Embedded in ancient myths, each moment
of life one lives is out and out mysterious .
In the firmament at night, every star
that is winking at you is a memory
refracted to interstellar depths by
laden layers of light years.

Swimming in this lake of kaleidoscopic dreams
I encounter fish with every countenance,
imaginable; wishes all, from lives past, far and near,
some even aberrations from future

Sometimes during such
underwater explorations,
I see myself flying above
numerous planets,
dressed in transparent
dark nights or moonbeams
spun from wishful dreams.

In one of those trips
to the present,defying laws,
I see you, sitting there
frozen in time,
like a work chiseled in  alabaster
all smiles,among your deer friends
all lovely does!

In a flash, magic carpet of time flies back
I remember you, our encounter unforgettable!
The wily tiger, in the guise of a lover, you
were getting closer to the deer, pure at heart
so naive to the guiles of the forest.

As you were about to spring at her
Your eyes, met her steady tranquil gaze,
that spoke of love and compassion, infinite.
Remember,you froze, as if by a spell,
struck by the force of  nonviolence.
You are still there, even after avalanches
of million dense memories,
a tiger, all killer instincts frozen,
still trusted among the deer, your dear ones.
Now I can see your eyes zooming around
for the mystery to be revealed;
meeting that ancient deer again, for final resolution.

In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

You exist in a moment
when we sat on the edge of the concrete when it meets the lake
in the night at the end of Chicago.
Our legs were in the water seated on stone.
The lapping of the waves.
The lapping of the cars.
Warmed by the city light.
We were, you and I, in the darkness of the water.
Cracking our heels against the solid stone.

For me you exist in that middle space.
What I thought I was and what I could be.
So when I feel the fog against my legs at night as they pound heavy on the pavement
how can I not be sent back into a thought of your arms.
Alexander, My Great.

Before that, though,
how we sat in Michigan underneath summer stars.
Where we shared voices in a hushed darkness defied.
On the soft sand near the large rocks
watching the expanse between the lights
and the sweet invasion from Chicago’s night.

That expanse, I love
when it melted into your chest and the small stars became your birth marks.
I was born under you.
The stretches of black.
Your stretches of gold.
I still feel the trees behind us
and our friends on the beach and the beer in our hands
and the stars on your chest.

Subjectivity seems like a curse near the rocks in the water.
A name is a thing with stars on its chest
that melts Chicago with coursing waters.
If my truth is objective and you call it love
then my beauty becomes fact in that moment.
Every stone in broken sand we sat on.
The exact color of the fog.
Every lapping of the cars has meaning in it.
Or none of it does and I go back.

Leave the beaches and leave the moment.
Leave with me.
I no longer am satisfied with Michigan waters and Chicago stone.
I want the space we saw.
The blackness punctured by heaven
punctured by you.
I need the space or the planets contained in dark to be with you.
No mixtures, no negotiations, no more breaking waves.
I will sit with and feel the weight of your existence.
Just you.

Our pursuits are to express into the world,
to be able with steady heart and clear breath to say something to you.
I should block out the lapping of the cars and give something to you.
But I am always stuck in these moments with you.
Trapped in the cold of the cans and the silk of the sand.

No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home

Here, where the lonely hooting owl
Sends forth his midnight moans,
Fierce wolves shall o’er my carcase growl,
Or buzzards pick my bones.
No fellow-man shall learn my fate,
Or where my ashes lie;
Unless by beasts drawn round their bait,
Or by the ravens’ cry.
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through,
Though I in hell should rue it!
Hell! What is hell to one like me
Who pleasures never know;
By friends consigned to misery,
By hope deserted too?
To ease me of this power to think,
That through my ***** raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.
Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.
Yes! I’m prepared, through endless night,
To take that fiery berth!
Think not with tales of hell to fright
Me, who am ****’d on earth!
Sweet steel! come forth from our your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the ****** dart,
My last—my only friend!