My evenings umbra
stood watching
The nights damp
sweet falling
breathing lone sighs
and calling
the sky's departure
of dew.
Diluting loose tears,
in a fountain
of fears
where my fate
spread supine
in a cascade
of time
to ponder my present
tableau.

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

I have forgotten it all
All but my name
Where I lived
Who I loved
And why
I am simply me
Sad and unlovely
And when I’m alone
I tell myself lies
That no one else believes.

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.

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.

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.

My mouth I do think,
is munching my words.
How weirdly my tongue,
Still seeks out the norm.
A slobbering salivation,
of unwritten sayings,
My teeth a brazen thief,
nibbling thoughts in the night.
Lips obscenely shaped,
in the poets’ hungry quest,
For the strange articulate taste,
Of a pilfered sour waste,
from bland and bleary words,
I am forever forced to swallow.

It is a promise unfulfilled,
To which now I humbly view,
The rugged climbing jasmine vine,
Relies daily on the dew.

No doubt this inconstancy,
May be difficult to find,
So tangled are my morning thoughts,
As the jasmine’s skyward climb.

Antiquity lives now as a pale-yellow dust,
Confusing to the remnants of its ruins,
While old bones bleach whiter with age

There will be thunder,
Cascading in tumultuous waves,
Remember me she says,
As she called for more storms,
This entire world may be the color,
Of my bright electric blue,
And your heart will then turn to fire.

That day as the storms blew in,
A true prophecy was discovered,
When for the last time she said goodbye,
Her lightning soaring through the heavens
Deep sparks flashing in her eyes,
Yet still my burnt heart longed to see,
Her electric blue fire in the sky.

Where yesterday small men
felled a large tree,
in its height and beauty,
for no good reason.
Where it was now,
only emptiness remains,
It’s tree bloodied stump,
now level with the ground.

The wind finds its own place,
and waits there holding its breath,
for a sad lonely moment,
calling to no one,
sudden in its stillness,
surprising even the rain,
expectantly drifting in,
still looking for the tree.

The laughter of leaves,
whisper testament,
over cool caverns,
ancient moss,
the absurdity of clocks,
and rain upon rocks
while serpents dance,
backlit with sunglow,
at the speed of life,
daring us to defy,
this timeless tapestry,
in which we all grow,
Our voice of life’s longing.

All night long my restlessness
wandered longing
those wet city streets
dripping dropping, raindrops fall
Until my silent moan
woke me alone.
at daybreak a sole bird chirped,
singing sweetly in the dawn
If only to find such happiness,
in the morning’s quiet song.

All night long her restlessness,
Prevented her from sleep,
So she walked and peered
with eyes still closed
inside those deepest parts of me.
A sound then broke with the sunrise sigh
amidst the drifting winds.
Opening eyes lashes damp
With tears to the morning skies,
did she too hear the birdsong cry?

Who has placed a shadow,
between the sun and I
to sense the aura
of a dark atmosphere
just under my mortal skin?

Who then chases my myth,
soaked in the blood
of the primordial hunt?

Who will concentrate,
My unknown language
into a singular cry
that falls heavy
into the eternal night?

Who then will search for me
Within the endless depths
of my suspended life?

Who will find meaning
in this poem hidden
from the hands of knowledge
waiting in shadows
with a hesitant touch?

Who indeed,
Would even care so much?

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.

Time travels deep amidst you earthly lot,
Are you yet so earthly to be tranquil and free,
From the madding crowds thronging the streets?
What's that?
Your ethereal existence transcends the worldly?
I spot a child picking daisies beyond the roadside edge,
Looking up, perchance she caught sight of me.
Behold the beauty of her daisy’s death,
There is much truth in her reality,
And yet still, I find no better words to explain it.
Then tranquil, earthly and free.

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.

Little by little
I feel languid with life.
Who pities the vigor that withers?
Only the image in my mirror
Joins me in tears.

Well, so long and thank you
for consenting to this visit
by the mortal life of a forlorn man
traveling outcast with only
his wicked beating heart.
Is an abject heart you understand?
Bright red frailty now bled clear,
to let you peer within,
my stained and ***** past-life

Still, may we converse a while?
Let us live within this day,
exchange a few words, shall we say.
Share some wine, taste some cheese.
If only for you to hear,
my lightly murmured pleas.
My heart would then be slightly healed,
Because fondly then could I say
Yes, truly was I here.

On the hills of a slaying darkness,
I hear still my lost lover’s roar.
light and sad, with grief transparent,
my melancholy fills with you.
You, and you alone, my sorrow,
Still untouched and unmoved.
My heart flames again, and loves,
for then what else could it do?

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.

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.

Strange how I’ve accustomed
the word ‘Placidity’ to me.
After many years of casting aside
I now draw it on like a glove.
I arrange it like a ballcap.
I make my bed with it
And plump up its wishes
To lay my head upon
I used it to tame the creature in my closet
Encircling my bed with a moat of shame
I then tethered a wolf of fear
Quite near its darkened entrance.
There for life’s tutoring to creep past.
And now I sleep calmer
With a wide-open mind.
Strange how I’ve accustomed
the word ‘placidity’ to me.

There goes that fleeting loyalty
where goes those selfish whims,
Where I the autumn leaves
I would fear most the wind

Too long tonight I've lingered here,
And though time itself be intimate,
The ticking of the clock, is not.
Unlock those dreams of fate.
Old rising sun, you must wait.

If I had made of my scrawny arm
A pillow for my boney head
I may have had a moment's time
To chase a summer's dream that fled,
What would the Sun have said?

If in this troubled world of mine
I must linger sleepless in the night,
My only friend shall be the moon,
Who paints my lids a sadness shone,
As the Sun now shines a brighter light.

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?

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.