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.

My God is hungry, he stabs your God;
The people are up in arms,
Though they say your God will raise again-
No gods were really harmed.

No Gods died to further a plot;
They were not experimented on,
And resemblances to people living or dead-
Must always be frowned upon.

The Gods used to own the whole world once;
We gave them dominion over fish and fowl;
But their pedestals toppled lean centuries ago,
And now they can only nod and bow.

This longing, he says, is nice to feel;
Like magnets attract, if could never repel,
Like two birds in flight, each other's trail;
And finding your thoughts, in the mind of another.
Never to touch your soul's secret lover;
That fire which burns, yet never singe
That tear which falls, yet leaves a tinge
Of color, on a dampened cheek-
And red rimmed eyes; how they could speak!
But this longing has to say it all for me
And those two birds stay forever free.

The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.

The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.

Please smile, when you read these words
So nobody will know, that I love you;
And don't be afraid, for it's only this,
That I love you, and then please smile,
As if it were only the daily news.

But not the same smile that you use
With her; for smiles are more
Than mere muscular signatures,
For they enclose a private world;
So smile, smile; this is meant for you
And only you;

Smile as if it were only a sweet surprise
Between us two;
Please smile again, as you read my words,
So nobody will know, this love is for you
(And then afterwards, don't forget
to smile for her too)

White birds cover the sea of the parking lot;
No sails fly, and clouds are few between.
The air is hot, as they fight for rights to insects;
On oceans of cement, they drift like sailor's dreams.

White birds wait, for baking asphalts cooling;
Evening falls, and they vanish in the gloom.
Dew falls down, and with it ocean's ceilings,
While overhead, rides the face of smiling moon.

Though moonlight and dreams may be
Our starlit route to ecstasy,
A touch holds more than worlds can show,
In planetary light's day-glow;
And soft words said at evening-fall
May hold a captive heart in thrall.

I long to take you all the way,
Somewhere even words can't say;
Somewhere stars won't disappear,
Whether it be far or near-
And timid Violet's in the shade
Will know that they by love were made.

if a bird just can't sing the Blues
what can you do?
buy him some lessons
with a mezzo-soprano,
or lower his beak
to an alto contralto?
take him to doctors;
buy him a shrink
but don't give him time
to just sit and think?
buy him a *****,
and a liter of Beam-
then tell him that things
are not what they seem;
give him good food
and lots of attention;
then rent him out
to the woodpecker's convention.

(and if all else fail,
he can guard your corn
and play his nostrils
like an old French horn)

Violet, in her blue dress
Of fresh, giddy dreams,
Flounces under waves of wind;
Twirling and bowing
To dandelion greens.

Throwing caution to the breeze,
Unveils her heart
With envious ease;
A natural flirt, and temptingly close
To feathery pink mimosa groves.

My heart has been captured;
It's beating it's wings
Against the bars of your presence-
And refusing to sing.

The nearness of you
Stops all singing, all breath;
It just wants to breathe you-
Live in you, till death.

My heart has been captured,
Too far from it’s tree.
It's no use now; it doesn't
Even care about free.

Transmogrified through the written word,
I see myself through his agate eyes;
Shall I take up then the sin of pen,
Transmute smooth paper
To invisible sighs?

Secrets suit him best of all;
A blackness from which ink disappears;
The word written down remains only a whisper,
The heart has it's stalwart lock and key
Which safeguards well it's timeless tales.

For he's the unturned phrase of a day,
Which empties deep into me my own;
And the faint, far echoes slowly returning,
For a thousand years:
Bedrock of my soul.

There are people to whom
all your words are just the pause
that's interrupting their own talking


There are others that see
the pearls and poisons of your days
as just another act that curtains rise and fall upon


But to some, we are like the lone bird
that's slowly disappearing against the farthest horizon
even as unseen worlds grow large inside of it

Have I forgotten, or will I forget
How to love you;
There, where the flowers kiss the earth,
Where the shade holds the trees rooted,
Where a single bird call can enclose the yearning
Of all creation.


The tranquil petal-faces bent, in the early evening gloom,
Stirring themselves to an effervescent breeze;
Ancient as dew fall on catacombs,
Where ancient Romans loved and lost,
Their earthly joys too soon flown.


Our fleeting reflections fall
Like evening mist over the lake,
And evaporate like a dream at morning.


