High heat, in a Bogota alley,
A man lies still, a bullet in his chest,
The blood wound glows red-hot,
Life seeps, drop by drop,
As he lay lonely in the ally’s damp sweat.
Fire stairs tower all around,
sun scorched at their rusted red heights,
And I,
I slept like the dead.
I dreamed of a midnight dance,
in my home, gleaming light,
young girls decked in flowers and lace,
sharing their dreams with breathless delight.
But one alone sat there deep in thought,
not part of this joyful scene,
Why her young soul, who knows,
was plunged into the saddest of dreams.
Her dream, an alley in Bogota,
an alley where a friend lay un-seen,
a black wound in his chest,
seeping blood, a cooling stream,
As I,
I slept like the dead.

Without you I shall just fade
Back into the fabric of my past
How dare I imagine myself
Part of your exotic weave
My colors worn and drab
Dulled to shades of grey.

The land awoke today,
bright and windless,
to gaze upon a porcelain sun.
In love with light,
it shows once more,
wavering subtle shades,
of brilliant liquid color,
within its well-shaped orb.
It is a clear and selfless light,
that never waits to see,
its own flawed colors,
shattered as broken glass,
reflected in windows of poverty.
Alone this painted orb,
knows only of self-comforting,
and in its seclusion,
it may never know,
through either love or wisdom,
just how beautiful it can be.

I have a tulips sense today,
soft and sweet, but short to stay
and where it goes no bee can say.
I have a tulips sense today

I told a daisy’s tale today
her petals damp in a sudden shower
that blushed bright pink within the hour.
I told a daisy’s tale today

I pinched a roses bud today,
she pinched right back and used her thorn
To draw my blood and show her scorn
I pinched a roses bud today

I had a tulips sense today
the bloom in mind
was one of a kind
then sadly it faded it away

I had a tulips sense today.

People can’t be stretched like starlight.
Even through the rebirth of time
of intention, of loyalty, of love,
there’s always another above,
that lingers like sudden pain,
of the salted wounds cut.
A past someone, a present devil,
declaring power over lives,
not theirs to control.
Oh how I yearn
for the freedom to burn,
If only to be stretched like starlight.

How long would you have loved me?
A lifetime?
Ah wait, but that was too long?
Let us say just a moment.
Life is best but a moment,
If life is scarcely a day.
Might you have loved me then?
Perhaps while you drank,
From my life’s delicate cup,
with your sweet face turned up,
To love's exquisite taste.
Just one rapturous moment,
While my love inhaled you,
Like the soul of a flower,
For the space of a breath,
Within the breath of my space,
Where my words had no power,
But did their best to express,
Something so divine, so enchanting,
As your souls lingering scent,
Thrilling through all of my mind,
But at last in a sigh,
to be breathed out and spent.
Just one moment no longer,
and then all of my strength and desire,
all my passion exhausted,
With nothing left of my fire,
Gray ash scattered in the wind.
But then would you have clung to me?
Would you have then loved me?
Or would you have loathed me,
and scorned me,
And ruthlessly flung me away?
Yet again?
This maddening moment, I beg let the next,
Show what it chooses to reveal.
Is it enough that you loved me but a moment?
It was I after all,
who let fate spin her wheel.
What though from my dream when I awake?
My love a mere frolic it does seem.
What is life at best but a dreaming sleep,
And what is love, but just a dream,
A brief fleeting thought,
Only for fools to keep?

First,
I would know her to be beautiful
While carefully walking up to my poetry
In those gentle moments of an afternoon.
Her hair may still be damp
At the ends from just washing it
Smelling faintly of jasmine, a light perfume.
She would be wearing a short tan coat,
An older one,
Slightly ***** at the hem
From being unwilling
to spend money on the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses,
And there,
As the sun streaks in golden sheets
Through the dusty windows long forgotten,
Of a back-alley bookstore,
She will thumb through my poems
Thinking odd thoughts all the while.
Then with a quiet sigh,
She will put them back on the shelf.
And shedding a single tear,
In silence and of whisper weight,
She will say to herself,
“For that much money I can get my coat cleaned”.
And she does,
For the silent price of a single tear.

