Aspen leaves flutter,
Autumn friendships falter,
All impermanent.

lecherous me,
stealing your sleep
on another school night

...


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

we are:
killing,
eating,
*******,
*** machines,
and given free time,
will awe stare a mirror
and repeat "I", "I","I"
in the name of God.

Let's be Frank,
Bruce, or Wally,
You're in the loo,
A modern lad,
You want your jollies,
In one hand you scroll you're iPad,
In the other you're texting,
"? what I - M doing?!"

Let's pretend to be proper;
you fly here,
or I fly there,
we rent a car,
order a lavish dinner.
We buy some wine,
find a quiet B & B,
and check in as Mr. & Mrs. Smith?

Little stars
Burning bright
How much helium
Did you make tonight?
From hydrogen to helium
A cubic centimeter
Will power an average city for a year.

There are a plethora
of Snowy Owls this year.
Their food source,
Arctic lemmings
were likewise in abundance.
Cause and effect
ripple outward as
quantum particle waves
require observation
to lock a path in time and place.

Standing
between me
and you
are many untested
assumptions
and
assumptions
that we
are
not
consciously aware,
were we to meditate lotus to lotus
would that clear
                                the air?

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?

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 ******.

I know this eating house
that's best when the day's light
is laid out like a stiff cadaver
and the night's barely old enough to drive.
The tables cringe beneath off white butcher's paper,
The private booths are dimmed in candle glow,
though I warn you the waiters come and go
speaking of recycled tangelos.
The wine is always worth a toast,
and the place is filled with pretty folks.
This bistro's fare is more than fair
so name the day and I'll take you there.

Too
Soon
Luxuries
Become
Necessities
Binding
Us
To
Yet
Another
Crippling
Wrap
Until
Stand­ing
On
One's
Own
Feet
Too
Is
Nigh
Impossible.

Made me smirk,
throughout this day,
you with your iPad,
me, a converted Underwood,
text-ing through this curtained medium,
to wrest, impress, express,
probing for that come hither glance,
of which the very promise does so entrance.

Christmas morning,
I went down eight flights
to check on the weather.
From the sidewalk,
courthouse square
was a snow cookie
sandwiched between
gray skys and bleak streets,
with no one around
to electrify the public's mangerless tree!

I date myself.
A rotated heel
in spring soil
grooves an
agate pocket.
Marbles, glassies, boulders
and an instructional introduction
that life is a matter
of skill, bluster and chance.

Marvelously Mentored

In mind
I guide my wheelchair
forward through the valley of death
and fear rises as if lachrymal dew
But I take heart knowing
there is a private way,
a fusion of mind=body,
my tao

Out of this valley
the way is paved
with slippery tempting templates,
Sirens songs,
a lyrical playlist cunningly self collected,  
but I remain mindfully resolute
caped in electric blanket and birthday suit
my 3D hero is me, Marvelously mentored,
sans copyright.

let dimension equal n;
where n is infinite,
plus one,
no matter.

The surface level of a liquid,
In a tube or water glass,
Has an illusory crescent zone
Known as the meniscus,
Where light is scattered
In such a way
That it throws the eye off
Just a little,
The way a good poem
Can throw off the coherent mind,
While revealing a deeper truth.

Our times are filled with wonderment!
Today, the news announced
that a same *** couple
would soon be able
to inseminate each other.
No, that's not right.
Please excuse the foolpaux,
My facts are in Eros.
I'll start again,
Today, scientist announced
that they were able
To stem two mice cells
Into a wee one,
Which holds the promise
That some day
Two committed gals, or guys
would be able to have a little bubala.

mind is mirror,
god of the puppet show,
string dancers prance
to their reflections
within this bony theater,
kissed at birth
by the lips of Venus,
and eternally embraced
by the arms of Elysia.

In 1947 I was born on a Thursday;
this year,
my 65 th,
falls on a Tuesday.
A "Fall"
from a 3 foot high bed
at 6:00 a.m. in April
has split my world
into a mirror universe
of can do
and can't yet.

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

Dare I say it,
The oasis,
More like a billabong,
Is love.
And every thirsty beast wants a drink.
The water hole is muddy and dangerous,
Nonetheless,
With mixed success,
Each will take their chances.
Some are killed outright
By a crouching tiger or hidden gator.
Others get a couple of quick sips
But are run off by fear.
And a lucky few
Drink deeply,
Sustaining them for years.

"Morning light, dear one."
'You were great last night', "I was?!"
'Again', your rejoinder.