And how insubstantial a dream seems
Once we've awakened;
Where flowers kiss and trees take root,
In their uneasy compromise.

I break precarious, upon your precious word:
The voiceless reason, dying goes unheard,
My heedless passions lying yet unfurled;
My thoughts, in none of yours paralleled-
I break; I break precarious, at one word.

You have the right not to look into Miranda's eyes.
Anytime you do look into Miranda's eyes,
Anything you see there can and will cause you to fall in love with Miranda.
You have the right to counsel on how to write a proper love letter to Miranda.
If you have no pencil and paper, they will be provided for you.
Do you understand this, as it has been explained to you?

First I unlock the door
That you might come to me
I open the windows
I cut fresh flowers
I unbind my hair
That you might come to me
I pick some ripe fruit
I light some candles
I sing an old love song
That you might come to me
I polish the mirrors
I shine up my dreams
I bathe myself in the four winds
That you might come to me
It is all of no use
You never will come
Until I have given myself up
To tears and whimpering,
Guile quite forgotten in hopelessness-
Only then do you come into me.
But ever forgetting that
I try everything else first.

You wanted a shelter against the tempest
I became a leafy tree
You wanted a haven safe from rain
I became a dry cave mouth
You wanted sustenance from the earth
I became wild rice and spelt
You wanted strong protection both day and night
I became a hall of stone pillars
You wanted to worship man made idols
I squeezed myself down to fit small temples
You wanted a structure like hands raised in prayer
I became an over-arching cathedral
You wanted sanctified rites for life and death
I became the true Religion
You wanted a landmark to honor your ancestors
I became a giant's play-circle of stones
You wanted dependable and natural food
I became fertile fields of grain
You wanted a memorial to primordial mankind
I became ochre'd paint on smoky cave walls
You wanted your freedom, you were too boxed in
I became leafy green bowers...

You were unhappy, you had too many choices
I took it all away again and left it back to chance
In order that you should make your own happiness-
You, who couldn't find contentment
When things came to you naturally, uncomplicated
I may be God, who can mold myself into any form I desire:
But you will always be the form most desired by me.

For here we have no continuing city-
Here the falcons and the herons
Clash overhead, and the dead fall to ground
Like so many feckless soldiers.

For here we have no continuing city-
Wolves and foxes bear young in the caves
And they track the moon till dawn
Like the last worshipers of a lunar deity.

For here we have no continuing city-
When you reach out to touch my hand
Wild goats stumble high up in the cliffs
And the rabbit escapes the trap narrowly.

Do flower, drop some dew
Upon me
And ripen me too
I follow you, reaper
Sower of dreams
How it gleams
In a fair flowers face.

Sun hunter, shines on high
Shine on me
Hunter, gathering by
Dreams of a sun weaver
Spreading your glow
Lights up soul
With a rainbow trace.

Love potion, on earth bestowed
Love the best portion
Enter us whole
Seeking always
As the dream's began
Till heart of man
Find every grace.

People who always are writing of ***
Are like birds, always writing of feathers;
We know it's their specialty, and they're proud-
But find another subject, for crying out loud!

For half the fun is in chasing the one
That you want to handcuff to you (in love);
But don't leave behind poems, on your nightly passes
Like deflated balloons, lying in grasses..

Ah, the lips, and ah, what cheeks;
Methinks though, you are not too deep.
What sunbleached tresses frame your face,
Even though you're lacking taste;
Your laugh tears out the soul of me,
And you're quite bent, it's plain to see.

Now touch me not, with your white hand:
Anemic sprites, I cannot stand;
Fix me not, in your blue eyes,
For I don't want to hear those sighs.
I'm sure your organs are complete-
But I care not, to hear you bleat!

A child would have his toy,
And a man would have his girl;
As brides must have their joy,
And god must have a world.

They're things that, made for each of us,
As though our name were printed;
And don't forget love, peace and trust,
By which our life gets tinted.

Though I think, we'd live on love
Alone; if things were short supply'd-
And just a slit, of bluest sky-
And breadth, of a lover's sigh.

The sun comes out from behind the clouds,
And I become tangent for seconds; mere minutes,
As the arc of rays reaches deeper inside,
Excavating myself, from me:
I tread old memories, on borrowed time;
Friends and loved ones, all borne away:
Am I but the pale ghost, of yesterday?

