Key to my door, come into my heart:
A place has been prepared for you there;
Forever waiting to become your altar,
Many dead flowers, to sweep aside-
Come in; come in, now nothing must hide.

Key to my door, I've waited so long;
Song of my heart, that's opening wide,
I'd wait forever, if you asked;
For only for you, eternity stands still-
You know; you know, you have a potent will.

Key to my door, heaven's within,
This house of thoughts you're covered in,
Where my chest beats out ecstatic rhythms;
Where your treasures lie, and your words stay hidden.

My fathers aunt hated goodbyes.
She helped raise my father, who had lost both parents
At a young age; so in some ways
She was the only mother he ever knew.
The trip to see her was a long one,
So we only managed a visit to the farmhouse
Every couple of years, and I thought it so humorous
That when the time came to leave
She would always unaccountably disappear;
To be seen shortly afterwards, through the window
Or perhaps on the porch, looking moribund
As your car cleared the final sweep of the long driveway-
With perhaps a wave then, if you were lucky.

And then one day she died, and there were no goodbyes.
She died in her sleep, as all the wise of this world
Ought to be allowed to die; and with no goodbye,
No last wave, no tears. I began to understand then
That all those goodbyes, that she would never participate in
Were to be taken together, as a whole,
As a single, silent deference;
Or a quietly potent rebellion-
Against the final leave-taking,
That she knew would probably go unspoken,
And as it happened, so it did.

And now, I no longer say goodbye either-
I always leave the airport stone faced;
Afraid this might be the last goodbye
That I never knew about.

There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.

Let me atone for the sins of the world
Upon your body;
Here, put upon you this sheet
And drape it- just so.

Now, allow me to begin to worship you
With fresh flowers and wine,
Expecting the transmutation
To occur, just about- now!

The starlight will burst through the pyramid's opening
To travel down the dizzying tunnels,
Opening things once in eternal darkness;
Lighting up a bier covered with dried flowers.

A large granite monument to a dead heart
Waits here, in the swallowing silence of millenia.
Now angels will move the great stone aside;
Take my hand, and we'll make our escape

To the deepest tunnels of all; only the initiates allowed here
Where mysteries can only lead to more mysteries,
And a kiss is the most perfect act of communion
For two, who were once merely mortal.

Life can mesmerize with smiles;
But when it weeps beware, beware:
Your tears would fill a mountain stream
That's rushing past, before Life care.

And when you laugh, you laugh alone,
Though you might think the flowers too
Would giggle at a word you said;
The flowers thoughts are very few.

We are not often understood;
The world speaks in different tongues,
Though we may think that ours would be
The only universal one.

Under the arc of days, he set her free in time,
He gave her up to the whimsy of wind,
The ghostly waves of the Sun's heated ethers.
The hours of their togetherness came unraveled,
Came apart at the seams, at the mended parts first,
Though he never sought to repair the tear
Or to comfort the newly opened hole's emptiness-
It was all too hopeless.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

But instead, he wound it around himself,
Purposely made plans to remove himself, like a spot rubbed out,
Like a runner in a pair of hose, allowed to consume an entire leg,
Until the wearer must certainly abandon it, or else gather up the tatters
Knowing not what to do with them, or how to reweave the mess,
Or worse, continue wearing it, to the obvious surprise of all encountered,
Either pretending not to know, or pretending to wait for a private moment to remove the defective stockings. So, in this fashion,
He would remove her from his life; in effigy, he would cut her from all its pictures,
All the memories he had made with her, he  was now determined to forget.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

Nobody could put the news back in the can, repair the injury.
And it was a public game, this necessary total forgetting and giving up.
Maybe others couldn’t understand, but it didn't matter
He stared at the headstone flanked by Lillies for a couple more minutes, and then turned,
Walking slowly down the flagstone sidewalk to the parking lot.
There weren’t a lot of mourners; they had only been living here for a few months;
No time to acquire new friends and even less the casual acquaintances,
The ones who always seem to manage to make it to funerals
For whatever reasons they might have.
They had taken the banks of Lillies surrounding the casket and arranged them,
Quite artfully, around the stone and opened grave.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

