaks through
the flat earth without explanation or warning
and keep driving north,
Until you reach Chico.  

II.
You can get off at E. 1st Ave, but you’ll have to
double-back to Vallambrosa to get to the park.
Stop the car and walk across the foot bridge.
Over the creek, over the dam that creates the pool
named for the towering trees all around you.
There you will see a boy about to jump
into the cool creek water.
He is about 11 or 12 years old.
He will not see you.
He will not know how far you have traveled.
He is too absorbed by the sounds of the other children
Shouting and playing and the reassuring touch
of the warm sun
gently drying his wet skin.
He does not know
that this moment,
Exquisite and feather light,
Like a glass orb lit from beneath,
Will be locked inside a precious box,
and that precious box will be buried
deep within your gut,
And carried by you both,
For the rest of your lives.