A reckoning, was the waste of loving you;
Whose heart was otherwhere, who's eyes
Could never resist a new, stunning view.
My solitary hovering as innocuous as a bee,
Stalking the mortal garden, come sun or shower;
As predictable as rain, as forgettable as a flower-
My comedic pratfalls less memorable,
Than her cries of elation:
Her eggs more precious than mine.

There's an air of stale tobacco;
But nobody here's been smoking,
And a feeling of wilted flowers,
But no one has yet to die.
And the air moves all on it's own;
With a trace of smooth monotony,
Changeless, beneath the sky;
All our mouths are dry and cottony.

There's words you would not speak,
Though the bells might be hovering,
Soundless, for a wedding,
They're waiting to keep,
Invitations, sent on the breeze,
And the guests; fabrications of movement,
In a church, with an empty steeple:
My life is moments, such as these

Filled with plastic, mannequin people.

What are pleasure and pain to us,
Held in the grip of time's hand, as we are?
Hostage to the intervention of circumstance,
Or privy to the secrets of youth or age;
What do we know, and who could we tell it to,
Even if somebody wanted to listen to us?

What am I, that I should be walled in by your eyes;
When you could choose, out of the entire world,
Why choose something tangent, perishable,
Entangled in this solitude of emotion?
Our paths are lonely, though we pass close by,
Caught up in our own brand of darkness,
Suffering our own unquiet silences.

We are impenetrable forests
Lost inside of a fairy tale,
Dreamed up by an imaginary god
Who is so long ago,
So far away, by now..

Nighttime clouds must veil the stars,
As we must veil our thoughts

And winter's clouds hide winter gales,
Until the sunshine's brought

And spindly branch of broken trees
Must scratch the shadowed days;

Until the spring arrives in wind,
When green uncovers May.

In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.

In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and  funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years

And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.

In the kingdom of love,
I would live in your dreams
Touching all of your secrets
The things not yet seen.

In the rivers of time,
I would travel beside you
Passing by all that's false
On our way to the true.

On the path to the stars,
We would walk hand in hand
Finding all the worlds wonder
In the heart of one man.

There must have been some leftover
Ticket stub mementos
Of your other life as a bus driver,
Bachelor, mystery man about town:
Faded polaroids containing
A slice of arm, of back
Though as a driver, you would have seemed
Mainly a rear view
To all the people on the tour buses you drove.
Some days you surely would have intruded,
Unknowingly, behind the welcoming hugs captured
In still black and whites;
The practical jokes breaking out in transit;
And tearful departures caught in snapshots.
In their lives you passed by so quickly,
A flicker of shadow
Forever hovering just at the edge
Of their days journeys,
Not even remembered as an afterthought.
You would have stayed there
In the background,
Your image often captured while
Taking the furtive smoke,
Stretching out your legs,
Checking the tire pressure.
Though we did not know
One another then
I can visualize the carefulness with which
You would have tailored your own route.
If I could gather up all the scattered,
Torn and trampelled puzzle pieces
Of your once upon a time life-
Thousands of amputated parts of you,
In my imaginings-
Now lodged in a thousand dusty shoeboxes
In the tops of stranger's closets;
Maybe then I would no longer be haunted
With the idea that the invisible fragments of you
Carry on a secret existence
In obscure places you never even visited
And beyond all reach of any capacity
To locate or recognize them.

With weary frankness I lean into
Evenings diffident shadows,
Wavering hues, grays and blues
Peering between the cloistered stars:
Endless dream I forgot how to navigate
Encompassing moments built by tidal movements
And sudden divisions between orbital shells
Inertial havoc starts the blood rushing
The world's a quagmire of uninhabited space
With lonely islands of pulsating matter
Suns unnumbered, rippling the waves collapse
Take all my heartbeats too, that as I languish,
The resonance might start another avalanche
The fiery, seeding vacuum of dawns early light,
That old magician's hat trick.
But be merciful to me, centrifugal womb of time;
Both the product and the witness
The sum of the totality only here, only this, only now-
This forever world, always just on the brink
Of breaking into a hundred thousand new worlds,
From insignificance multiplied
Far beyond any meaningful purpose:
For nobody controls even one solitary particle down here.