The baking car seemed more silent than ever, as it quietly came alive, purring softly.
He pulled out of the cemetery parking area, deliberately not glancing behind him again.
He rounded a few roads, curving sedately around the low mountains,
Marveling at how clear it had become, though earlier it looked angry and unsettled.
He rolled the car windows down, as if to banish, remove the scent left behind.
Though once you have smelled death, been touched personally by it,
Everything else becomes a farce, a denial of what you have already seen
With your own eyes, and felt breathing too close by to ever forget it.
Every day becomes another refusal to continue dying, even if it's the only game left in town.
He laughed a nasty, rumbly sort of laugh, resolved to seek out that little bar,
The one at the edge of town, where he had met her, so many ages ago-
Perhaps luck would favor him twice there, it could happen..
The sun meanwhile filled the windows with tiny prisms and reflections;
All the bright objects going by flashed a microscopic brilliance into the car
That he had never noticed before, as if they wished to touch him even in a minute fashion.
And as he was desperate, desperate for any kind of omen,
He decided these sudden, unexpected illuminations would have to be it.
He could pretend to go on living for a while, till everyone had forgotten about it.
His mother had always told him to keep his business private,
Not become a joke, not lose the respect of others;
Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.
And when people ask how you are doing, they don't really want or need to know the details.
He thought of the small pale and solemn face, ringed by dark hair, with dirt beginning to pile up above it, the hidden form broken and camouflaged
Above the creamy blue satin lining and the strange high gloss wood.
And only a single tiny muscle twitched, just below his lower lip.
In time, he would learn to control even that.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

He had always suspected god merely created man
So that he would have some entertainment, something lower than god
A pathetic thing needed for laughing at,
When even being god got to be too much of a bore.
Ah, if the real heaven-and-earth creating god had only to drink from man's cup once,
Things must surely change. The religions really had it all backward.
He fired up the radio and firmly blanked his mind.
He needed to hold on to that ability to forget everything and stop all thinking;
After all, he could still live a useful life.
There were people who still needed him, even if she no longer did.
A sob escaped and made it's way to the top of his throat, but he swallowed it down quickly,
As if thwarting a hiccup. Death is only a hiccup that comes at the wrong time,
He repeated to himself, realizing his mind-clearing trick had failed him.
Memory was only a crutch used to keep the living in the past, and thought was it’s transportation.
This too shall pass, he whispered. The aphorisms piled up, began to tilt sideways,
Threatening to fall over, to obscure all the light left in the stiff, unwieldy light-dying world.
Never again, as long as he lived, would he have another white Lily anywhere near,
Or in any house or room or yard he ever spent any time in.
That was the only sacrifice he dared to make for this day.
If you give up, if you give in, they've got you by the ***** then.
He had seen people who were slave to their emotions, and they were cripples.
As if this idea bothered him particularly,
He glanced into his own eyes in the rearview mirror,
And for the first time, he saw something unrecognizable there,
Saw a person he felt he had nothing in common with any longer.
He didn't want to put words to the things now being etched onto that face.
It was going to take a lot of years to erase that pain; a lot of drinking alone,
A lot of being cold and unfeeling and relentlessly alive.
And at the end of it, if he was lucky, he would live;
Not just become another animated corpse, himself,
Though it was still, he decided, much too early to believe in a future just yet.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you,
That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

-Matthew 6:28,29  American King James Version

When my body can't take it anymore
I go into the closet- not to pray, but to worship;
I kiss the complacent coat hangers there, orderly on their metallic racks,
My lips on smooth plastic; eyes closed,
All senses centered on my mouth;
Enraptured, I can't see any colors at all..

The surface doesn't soften, as I beat out my lips
Against the mild anvil; altar of pain, loving the more distant you
Somewhere on a compass that the heart knows best;
This pain is merely a devotional exercise, to take my mind
Off the fact that the hangers can't actually kiss me back.

The wool blazer has your blue eyes;
The polo shirt has some, not all, of your softness.
The shoes delicately waft a heavy, calming manly odor of leather.
The weight of the clothing leans back against me, sighing
And muffles most of my cries and exclamations

While I sway, to their soapy limerance of fabric softener and dust.
If I push far enough into them, they enclose me all around
Just like a lover's firm grasp, of aching seams and  straining stitches,
Loving me soundlessly, from many directions at once.

