Were I to kiss your hand,
and I long to,
would I see my reflection
in crescent moons,
or upon dangers red?

the palpable sense
that all things have a soul
that the sum of parts
is less than the whole,
perhaps our primitive brains
must make it so,
there are people and places finely tuned
to this ideal and canon rules,
though I'm a man of science and well read,
I side with those that after death
the spirit separates from mortal flesh
resides awhile as a resonance
that jitters and jives until it's a tuned
to the resident cosmic symphony.

To sleep
or not to sleep,
that is the quandary.
A wink or two stolen
is sweetest when
one's blander isn't swollen.

You're in this scene,
a couple sit opposite each other,
in a restaurant,
at a window table.
On the street,
I walk by and see myself with you,
and I'm caught off guard by the reflection.
We are amiably chatting,
laughing, smiling.
You are radiant
and I, more handsome than I remembered.

In the privacy of your lavorium,
in the glowing candles,
in the sensually scented air,
in the rising moisture,
in the warm embrace of your bath,
in these pleasures,
I am.

Amorous sparrow
Does a tree branch song 'n dance,
Female weighs option.

Some leading edge physicists
opine that there are more dimensions
than time and space.
What it were true,
And love was one of those
hidden from view worlds,
and when one felt love,
real mature unselfish love,
it was but a key
to open a vast universe
that poets from the beginning of time
have struggled so hard to tell?

Spaces,
Angular oasis,
Fracture framed,
And rectilinear,
Mitered,
Metered,
Measured
And
Meticulous.

It's a foot into winter,
but soon enough
it'll be mud season.

The cold, and snow,
have eased the ruts,
plane enough...and

there'll be robins
worming roadside,
where be us?

when you die
all the importantness
that inflates your skin
hisses out,
a virtual pressure cooker
sitting on a warm burner
turned to off.

my thoughts
bread you daily
as if you were breast of chicken
and I were battered cornmeal.

Though you deny it
I'll bet you're beautiful,
did you say 36, or 38,
no matter
and eyes not blue,
nor blood I hear
not arabesque, not a dancer?
Can you cook,
published articles in the "Lancer"?
Nonetheless, I'll bet you're beautiful,
Just my guess.

Ms. West,
Shall I call you Oesta?
Do you read Proust,
Or Jackelyn Susan,
better yet, Susan Sontag?
Home schooled?
Lived in another land?
Were I to say "Portnoy "
Would you fill in with "Complaint?"
"Madrigal" from me
would elicit "Trecento" from you?
How would silence feel
were we to meet in your room?

There's so much to learn
at the super check-out,
Oprah's last diet,
speculation that Tom might be queer,
Angelina's new tattoo, or was that baby?
And that Jennifer still has this thing for Pitt(s)

What are dreams but kites we string,
thoughts we stress,
sometimes obsess,
with tails and tales of fantasy,
that we run a field
with overhead,
seeking to find a bit of lift,
a warm and rising currency,
that buys us time,
time for us to bide our wish,
like lofting balloons of lunacy,
but serves us well,
that we do dwell
on thoughts of things
that may yet prove
veritably impossible,
least we lay a plan,
and execute.

Present circumstances require
that I secure a new venue
so I've been trying on real estate
in the way women once
tried on clothes in Filene's basement.
'If I alter this and take in that...hmm?'
"What do you think,
this place make me look too fat?"

Western boot snow prints,
ice, snow, heel, toe, walking sound,
creek interrupts gate.

lecherous me,
stealing your sleep
on another school night

...


it's okay,
even Eros,
is no match
for needed slumber :

I'm thinking of a week
you and I
on a sugar beach
where every thing is sand, or sways, or blue
except you and I
making love on an oceanside lanai
where the only thing we are denied
is a phone call from home or office.

Where is the smart money going?
into the non-making,
the uncounting,
the
       trans
                 virtual
                             soothingly
                                                nothingly
                                                                  bliss

When I make
hot 'n sour soup,
I like to add
a little ground ****
as a finishing spice.

If this world has a haven
would it not be more orderly
to demarcate such ordinally,
in place of east & west.
Take Vermont,
one can't crow fly
one Haven to the next
without flying an hour south!

Where would we be
without the ******,
the flare 'n ripple
that cups to meet
but in duty
never truly mates?

Someone, somewhere
Is busy stitching
Clothes I've yet to buy
And, of course, yet to wear.

The shirt, pants, and underwear
I'm now wearing,
Someone, somewhere
did that stitching.

Out there somewhere
Someone's planting
Seeds in furrowed rows
Waiting for a month, two, three of sun,
To green and bloom that fruit,
Then swift harvest hands,
And Trucks, then vans,
Somewhere,  somehow,
A portion will find my plate.

If there is a way of expressing thanks
To those someones, somewhere
It's to stop a moment
And simply think!