And then suddenly,
Everything stayed the same.
And those who had called so strongly
on clear cool colors subdued
Refocused their lenses,
On those who had seen
The warmth of those same colors move.

Yet others without the solitude
of times infinite sound in flight
Were slowly revised within the sky
Then encircled in scents of blue.
And whether they felt soft color or not,
Still they sculpted from pools of light,
Their own shadows to celebrate the sight,

Yet the sun still burned their ideas alive,  
To drift along windblown visual lines,
to see the place where passion shines
Ever un-unprepared for the view.  
A day and a night they cowered in fright
And then suddenly nothing changed again,
Suddenly nothing was new.

Why did you fade into the dawn so soon?
So far away beyond the lightened hills
natures sounds made a thousand songs for you
Yet could not hold you with the morning dew
We dream of our past, yet dream of you still,
Where are you now, little fading moon?

Her whispers gone
With the evening wind
Like silk lips on
My electric skin
Her thoughts unspoken,
leaking through her eyes
With her whispers drifting
even now I wonder
Whether she loved me
I shall never know

Sometimes I wish for a tangerine tree
So that I could undress the fruit
like a lover, spontaneously

Sometimes I wish for an apple tree
So I could view the fruit as a friend
without need to peel, or pretend.

But mostly I wish for a walnut tree,
so other nuts could drop at my feet,
and have conversations with me!

The orifice of my mouth
compels a tempting desire
To speak in the words
Of a thousand tongues
But I will refrain,
And instead give in
To my overwhelming desire
To eavesdrop,
On the conversations
of books.

I have been combing the strands
of my thoughts for you
you
who left traces of your fragrance,
in lieu of yourself
a pungency as of ripe apples
hot tea
or things lain long in lavender
very faint
but of a lingering sweetness.
Now that I have found you
I can see
your delicate coloring
which once so delighted me
has been faded in the wash
of my tumbled mind
and yet do you still
bring the tears to my eyes
as will some small phrase
someone said to me long ago
to whom my desire
to mean so much
still meant so little
I have untangled you
from my web of delicate things
only to find you were the last of a kind
within my yearning soul
shame on me... I did not know.

Out there,
alone as a stone on the road,
After one of life’s lectures on finer times,
my own two feet carried me home.
I moved fine-tuned with a steady direction,
Until an obsolete ending ensconced in a reflection,
Did capture my dreamer’s attention,
Thus causing my downward fall.
In dreams I’ve braced for the impact so solid
Of the ground rushing up from below,
But still,
I’ve been the static sharp ending of a show.
I’ve sung like a siren and I’ve flown.
I’ve been a child peering in all alone,
I’ve been a pebble,
I’ve been a rock,
I’ve been a stone.

Long have I avoided the dark hunter death,
And now I am weary,
and in much need of learning,
where my still peace is.
Soon I will hear that voice of the ages,
That knows nothing of my old earth’s yearnings.
And its cry,
is but quiet,
Like wind over water,
And it knows nothing of love…
Only of dying.

Even those places,
the sun will never see,
in the darkest part of the woods,
where shadows seem to breathe.
Even those places that never dry,
Dampness drifting everywhere,
thick wet layers underneath.
Even those quietest places,
you've never been,
or may never be,
are disquieted by your cry,
Even those places.

My soul is clothed
By your body.
Your limbs are swathed in my scent.
Your face is covered
In fine shadows.
Still I drink from you,
I drink…

My ready soul sips the beauty
Of your curves so delicate.
My eyes are vibrant bees,
Your mouth a rosy flower.
Hold your body for your lover,
While I delve,
For greater treasures,
From the beauty of your mind.
Then unguarded and untouched,
I will steal you for my own,
Silky, soft and clear.
I will shape and shift
our need to be,
While I coil and uncoil
Your long soft hair.
I will kiss you,
Unaware.

He hangs onto
her every word
with a delicious yearning
for the next batch of honey
to fall from her porcelain lips
and while he withers
with wanting,
her words spill golden
as a lazy summer’s love
from a hundred other flowers
just like her.

One by one they awaken
Those dark and callous
beasts of darkness
Do they ask questions
about life as I do?
I awoke and I walked
The long hard way
until I saw the questions
Of life were lies.
Today the sun streamed
Bright all day
until the beasts of darkness
scampered fast away
Now once more
I will strip the night
from the new moon’s flesh
and wear it like a crown
wrapped generous around
my callous and beastly head.