To silent, undanced waltzes, we hang together, in furtive salute;
For they are not free, and neither am I;
But we can dream together, in the small cottony, worsted room,
For we are old friends, we have known both sunshine and rainshower together

And long, undying afternoons, of tears and questioning why.
They have known many of my beloved's names,
And I in turn have seen them both inside and out, plush and threadbare.
We have no secrets any longer; I know their every scar by heart
As well as they know mine:
I can never discard even one of their kind,
I have to keep them closer than skin.

Bend my knees,
Whisper in my ear;
You're the true prayer
Moving through air.

On Michael's wings
Rides your atmosphere,
Just promise me
That you’ll be there:

As morning hymn,
And evening song;
Of need or whim
A whole life long.

The speeding thought,
That calm my heart-
The litany of you;
Creator's art.

I was in trouble again.
I'd just awakened our baby- again.
Most mothers want their new baby to sleep;
That was their most prolific time of day,
But not me; I was afraid.
Sudden infant death was known
To stalk new babies;
How could I be sure
Death wasn't stalking her this very moment;
Slowing her breaths, her heartbeats,
Taking her away, by one sly degree at a time
To the land where there are no sweet baby dreams.
That cry of awakening was a drug for me;
A reassurance. I needed my fix.
I couldn't stop doing it.
But babies need their sleep.
So one day, her father sat down calmly
And he told me,
She wants to keep living much more strongly
Than you could ever wish it for her,
Her being is strong and it has an incredible
Will to stay alive.
Somehow, I finally got it.

Years later, and somebody had to give me
The adult version of this talk; she was nearly grown;
You can't live her life for her, can't suffer
All her pains for her, instead.
How many more times will I need reminding-
How many more days will she live
On the outside of my body, instead?

I run for years, I run from fires
And frowns and harsh words and barking dogs
I run to love and away from disenchantment
I rush to judgment and retreat from skirmishes
I run headlong into many arms and bounce from chest to chest.

I fall spinning over cliffs and across boundaries
I swim fervently up tributaries and tumble over falls
The longer I go, the farther and faster I run
Almost as if the distance in itself were an achievement
Still at the end to be moveless, and not one remembers me.

Oct. 15 2010

The dog at the Saloon door, they saw
Who said in shaking voice, so raw
"I'm looking for the man
Down on the Rio Grande-
I'm looking for the man, that shot my paw."

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..

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.

Lovely eyes of a lovely soul
Faraway child, who hides in the shadow,
Was it you who loved, in your distant day;
Did you tell your love, did you find a way?
Lovely eyes of a lovely soul
Love lives forever, in the heart's echo.

Love's cups are all around,
Half-full, half-empty, overturned or forgotten
Nothing can be as toxic, as overpowering
As unforgettable and remorseful, all at once.

Drink at your own despair, drink to drown the here and now
Be born away, a willing victim, and drink:
Drink up until your cup is drained away
And then only dream, of other cups and days;
Love will never come to stay.

You've given me everything
I could have wanted; and also that which
I wouldn't have dreamed I could ever desire so much
You've answered me in your own way-
Everything I've asked of you and more
I never could have imagined how wonderful
You would be, even in your darkest moments
I've enjoyed with you things most people
Only fantasize about, and things nobody could imagine
I've had a special relationship with you
From the first moment, so forgive me
If, at the end of us,
I ask for more time with you-
And I know everyone does that;
It's not that I'm greedy, it's just that
The alternative to you is nothing I can imagine,
Nothing compared to your beauty right now,
O my world- everyone always wants more of you
Even though you're the soul of everything.

Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.

Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.

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.

Two hands, which kept me from danger,
Two hands, which bade me know love;
Two eyes, which spoke to my own,
Twin beams, in the sky above.

One mind, which gave me my freedom,
One mind unselfishly waits;
While one heart, for me it is beating;
And one life: my opening gate.

Never mistake the fake for real;
Hard truths, for lack of loving.
The genuine need no introduction,
And we reserve anger only for what we care about.

Never love without reason, many ills must be borne
Because of impatience or indifference.
Respect your heart to give it space;
The truth, for room for breathing.

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.

Would Life still love me-
Even if creatures don't;
Or would Love want me living-
Would it care about hurt?