Morning sounds remix

cat eating dry food,
refrigerator whir,
large jet five miles out,
cat licking water,
hot coffee sipped,
laptop fan drawing air,
cat brushing pant leg,
dry skin -- lacing fingers,
barely audible -- keyboard keys --

sounds I will funnel
          into a tin,
          place a lid,

rhythmically spice shake the tumult with one hand while
clank, clank  - syncopate - clank  syncopate -- clank, clank with a stick.

There is much to be learned
studying a woman savoring a dish,
the speed of consumption,
the line of attack,
the rise of her bosoms,
the flare of her lips,
the degree to which her eyes do squint,
the click of her tongue,
the pouch of her cheeks,
and not the least,
observe the pleasure she takes
licking her finger tips.

"Hail to the jewel of the lotus."
Om mani padme hum
From muck beauty grows,
Om mani padme hum,
Om mani padme hum.

wheels splay mud ruts,
lazy "S" tracks tender turf,
eyes trail to horse barn.

muffler exhaust pipe,
post catalytic breath,
ten F 'n above.

My building pans for gold
In these hard times,
And for its efforts
Has desilted some glinty nuggets,
Employed twenty-somethings!
Roll in your grave Che Guevara,
Here no one is packing bullets to the hills.
This band of twenty-somethings
Multi task marble halls thumbs all a twitter,
"tgif...come over, wine, pizza, stay the night?"

Mary and Joseph if you're still looking for your son,
He's sleeping in the park
Along with his disciples.
Their last supper was a dumpster dive
Of congealed chinese, smelling of fish sauce.

My fortune
to abide
& be witness
to a dynamic sky
against a ripple of defining mountains.

Waisted daze and wasted tights
I have lifted you fair behind,
For you do belong to me,
Tho the cart belongs to someone else.

Why should I keep rubbing you
When I know I've made you blue,
And why should I rekindle flames
when you're to blame
for making me so huge?

Apologies to Freddy Fender

Don't eschew me through the haze
Remember that you called me "Hefty"
I was your one and only,
My fair Dove Bar.

Why should I keep rubbing you
When I know I've made you blue,
And why should I rekindle flames
when you're to blame
for making me so huge?

Apologies to Freddy Fender

Waisted daze and wasted tights
I have lifted you fair behind,
For you do belong to me,
Tho the cart belongs to someone else.

Why should I keep rubbing you
When I know I've made you blue,
And why should I rekindle flames
when you're to blame
for making me so huge?

Don't eschew me through the haze
Remember that you called me "Hefty"
I was your one and only,
My fair Dove Bar.

Why should I keep rubbing you
When I know I've made you blue,
And why should I rekindle flames
when you're to blame
for making me so huge?

* apologies to Freddy Fender

You may take offense,
were I to compare thee
to a common vetch,
but if you knew your history,
that Rome's legions were lentil fed,
I would be speaking in your defense,
my little Piscum.

My sweet harlot,
I've known love thrice:
--  with mother
--  with wife
Now, with vice.

In the constellation of probabilities
there's but one
where we would find each other,
meet and fall in love.
Let us pray our union thrives
beween this band of narrow odds.

Nothing matters in the end,
but not so in the envelop of time we have,
and there is that karma thing
where the sins of the father
come to roost on the heads of the spawn.
So if inclined to live in an untidy bedroom,
think again.

Nothing more useless than a poet
except in times of woe
and when yore
yens to be packaged lore.

Now I feel remorse
having besmirched this clean page
with these very words.

no word from you
and the blood grows bolder,
I've taken to rereading your old poems
written for "last time" lovers,
the bitter flames
has me smolder,
as I shake and grow ever colder.

Your words,
your thoughts,
your form,
warp and woof
a numinous weave,
a diaphanous dress
that once
only gods could wear.

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?

Of all the body's
in and outie places
the daffiest part
has got to be
the umbilicus,
how sillycus
to have the mother straw
embedded so very far
from the face's ******* lippicus.

Of all the sounds
the human animal
has ever reproduced
your cries of ecstasy
would in any language
be understood.

Mice are endlessly studied
blindly piloting channeled maze,
but who among us
is not doing the very same?

You and smile
are synonymous.
When I think of you
a nimbus crown appears 'round my head,
How can this be,
when we've never met?
Oh, baby, baby,
let's take a ***** and bury "yet"?

Oh, Joel,
I see you've gone the way
of HP vanity
with your two score & eight cantos
            pdf-ed
                         and
                                covered
in Escheresque!

============
Wishing you brisk sales and an IRS audit :-)

Oh to live in a golden age
when a bard's quilled words
would feather a goose down bed
or get thyself royally laid.

Old Charlie,
you left your widow
too poor to buy you ground,
and shy of burning you to ashes,
so your Elvis hair,
and your once
Johnny Cash build
was willed to science,
though
I don't expect
they'll find the big heart we knew
when they explore
beneath your ribs and cartilage.