Much feeling in my heart
but it's just as if there's none,
Twice I think this
behind my window
but still only smile as one,
The light has a heart
and it too hates parting.
At my window,
the light sheds tears at dusk.

what have I to offer them
unreasonable nymphos in the night
reasons I have none, but only a desire
to quench their ***** of fire
so bring that chocolate sauce just bought
that may be used or maybe not
on buttocks quivering oh so near
while cat-o-nines install their fear
of a pain transfigured sexually
by someone’s orderly advice.
I’d like to show my astonishment
as I run my tongue on buttered skin
how ridiculously gentle I have been
chasing naked up the stair
that dampened patch of ***** hair
but no, their desire has infected me
and now I’ve lost my sheepish grin
now no more shyness
let’s begin.

Because as a word,
Is both the answer
And the question.

If you have a moment let me tell you the shortest story,
about arriving at a lovely but lonely place,
the garden of thoughts that thrive in my mind.
My lawn of wildflowers, my shimmering trees,
loving the wind as they sway in the breeze.
Portraits hung on sun-gold walls in rooms clothed with shades of green,
an open-air kitchen to tease the senses with fragrant steam.
These my accessories of a genuine summers dream,
some years ago, before,
when I was somebody, someone’s friend,
someone’s lover, with much to show.
Was a young man then, with much of life yet to discover,
As my hands took from life’s garden the harvest of summer.
I could make light bread and serve it to those I loved,
This at a large table, draped with a cloth the color of sun.
In life’s garden I was found, and loved. My eggplant shone like polished wood,
My tomatoes smelled like their furry stems, zucchini scattered haphazardly,
Tiny teacups lined up on the counter, keeping watch for the sugar tree.
Onions round and plump, lording over their minions of garlic and chive,
some wine of love in a vibrant garden of earthly delight.
And into this very sunny story, many years later, I by myself came back,
having been beaten and blinded by the rigors of life,
and there waited for my dream to return me my sight.
I walked into the lawn, waist-high with colors of orange and pink, yellow and green,
fragrant lilacs swaying purple, the subject of a June’s afternoon delight.
My kitchen there, waiting for my bread of life,
to release the scent of ripe peaches, pepper and spice.
There I was back in my garden a displaced man with gray streaked hair,
with no place to which I wished to return, and no one,
to gather me into their arms when I got there.
No one to love me but the sun and the air.
That day life’s garden received me, and though not real,
I loved it greatly all the same, because it seemed all I had left.
And in that same manner I have learned to love much of the world
Since my absence in life’s garden.
Who is to say if I have less reason to live, or more to love,
Than any other whose life has yet begun,
Who is to say that my garden is not real,
Who is to say?

She came upon me sudden,
As a sweet dream recalled at noon.

Old as hot water grown cold.
Where is she now this woman,

who tipped me into her cup of tea?
As I stood swaying on the lip,

of her sinuous dream.  
Swift the current called her, she had to,

answer the hard knocking,
that she in her not-knowing,

thought only a brief interruption,
of our life.

I found a fairy on a yellow rose along a silver stream.
The rose must surely dream I said,
to raise an emerald leaf, and have you lay within its bud,
to touch and taste your sweet.
This budding bloom she did reply, this slender flower with its dew,
all memories of the rain its blushing petals hold within,
so now this lovely rose and I,
Today we dream for two.

What of the rain I did reply, do drops of rain fall down in dreams?
Happy to leave their cloudy sky?
The rain she says in its defense, makes pools where poppies drown,
They float upon this silver stream to enter a land of flower dreams,
where all our fancies sprout and spring,
Only to return again next year to sing the lyrics of the trees,
And give the bees their buzzy sound.

The fairy stretched her gossamer wings and caused the blooms to blush.
Why must you ask such trivial things,
in delicious moments such as these?
Your questions they are all remote,
and cause the ladybugs to sneeze.
The mystery now I put to you, as a hush fell over the trees
Is have you now, or have you ever
Dreamt a dragonfly dream?

Below the tree line
love ran its rank course
in hungry silence, with diligence,
where all are meat, and none are free,
to the lone wolf prowling through the pines
pure of heart, and lovers’ dreams
over many a distant hill he roams
his silent sorrow speaks to me.