Where regrets ice over,
The disemboweled freedom rings:
Strolling down defunct bridges,
Unseeing by the dismembered dolls, and orphaned house shoes,
Sycophantic candy wrappers boomeranging,
Piano notes tumbling by on dusty wings.
The air current adds a gauzy, cheap thrill.
Detoured and lost again, casting off the surplus as you go;
The rattle and clatter of the dirt raising roads,
Trying to remember what to disown and
What to abandon in the wake of leaves,
And random shimmers from old butterfly trails.
The forgotten hopes pooled, where you once spent a day
In decisive despair, and decrepitude.
The vacant future come tumbling;
Not so much unexpected, as unwelcome
The loose ends dragging
Bird song remnants, cottonwood pollen,
Unspoken dearness, and unintended consequences.
The key glitters its way to the shallow bottom of the river
I watch it going down, with a half smile-
I stopped marking time ages ago, in my half-life.

Writing is like:
Trying to sing a song you've never heard
Or trying to live someone else's life,
As a picture inside their photo album
No one can help with it.
The sadness appears far away
Speedily it moves to a place inside of you
Inside the eyes, like ripe berries, of a blackbird
Inside the absence of the sister I never had
Inside the tens of thousands of unfertilized eggs
Life does not reward us for the sterile urges
The aborted plots, the miscarried plans
In the flower I just plucked
Lie all the other three thousand blooms
I ever dismembered
Breathing out as one, they plant the seed:
Watery tears and then
A bank of weeds sprouts somewhere within my brain
Privy to the common lot of flowers, and mankind,
How can I ask for more?
How can I fail to ask, for more?

Even dead poets need some credit
For words well done, no matter how long
Ago they enchanted, don't take it for granted
For saying their name, other folks
Discover their fame; get better acquainted
Even dead poets deserve some credit.
And their writings left untainted.

Even dead poets should have their moment
Of reckoning, some homage paid to their efforts
Their art of word and phrase, even in other days
To honor their good name, is only fair
It's the same if today you or me
Had our works stolen, and our dignity
Even dead poets still have their vanity.

When once you find that sun
After searching for years
Going on only what you have heard, but never seen
With your own eyes; tales that brightness would make you blind,
Listening ear to door for that one footfall
When sun ascends the last horizon and appears
At first you don't recognize it's splendor;
Bearing the brilliant crown that you once were told of
Back in your deepest dark your loneliest hour
And you are startled when it recognizes your face
With small cupping hands of warmth
And kisses your countenance a golden highlight
From it's igneous soul of ancient flame
Glowing it x-rays your heart with it's shimmering visage
A benediction falls upon your life to never court darkness again
Henceforth you will live in the light; sing only his praises
And rue the night, and hate the shadowed
Strive all your life to never feel shame
Of what the unblinking light will reveal;
Your own humble pilgrimage that light shines through
Never dimmed by moon, comet or cloud
Because it is made out of heaven, made out of you
And because it holds not earth.

The Heisenberg uncertainty principle
Can tell me you've moved
But it can't tell me how fast;
Or it can tell me
You're nearing light speed
But not if you're coming closer
Or moving farther away from me.
Yet I can feel the sunlight
I know it takes eight minutes
From the central fire of the solar system
To reach my skin
And so it is, I can sense the flame
Of your presence
Even a million years distant:
Nothing else gives off as much light.

My soul, into granite
Into quartz; into feldspar-
The flesh world can't hold
My roving mind, bold

Ever changing flares, but
Where's the base layer-
Reached not by prayer
That time hasn't raked

My soul's been naked,
For two billion years
O, clothe me in starlight,
In pure dreams of suns, bright

The universe of substance
Subside into me-
I just want to stay true
To myself, in that light

In the holographic world, thoughts can fly
From brain to brain; no reason why
Synchronicity is the rule-
Coincidence? don't be a fool.
Ask, and the door must always open
The dream won't end, till the dreamer's woken
A man will put childish things aside
When he finds the whole universe lies inside
And all we see, and all we are
Once lived inside of a twinkling star
Don't tell me magic cannot exist:
For out of nothing, comes all this.

if some electric joy could paint us
here in the vivid shards of wasted glass,
or create a beauty that's never been drunk
we'd question our surreal imaginations,
drugged by passion's symbolic chisel;
the blue aesthetic of an angel's dust,
of abstract life more sensed than performed;
the psychedelic absurdities in bolder strokes:
I'd sing your **** genius sculpted through every world.

