Us,
not
us in any common sense,
our skin pod hulls,
nursed by different rains,
pulled from divergent fields,
shucked under different moons,
no, not us
in any common sense,
but us
in a deeper vain,
not as in fruited seed,
chaste to the disappointments
of common ground,
chaste to the harness
of sun baked sweat,
no,
us as in
a deeper sense,
an us
that is rarely found,
but in poesy
we both profound.

The city's office canyons,
all but deserted
this snow laced Christmas day,
as if a pesticide had been sprayed
during the homing hour,
only to learn one day later
that it works best on people.

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.

Vespers,
Tidal time pours homeward,
Criers cry,
Lamplighters light,
Cats seek mice or mates,
Prey pray
For one more daybreak.

The hidden is more than the seen
The seen is more than the observed
The observed is more than the understood
Is it not for poetry to truss 'n bridge
The wattle until better beavers
Make a channeled floody duddy of it?

In a small round room
dense with barefoot people
a murmur grew
that a large glass ball
on a pedestal table
was by measure
a bit off center.
Insisting he had the solution
one man raised a hammer
and shattered it
into untold pieces.
Whereupon he walked upon the shards
To the nearest wall and wrote in blood
"MISSION ACCOMPLISHED".

Walkin' in circles,
Thoughts follow,
All's a muddle.
Vortexin' eWaves of self splunder
Leaving nothing intricate,
But fauxtons.

Want,
              a need,
found me,
                   found me wanting,
   wanting
               to fulfill.

Wanted,
Blue haired ladies,
My wife tells that not PC anymore,
Needing an event speaker,
A poet.
I have a groaning chap book
Of metered observations.
Not much in my work to cause a blush.
But I do aim to burp a thought or two.

Wanted, bad poems.
We are an international publisher
specializing in bad poetry.
Not bad poetry,
but really, really bad poetry.
Your submission should include one or more of the following words:
Heart,Shard,Wind,Love,Hate,Death, I (lots of I's).

Silent assumptions,
have sunk more boats,
than all the guided ordinance,
ever manufactured.

was it your whisper
or mine
that put the flame out?
no matter,
we could both see
the light would soon end
with so little wax left
on the short candle.

we are each
marooned,
stuffing
notes
in
found
bottles,
which we
commit to an indifferent sea,
and we
wait ...

We'll meet in Montreal,
As cosmopolitan a city as New York or Paris.
Let's make it the end of May.
Plan on bring your worst behavior,
I'll be bring mine.

we look for patterns,
a this from that,
this is how we cope.

Were I to borrow
seven words to build a poem
which ones would you be willing to lend?

I know it to be a romantic notion,
that deciduous trees in winter
should be wearing leafy clothes,
but to see them so naked against the Carolina cold
gives me cause to shiver
and change my thoughts to the heat 'n swelt of summer,
where, I imagine, the trees would be more content
were they down to bark and bone.

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?

were we to meet,
nose to nose,
fingers handily laced,
thigh to thigh,
knee to knee,
toe to toe,
lips to lips,
what passed between,
a sigh,
i hope,
that would cancel any speech.

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

We've all heard the fish story,
the one that got away;
there was this perfect poem
I composed,
but before I could
commit it to paper,
it to got away #&@%#

We like our anger pickled
dessicated, fried.
We've had it boiled, baked,
rewarmed, microwaved on high.
We most enjoy it on holidays
served across the table
by siblings that we despise.

This night
toe to toe
knee to knee
follicles embracing follicles
belly to belly
******* to *******
palms to palms
lips to lips
we watch with envy
our avatars.

What do you say
when you have nothing to add
and silence doesn't seem quiet enough,

and the light through the window
dances on dust,

What do you say,
what do you say

when your bones are feeling like rust,
and your mind has two feet in the clay?

What do you say,
what do you say,
what do you say,

when taking the measure of each of your days
and there are many not stacking up?

What do you say,
What do you say?

===
* I ain't no song writer, so have at it.  
Don't be bashful, you got any advice
on improving this ballad plez post,
including take that dang ditty out and bury the **** thang.

What one believes
seems to roll with chance,
the where
            the when,
                 and to whom
                               one is born,
be it Pago Pago to the South of France,
before the current time (BCT)
                                                            or two thousand years thereafter.
What would Einstein come to know
if born a thousand years ago
in a village of Eskimos
where the highest calling
was laying upon a chilly table
a slice of seal,
                         fillet of fish,
                                                or slab of blubber.