Joy in desire and my sole desire toy
Is my mad passion, I lute from on far
My love an unknown woman like a star;
built in dreams no waking will destroy
A placid place far from life's deploy;

By spirit breathless to store the silver bar
Of twilight beyond dawn-gates stood ajar,
And raised on Paradise, a dazzled boy;
To look first upon the sea's inlet foam
In the first beginning; in star stud night
Chiffon the mistress musk on high;
Tho no celibate a two ball groom, nor Greece, nor Rome,
Hero to misdeed, the heads of state incant;
I adore thee, my love, 'tis my inflamed chant.

I'm told it's vile
to pick one's teeth,
but a lodged sesame seed,
caraway, or a tad of compressed nugent,
is another matter,
yet I must confess,
barring an audience before the queen,
I've been known in polite company
to search my inner coat
for a hidden piece of faux whale bone
and merrily go at it.

thus far
i'm an energy star poet,
as green as green can be,
where nary a word of mine
has befelled a single tree.

Your walk was pure poetry,
you my teacher,
I your student.
"Parlez vous francais?"
"Non"
You were a total rousse, I presumed.
You'll never know how much I wanted to learn.

to disembody,
to be
of purer stuff,
without the
"st-ah"
and without the
"uff",
that would be,
for
      now,
              enough.

At dusk
I was at the bridge
scanning
the bar code backlight parade
of transpanners
and was sad to have missed you.

Dear Walt,
I know you're not listening
so it's safe to tell ya
that I cannot think of
your seminal work
without remembering:
--  that blue stained dress
-- Bill & Monica

Regards,
GJJ

This Pribilof of squirming words!
Washed by a raging sea of blues,
Thousands of big eye pups alone,
Face monitors in glowing light,
Hunt and peck their bleeding hearts,
Until this seething e-mound is awash in dread.
Oh god Thesaurus you do reign, rain,
You have no mercy for those well read.
Will someone please surcease your Siren call.
A blade, a knife, and a dagger too,
Anything to sever their pluck harp cords
that fret a morass of woe-been-done-wrong torment.

Can you feel the lash,
My butterfly kiss,
My little hands,
My cupid lips?
Mommy, mommy,
Wakeup!
Are you okay?
Are you sick?

I imagine making love
to you on a sand table,
the type a fine mason constructs
to firmly, but gently hold,
by impression
a precious form,
your intoxicating manifold
snuggly thus,
would counter
My every ******.

The script,
an act of fate,
parts for all the players,
in their shabby to grand guise,
and painted faces,
some happy, some frown
for the pleasure of the crowd,
to all involved an analgesia,
no aches, no pain!
until the flood lights fades,
and drops the final curtain.

once every moon
from thy flesh hilt
my sword draws blood

and

once every moon
my rank renews
as thy lord of the garter

Reading between between the lines,
the shadow zone of interstitial spaces,
the quiet and rhythm
    separating sentences,
        I senced that your yesterday's day
was one,
      that given a choice,
  you would not choose to repeat.
I repeat this feeling guilty
   that I failed you
by knowingly remaining silent.

"Raj",
      rex,
           king,
But the Raj I know is not royal,
not in the ordinary sense,
though he makes a sandwich fit for one.
Following my order we don't chat much.
We've come to rely on smiles 'n nods in place of small talk.

Were we in Canterbury come Aprile
After the drought of March
that had pierced down to its root,
And  Geoffrey Chaucer chronicled
our pilgrimage of mutual exploration,
what naked tales would the two us tell?

I have walked where
five thousand men died
on a single street before dusk,
all in the cause and behest of leaders
they were too low to ever meet.
And those leading men dined well that night
with fine wine & port and femme escorts
planning the next day's self retreats.

The trouble with older women
At least once in their past
they've fallen for men
hook, line 'n stinker.

At 5:14 universal time,
this date (03/20/2012)
the earth and sun axis
were in parallel alignment.
and the sun and earth's equators
were in plane agreement.
Would that humanity
could find such common equilux.

Skyward streak of light,
Sun glints off satellite,
Marionette play.

Old scars,
Heart contusions,
Fight or flight tattooed
On eyes
Blinding every decision.

Today I turned inside,
walked to the plaza jardin,
stood before the central well
There a hangman's noose secured a ropped bale 'n bucket
which I dropped into the inky dark,
no splash has yet been heard.

Astronomers tell
there are no satellite moons
circling Venus,
but I am proof that they are wrong,
though my path leaves no trace that can be seen,
but you, my dear, know well,
that when I pass the dew does settle.

You are a stolen moment,
a lost afternoon;
a well spent decade?
Perhaps a last memory,
inhaled into one's last breath.

Your Siren's line,
"Bring your lips to mine,"
is clear and Clarion
above the tempest sea,
thou danger is both rope and knife
that has me lashed 'n free.

A thought had me
but melted away
then another
that failed
to hold my attention
then another for just a second
that promised
insight
that vapoized
into a scattered inattention.

Were I a lapidopderist,
and you, my study,
landed in my hand,
and I to your silken hem,
you holding my upturned head,
were I to ask,
"What secret pleasure can I now bestow.",
What would thou whisper then?