Here amongst these rolling hills
among no person's love or lust
resigned to chase his dimming suns
with knowledge of his end to come.
None should know such lonely thoughts,
as this simple creature, filled with light,
chasing always loves request
to find his longing in the night.

Howling deeds that others shun,
Silver drops of heartache shimmer,
from jaws of silent moonlight come,
glowing with the faintest glimmer,
of peaceful evenings left undone.

Those longing cries for others,
Friends, enemies, lovers,
They cannot peer within
such chilly hills where solitude lives
Lone wolves run free and live apart
They have no brothers, no friends, no lovers,
to claim their lonely wandering heart,
the coldest, grimmest winds that blow
are all they need to nourish and feed,
their hunger wandering cold
and lean amongst the silent trees

Those tiny people
growing green,
amongst a greener leaf

They do not celebrate
They will not clap or shout

Those tiny people slip
under doors, windows,
silent as whispers,

They forage for time,
Rest in shade,
Visit the garden fair,

Together, they lift
Push, pull, shift

Small cracks they
see through
to wonder, and stare.

Those tiny people
walk on wind
They tread on light

To build a life,
For all to share.

It's you!
I've understood it ever since,  
she who hummed me,  
a most tasty recipe,
To make me gasp in sheer delight!
But Alas!
My gasp was so strong,
that I almost died from it.
Darkened dreams,
so rich and creamy!
If only our lives could always be,
Such a velvet libation,
As the ****** sensation,
of chocolate!

The thoughts of leaves interest me,
Fragile fall, crisp with color,
harbingers of cooler times.
How fleeting flow their days,
How long lay their nights,
Memories of summers past,
Those thoughts that still drift,
Into many a fragrant eve,
hanging gently in their trees
to sing a song of rivers and streams,
and melodies,
of lemon scented fireflies.
This where the image of leaves,
is mirrored in the realm,
of my mind’s infinite summers.
Where the thoughts of leaves,
blow wild and free,
and memories past still wander.

I dreamt that for you
I had swept a path,
through a bright summer wood
placing soft scented rose blossoms there.

or perhaps,
having no way of knowing,
I had only swept the path
between those many scented roses?

no matter,
tonight the rain will again fall upon itself
to wash away the roses
so strange how the rain tastes like tears.

I don't think answers should be doled out by popularity,
or even by the general masses huddled within the light,
But by those of us with an individuality,

i am not lost, not anymore,
i have not found freedom,
but am working hard,
toward that end,
and right.

Exiled from my own home, I walk through
A lattice of shadows in the hushed rooms.
No one speaks, but in that emptiness, I sometimes hear
The sticky vernacular of the unreal.

The scents that used to wisp around me when she passed,
Gardenia on an evening out,
are but memories past pleasant now,
Ethereal butterflies gone back to their cocoons.

Nothing relents: I deal with the damage
to my downspouts, drainpipes, the kitchen sink.
One more hard storm and I’ll be drilling weep holes
In the basement walls to let the stink out.

In my mind,
I hold the words,
that life denies me.
Words sweet words,
speak love sweet love,
if only to grow wings instead,
if only to rise above.
Words are not speaking,
as songs are not singing,
words to wound,
words to please,
words to bring me to my knees.
All day I have written words.
My subject has been just that:
Words.
And I am wrong,
and the words are wrong,
and so the words I burn.
Cerebral pages of them.
Words.
Desperate I ask the moon,
to gather her moonlit words,
and those too I burn.
But a poem still remains.
Of the words, with the words,
in the flame, that is now the words,
I disdain.
So I burn the words to contain,
Those meaningless words un-heard,
my words,
and am then burnt,
by all I cannot save,
all I cannot love,
and all I leave un-made.
But the words,
the words remain the same.

Once I am dead,
I will evoke night vision,
So that I may see,
From beyond my grave,
All those people beautiful,
Whom I once found ugly,
Within my living life,

Delirium trembled the lemons
Green envy soured the limes
The apples cut with peals of laughter
As the onions started to cry

The berries grew more juicy
When the kiwi told the tale
Of the bananas secrete wishes
To run off with the kale.