Do parallel lines ever meet,
Or parallel worlds ever collide?
Can two lovers at a distance
Simultaneously feel the same thought?
What's it like to be a triathlon gamete
And be the first to cross that finish line?

What would be the harm
if you and I decide to lie
and make it our private currency

If in each other's eyes
We would always see
the other's charms

What would be the harm
of such a simple lunacy?

Shadows raced
the clouds
across the valley of my soul,
a midday melancholy squall,
the trigger of it I'll never trace,
deposited thoughts of death
and a stacked chord of supreme regrets
that I played it safe
when bolder action
would have been
the more prudent course.
carpe diem, carpe diem.

When eagles fly lambs bleat,
Taloned shadows circle.
Plunge streak,
Grounding impermanence;
Life, death,
Impersonal but personal.

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

When I read your poems
I feel that I've slipped into your mind,
where all the mysteries lie
of which you speak
As if you've parted silken sheets.

In youth,
Love expressed is mother tongue,
But in age wise love is polyglot.
Words of youthful love are hot,
While in age intricate talk ensues.
Youthful love does natures bidding,
But in age love is free to love itself,
And thus be one shared by two.

When the elevator doors opened
I could see,
Despite your effort,
The mild discus
That washed over your face
Seeing me,
Alone at the rear of the car.

You entered.
Turned your young back to me
And selected your floor.
You were in elevator mode,
And I was elevator polite,
We never spoke.
What I wanted to say,

"Old age is not contagious,
Nor can you open your legs to it
Like STD.
You have to work at it
Everyday,
Old age is something you earn
For grit and perseverance."

I wish you well
Wherever you go
Wherever you are
My desire is you too will age
In your time,
And at your personal pace.

When the night takes you
into it's dark and mysterious embrace,
and you travel ever downward
through chambers that have never seen
the sun's glowing face,
and faceless archangels carry you
bedeviled place to place,
and you tango, allegretto
with Dante in his chamber space,
and you wake breathless
with an ashen face,
It's my desire to be pillow side
kiss your forehead,
hold you close, reassure you,
that once again you're now safe.

when you close your eyes,
and draw in your next breath,
know that I to breathe,
and that we do so in unison...

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

When you're shivering
beneath a shawl,
and you're warming your hands
between your thighs,
(sigh)
there's nothing to keep your nose warm
except a proboscis mitten.

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?

Where does love reside?
Some say heart,
some say head.
But when love curls your toes,
and makes your hair hurt.
Leaves one to wonder
is love bounded
like a bowl of steaming broth,
or a marrix force field
of amorous flux?

Where is the seat of psychic pain?
Are MRI's made to trace the vein
To neuron neighborhoods
Sealed, yet synapse connected,
One to another
By chain link fences?

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

These mountain cliffs
are a precipice of stone
where time is in no hurry
to finish what it began to sculpt
eons ago in this high back wash
that is a murmur of untold tales
available to a passing cloud.

While birthdays are a matter of record,
for most of us conception day
is mired in mist,
but if one is a triskaidekaphobic
though sadly born on the 13th,
why not celebrate your inceptionation
on any old date and week.

Nothing closer than white on rice
unless, of course it writhes
then you're probably forking lice!

"Who am I?"

When I was three, six, ten, sixteen, twenty...
not a single cell could trace the transition,
therefore I must not be my body.

If not my body, then my thoughts?
I can not frame a thought that has not changed!

If I'm not my body, nor my thoughts
Who am I?
Who asks this question?

Why is near perfection more alluring
than perfection itself?
Perfect teeth,
perfect smile,
perfect, hair,
perfect skin,
perfect shape,
perfect carriage,
testify a sheltered doll,
and the makings a of boring wife.

Why watch television
When you can spend quality time
In your own mind?

There will be a time to pack up these poems,
and like two bums with bindle sticks,
walk silent into a flick house sunset,
the theater audience will crane to know
will they be one or two and fro?

Within the night Ravel's Bolero,
within that arcuate tremble,
within that instant passion fuse,
within that instantaneous release
release of self.
relief,
No I, no I, no i,
The bliss, the bliss, that is now us, and that lacuna moment.

without intention water
may propagate life, and wealth,
destruction, and death,
succor a desert civilization,
or ***** out an island nation.
There is no finer sculptor,
change agent, or tormentor.