I want to get so blind stumbling drunk
that the earth divides herself in twain;
and my half takes me up to heaven,
and then I want to go low again,
let the oceans sink me down into hell,
to drown all this creatures tiresome ambitions.

I'm dying in mundane status quo;
leaking icemakers and clogged disposals,
traffic fines and shopping lists,
car repairs and dinner guests,
and the endless wearing, wearying
wearing out the body,
wearing out the clothes,
wearing out the friends,
wearing out the soul-
need new shoes new wheels new goals;
need new gods;
I’m stuck in the shoals.

Pick a quiet spot
where the only noise heard
is grass growing old;
for life’s a careless happenstance;
that we should even be here,
dreaming forever our pick-pocket dreams,
one day this bubble will burst its seams
and we’ll go back to mute possibility,
where we’ll be filled up,
for eternity of eternities-

but down here, we remain half empty cups.

Masturbatory poetry doesn't get anyone else off
Doesn't lead to pregnancy or abortion
Isn't about love or deep human emotions;
It's rather mechanical, and can go on for a long time-
Rather pointlessly,
And it's embarrassing
To be caught indulging in it, needlessly
When you've already done five pieces today
Maybe you should just give that hand a rest?
Masturbatory poetry can cause quite a mess.

In their silvered wish,
My eyes can see farther than time allows,
And slow hands can touch a farther shore
And praying, there gently open doors
That a kiss still breathe
Where later futures die,
In the static-charged sky;
And into quiet depths,
Old dreams may bore,
To live out their lie-
Then awake, no more.

Tangent debacles I inherit from your stream;
Your face is otherworldly, inside of my dreams.

Shimmering infinity of warp and woof;
Tapestries uncurled by creation's hook.

Recorded epiphanies and pertinent facts,
Of life and death, proceeding on track.

Truth and reality's mortal refrains,
Embodied in man, so we'll know them again

Every house has a sun and moon,
And a little porcelain cup,
And a little silver spoon;
Every house has laughter and pain,
And feels the kiss of a needed rain.

Every house has a pet or two,
A cat in the tree,
A dove that coo;
Every house has a little mouse,
Lives in a hole he never comes out.

Every house has a window or two,
And some grass and trees,
And a sky that's blue;
Every house has a child that dreams,
As he plucks at raw reality's seams.

Love is a mannequin dressed in rags,
Desire’s the streetcar, that left you in drag;
Time is ephemeral and can't be touched;
Distance is as far as the eye can see,
And any farther's something we never reach.

Emotions are phoney, though we love them so much;
Sadness and jealousy, pride and elation:
Blaming the invisible's just a crutch-
Only anger's real; the rest, decoration.

Silence upon other silence grows;
Taller than any skyward cathedral,
Wider than divisions, between two brothers.

The only sincere silence is natural,
Or found by a flickering candle’s flame,
And the latency, of a sleeping child.

After a death, some silence may roar
Down zigzagging corridors, of dazed;
Haunting midnight's vertiginous dreams.

Numbness opens vast reservoirs of quiet
And in the resultant- preternaturally stilled-
Silence sometimes finds its earthly voice.

I now present to you, Silence itself-
Bereft of courtesies, or dignified flourishes;
Bare as a babe at death- or birth.