Hallowed be thy name
True reality of mind
Just myself left to attain
To unbury the divine.

Words alone must always fail
To describe that tiny spark
You would call the Holy Grail
If but once you'd brave the dark.

No death, so do not fear
The robed monk implores
Now see the way is clear
Go unlock your doors.

Know that the little Me
Again must go to sleep
But the hallowed soul goes free
To fields of stars so deep.

I sit surrounded by the carnage of the day’s efforts:
Words dismembered, metaphors bled dry.
I flap my wings in discomfiture at each glaring new
Example of mechanical fallowness;
Words hung out on clotheslines of manipulated
Speech patterns, wherever they could squeeze in-
Between the wet, moldy socks and twisted, bedraggled underwear.
I am a trained chicken at best, trying to force something out
At least partly digestible. As I peck out the sterile notes
One by one, on my red toy piano,
An automaton digs thru my internal filebanks, the flux of
Catapulted words continually bouncing over the chickenwire;
Escaping to flap heavily upward towards the trees:
And there to look down beady-eyed at the
Flopping, feathery decapitated blight.
For good reason, I hail from a long line of extinct dinosaurs.
Clucking with irritation, I see someone else has
Already laid all the good eggs, the golden eggs;
I can only scratch out some maggots and hope they hatch.

I stubbed my toe upon a nail
It hurt and hurted, just like hell
I got sick of the pain
Along came a train-
Sliced it off on the top of a rail.

I jammed my finger in a door
I swear that sucker got so sore
When I couldn't stand it one minute
I turned on the disposal and stuffed it in it-
Now instead of five fingers, I got four.

My knee was feeling it's weary age
As I hobbled me across the stage
In the museum, there was the guillotine
Crawled over the chain, and did my thing-
Now my wooden leg is all the rage.

My arm was sprung; I cannot lie
So I laid me down in the road, to die
But I got lucky, the truck was small
So now I'm just not quite as tall-
You can't succeed if you never try.

Had tennis elbow, so I went to play
Games with a table-saw; my friend Ray
Has tools galore; had just the thing
Now my arm's fixed, it's in its sling-
And I didn't even have to pay.

Got paper cut, doing my thesis
Cussed out loud, my paper in pieces
I hung my hand from a ceiling beam
Strangled it's guts, with nary a scream-
Really proud of my new prosthesis.

My child ran crying she got hurt
As I saw all around her, blood did spurt
But she took one look at my stumps and slings
Said oh, it's really not anything-
Went out, and rubbed it with some dirt.

I'm not spendy, and I don't have greed
For sure, this body has gone to seed
I can do without arms and legs
Ovaries, appendix; all those eggs-
Cause the head's the only part I need.

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.

How does one begin to write a poem?
First one condenses an entire life down into just one line-
Clouds, dandelions, adoration, revenge; don't hold anything back.
The peaceful smile of death and the rancorous
Death of joy. The bubbles of happiness floating upward
The downward stinging tears of defeat.
The best, the worst, the last, the first:
Embellish that line from your life's story with
All the rarest moments of worship and awe you've ever known,
And keep writing it over and over again, saying it
Millions of different ways till it is firmly ensconced in your soul.
Don't take any magic for granted; it's too rare in this world.
Dreams and visions and nothing sugar coated:
The truth alone rules this kingdom.
Nobody reading this deserves the lie.
Don't forget the startling epiphanies
Seeping out of the souls troubles and careless wounds.
Sometimes you squeeze out every drop and still
The pickings are scarce; other times things bound and leap out-
Wild, prolific hares, carelessly raking each other in their haste.
Always capitalize on the moments you thought might be your last-
Allow the teardrops and sweat to mix freely; swirl your pen in it
And apply to all the reopened ulcers and healed over scars.
Just before you think it is enough, just when the tale
Begins to half conclude, stop there and allow your audience
Imaginations machinery to supply the last vivid details:
Leave some openings; don't sew it up too tight.
Most important of all; read all the poets now alive
Still with the breath of life in them.
They can show you the way.
And never sell yourself too cheaply.
Write only from the particular universe hidden inside;
Staying true to that one.