If Life could love me;
In spite of all,
Or if Love could cherish,
Though I still fall;

Should heart keep beating,
While lungs do breathe-
Does it bear repeating,
I'm meant *to live?

Melancholic vigilance can serve as a reminder
That though we might be dying, the world is growing kinder;
The flower's smile through rain and storm, as though it didn't matter,
And rainbows fall benevolent, as storm clouds quickly scatter.

A hand in yours is all you need, to get you through the night,
And every day the world turns till the sky is filled with light.
Be still my heart and trust this day to turn out for the best;
The things I'm given I will keep, and never mind the rest.

Sept. 7 2010

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?

I envy the cool darkness, now we're apart
And the warmth which wrapped your body:
Cocooned by your breathing,
The secret shadows and angles
Which gradually changed every hour
Like a dark sundial recording
All your limbs tiniest convolutions.

I know there was a sort of
Kabalistic synchronicity
Some algebraic function
And if only I'd studied more;
If only I'd applied myself better
I wouldn't have gotten all the equations wrong
Lost the notes, failed the exam.

I remember those once acute angles
How they fit so perfectly my body's contours
Our seams vanished together, smooth soldered
In the same molten dream; mouth to mouth
Torso upon torso, moving wave unfurled
Water of twin oceans, mingled-
Now it's only the moonlight that burns.

Ancient, invisible God of the Hebrews,
Some have renamed You, and crowned You
Their Christian god; but for the discerning person
We just need a little more proof.

Here are some forms and paper work,
You need to fill out;
And of course we'll need a certified note,
Declaring just when and where and how
You came into Being, and listing
All next of kin- yes Your Son absolutely should qualify for that-

And we'll need His death certificate on file,
For future referencing, and any dependents-
What's this about Three Persons in One?
Do You have a psychiatric doctor You see?
We should probably have his information too, just in case.

Immaculate conception?
I'm sorry, that just isn't acceptable in any court of law.
Every woman seems to believe it at first, of course,
But that doesn't make it hold water-
****** birth? hmm, very interesting.
Perhaps an examination is in order,
Something surely doesn't seem right here?

Martyred for our sins? What an interesting idea.
Resurrection? Is there a record of that anywhere?
I suppose it's possible You could have had
a colorful near death experience,
If You were really resuscitated- oh it was Your Son?
Oh, You Yourself accomplished this Re-Animation-
Oh oh oh! I've got to get that call.
Hold on; be right back, dear.

"Get the guys in white coats down here in room
311 right away. I've got a hot one.."

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.

Morning always comes too soon,
Whether you are loathe or loving;
Moon withdraws her silver spoon
And we’re back, to push-and-shoving.

Morning always comes too soon;
No matter if you grieve or sing,
Minutes to think are never enough,
And time to sit and do nothing.

Morning always comes too soon,
And some might like to slow it down,
But time to some’s their only boon-
And just enough, for some to drown.

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.

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.

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.

My lover's gone to sail the sea;
The frothy waves like millwheels turn-  
Blow wind, blow him back to me.

He promised he would stay with me,
I felt the ocean's salty burn;
My lover's gone to sail the sea.

What other lover could there be?
Than one who makes my tired heart yearn;
Blow wind, blow him back to me.

He swore he'd never set me free
And my embrace, would never spurn;
My lover's gone to sail the sea.

He vowed his love on bended knee;
My thoughts like blackest waves do churn-
Blow wind, blow him back to me.

With those wild winds, I won't agree;
I'll bind my heart, to steer the stern:
My lover's gone to sail the sea;
Blow wind, blow him back to me.

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

My soul is not poetry inside of it
and it is nothing pretty;
My insides are dead, rotting rhododendrons
beside a rusting pitch-fork
inside a barn, deserted for the last fifty years
and too dangerous, to ever go into.

But if it could go inside,
My un-poetry'd soul would hop, crawl, and climb,
in spite of its lameness
up the rickety old ladder, to the hayloft,
And there eat the little green apples,
already wormy
from the gnarled tree, outside the window.

My soul would peer out the window and look for any signs
of the once-life that used to abide here-
To feed it's ravenous hunger for poetry
and then develop the unavoidable belly-ache.

