Let the world know that poetry
is great.
There is passion in its rough, gilded grooves
(I've seen it all)
Dance shoes under
(I've tried them on)
And overall, wicked smiles
(they have shown on my face).

I've read the Alice blue tears of a grown man
lined up like a tree so that
each line is a branch.
I've read all the things
that you think don't love each other,
but they simply do.
Poetry loves you--people and poems are
just the perfect
dance partners.
I've seen it all--

I've seen that crazy look
on a poet's face.
It is the best form of every thing
which is only tangible

through a poem.

Blossoms look better in the rain;
reaching into black mist and white wind,
singing like a deaf woman

I'll marry any man who agrees

I call her Moon.
              Why, you ask?
Because she is light
     when my nights are heavy.

r ~ 4/24/14

I love these lines
I hate their stops
I love these words
I hate their last letters,
pirouetting like French kisses

They say, "So now it's done. Goodnight,
I love you.
Break that pencil in half,
now throw it away.
See you next time
The Demon
wants to stay.
You look so neat dressed in jewels
that complete you."

Today
my head is a garden
and I am keeping the flowers
from rotting, the peppers,
pears, peaches, and co.
from ripening.
And though I wish I could
clip these producers
the way a China Doll
clips her nails
I vow not to do so
wholeheartedly,
For soon these musings will
choose to die.

By lunch
the weeds will come up.
And they will have work to do
they will have work--
We have work to do!
The green lush fills me
too full,
Whatever words they make
I can't even tell,
but at least I have enough
Common Sense
not to shoot [them out of]
myself.

lachrymose: suggestive of or tending to cause tears; mournful....given to shedding tears readily; tearful.**

make no dithering,
wily excusing or explaining,
among this band,
I count myself
a brother and a man

eons ago shed the
reptilian skin masculine,
my six-shooter now a manly
cheap Bic ballpoint blue-eyed pen,
used to fell forests of egos,
mine, first foremost and ever last

every write that sore tries my heart,
lives hard by a stream replenished,
by freshly born, yet stale, recirculated
salt-mine tears, salt, mine, tears,
that include those storing and storied,
some preceding and some succeeding,
and some spilling
even as
this story told,
here and now,
is in the hearth,
forming and fulfilling

if man enough that you can cry openly,
then man enough to write good poetry,
this then, this be the simple and finest
line I ever wrote,
line I ever cried

5:20pm April 20th,
The Year of the Tear