Of course, I know lots of others
whose soul is not poetry, either;
And we are all trying to re-light the same matches
once struck by people, who had flames burning them inside

Which they dutifully copied down onto damp, tear-stained pages;
(so the words would not burn up the paper)
And then there were the copy machines,
and printing presses, to duplicate their fires-
Like carrying a bit of coal to the next door, and the next one
so that everyone could have a bit of fire in Winter.

And the thick water, of all the world's approbation
soothed their old, weeping wounds
While the rest of us not-poets huddled around not-fires
in cold deserted barns,
and picked fresh flowers every day

So that we could earnestly watch them die
all over again, each day,
and pronounce it poetry,
while nobody noticed how many words
we managed to hemorrhage out.

My soul married yours long before it told the heart,
That was your secret gestures, it had been concealing
And shy alphabet letters formed our non-linear talks
On which ancient symbols were awakening with the news,
That my rapt countenance longed to behold only you.
And in Morse code, my riotous pulse was pinging,
In tiptoeing tiny steps, toward your smile-fragranced planes;
With small sips of blind and drunken-wheeling wonder,
On Adirondacks of time, I finally met your gaze.
And together found, we were writing the same vows;
Our fingers following a bright-feathered knowing,
And scented blooms of flowers knew your older names;
And avalanching comets swept clean the turgid dawns.
Then the seeds of forever were pocketed in your breath,
Wreathed by stars, and saved for hidden yearning.

My words are hymns that I paint for you,
Vespers chanting your sacred name;
Incense rises before your face-
And prayers I would say, for no other.

If your eyes were brown or green or blue,
I suppose it would be the same;
The eyes are what give a face it's grace-
But are never the same, in another.

Your eyes will still be my light, it's true
Whether the moon may wax or wane;
For in your eyes I see a trace
Of the one I would know, as lover.

There's nothing to say, nothing to do,
There's much to lose, and nothing to gain;
But deep inside there remains a place-
Just for you, that I keep under cover.

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.

Nicely wrapped gestures,
Who do they fool?
We all ate of the apple
And evil finds its double
Every calendar day;
We would all save ourselves
And sacrifice the neighbors.

Nice gestures;
How thoughtful we would be
If that were the whole of us?
But we always keep one hand
Behind our back,
Half the antidote we withhold:
The half that could save our humanity.

Once I noticed a great writer, and he had no comments.
To remedy this occluded justice,
I left a colorful comment upon one of his best.
Immediately a scathing message appeared from him,
Though he had never messaged me before;
I had an instant moment of understanding
Of why he had no comments; it was just too obvious
For my childlike mind to have avoided the trap.
A few more condescending messages,
And I deleted the comment; nothing more needed saying.
I had trespassed on hallowed ground,
I had merely to retrace my steps
And all should be forgiven.

I intruded upon your life, which I could never really see,
Through a series of locks and channels
It remained invisible to me.
And again I invaded privacy, caused consternation.
Compliant, I withdrew all my excursions to your door
And with an effort, I mitigated any unhappy
Emotions remaining there.
I do this to spare everyone more pain.
But it comes at a price.

Did you ever wonder how all the people
Who go to the grocery store on Sunday mornings
Could have such well-defined niche lives?
They think they are defined by what they do,
By a synthetic order that's tacked over the hours of freedom.
There is an affliction, in which every single hour
Must be made to account for itself.

But what if they woke up some day
Before the grocery shopping was done,
Would they feel they had missed out on something
Inestimable and uncommon; worth sleeping in for-
And replaced it merely with something
Utilitarian and predictable?
Be careful what you trade your Sunday mornings for.

All nights are too long
When your lover's far away-

I chase the trains all night
The ones my thoughts are riding;
Hobos bound for anywhere but home.

Trains full of candle smoke
And down from comforters,
Trains mixing together a combustible dream
In their blurry eyed compartments.

My memory is westbound
My history behind me somewhere;
If I stay behind, I'm nowhere,
If I don't jump soon enough, I'm lost

I can't remember getting on at any station,
I never had a ticket stub
Nobody here seems to knows me-
Why have I always been afraid?

I'm the tear in a nun's eye
I'm the broken note in a crow's cry

The standing fall down on trains,
The sitting see everything swiftly pass them by
Before they can ring the bell-
I can see your eyes, out of a hundred windows

In every window, door and steeple
The faster, the farther I go, the more you keep up with me;
Haunting, like a vision
Soundless, like a dancing flame.

I sleep and wake fitfully,
Feeling the cabin vibrate-
Are the eyes inside or out now?

We can play like ghosts at midnight,
With the past and future;
We can pass through walls
As invisible as wind:

I'm the tear in a nun's eye
I'm the broken note in a crow's cry

Death teases us with the nearness of it's breath
Like when you look into a crowd
And happen to lock eyes with the one staring straight at you-
Even though you never saw them before,
And didn't know they'd be looking your way.

I wander past your outstretched arms
Looking for the other you,
The one outside my head
Who fills out all my waking dreams

When everyone's gone
Who will see the stars falling,
And who can give me absolution?

For I'm the tear in a nun's eye
I'm the broken note in a crow's cry-

Nights are too long
When your lover's far away.

written to Morning Song/Zero 7

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.

Just lonely nomads;
we're each others heroes,
for no other hero could there be,
travelling paths so ordinary.

Your name my siren call,
come heathered dawn or sultry dusk,
dim footprints only, left to show
where you shed your human husk.

Dead or dying; we're all the same,
intrepid explorers of rusting earth;
just hoping in some distant future
they'll remember our death or birth.

I can feel this consciousness;
That it's nowhere, and yet it feels local:
It's not in the rocks or the soil, the trees
Or the sky; it goes where I go
And I know where I'm going-
But it goes, without knowing.

Time and distance mean nothing to it;
And I'm its parasite, all the while believing
That I'm the one in charge;
Keeper of the maps and the shoes,
The tires and the itinerary.

Without it, I'm nothing and nowhere,
Just as lost in space as it is.
But I can't help fantasizing
About being the kite for once
Instead of always being the kitestring.

You lit my life; my fuse was done,
While I swam deep waters all abuzz;
In fathoms deep, I sought your dream-
No one cares about dust on a submarine.

The mysteries were all right there,
The sky cracked open, to show new air,
And the whole world, with your presence rang-
No one cares about dust on a submarine.

Now I haunt the deepness of the void,
And my hope is no more buoyed.
In nameless twilight worlds, I'll sing;
No one cares about dust on a submarine.

Sing words; that the body of time
  Gives to eloquent mind it's due,
Sing words; the creation of bones that
  The body's own day shines through.

Sing time; that the world not catch fire
  While we're treading it's rhythmed core,
Sing time; that your lies and your ages
  Are the sign of a closing door.

Sing bones; we'll put up a big stone
  To show you when your last days are done,
Sing bones; and your loved ones will gaze
  At that last place you lost the sun.

O deeper sea
That waves restless between us
Engorging and disgorging
The changeling creations
Steep rills and ridges
Making not a dent above
So stays my heart hidden
Hidden in its element
So stays our viscous love

Your far forgotten hands and face
Fly past the door, past earthly embrace
Where soul runs it’s sleep-flying dreams aground
And then on past the deep blue refrain we breathe,
Past kisses that could slay the need
Of the missing man’s loneliest journeys.

Moon still makes the old darkness come alive,
And the skies sun-wizened words still left some light;
Enough to brand new eyes of a child,
Or enough for finding dreams of peace
Hidden within a many colored world;
Or reflecting forever-stars, worn on a lapel,
As if living till the end really mattered at all.

The crypts where no one talks at all,
Forever lying forever still
In their drawers, so very small-
Death to them's no bitter pill.

Not to them, who lie in state
And hear no noise, and see no thing;
They do not twist or cry at fate,
For every day is just the same.

They do not rue a life that's lost,
Or sit disturbed and wonder why
They can no longer count the cost
Or ponder that someday they die.

And those that grieve cannot perceive
That they too someday repose-
They cannot fathom why they breathe
For reasons only heaven knows.

On the ship of self we're riding
Somewhere we do not know;
We tip the doorman, pay the driver,
The wheels begin to roll;

Past scenery drear and lovely,
Past clouds and oceans all;
Till everything is featureless,
Beneath a darkened pall.

Still many miles we're riding,
As to the end, we must;
Unsure of where we're headed,
We must rely on trust.

At last the rolling ceases,
The doors are opened slow-
We find we never left at all;
The journey's in the soul.

I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.