across the log
as graceful as a dancer...


rising out of the water
jeans and blue t-shirt
like a weighted blanket

muddied and wet
the girl of the lake
delighting in the fall

the playful eyes
that wild in her smile                               

(I too
knew that smile
intimately
once
and dreams were plentiful
as the songs
that kept me alive

but the wind walks
a singular path
through the tall grass
surrounding lakes

a thief tip-toeing into another day)

and here I stand
a stone
beside an unshaded lamp

4 walls and a door

I've tried to chase
your ghost
out that door
many times

and the unfathomable echo
of your footsteps lingers
forever fading down the hallway

the unshaded lamp
the mirror above the sink

a dangerous animal
the broken heart is
in the unforgiving light
of a windowless room.

and
when she left
hemingwey

ernest put the barrel
of a shotgun
in his mouth

big toe
in the trigger ...

line and color
at the tip
of his brush
van gogh
knew her intimately...

ravel
felt her with his heart
and composed
the piano concerto for
the left hand...

and his dead hands
and with his dead hands
still clutching a book of poems by Keats
shelly slept with her
on the sands of Italy...

the wolf and the elk
blood and bone

a savage
animal
she is
when taken
for granted

the night
jumps from
the wall

and...

she walks
8th avenue
in the rain
and snow

beauty always
has her price
(usually 20 and up
depending on
what you want)

you toy with me
distant friend
fingers through my hair
whispers as you dart about
our secret game will remain
our secret
but I must know if you are child or adult
woman or man
past lover in this or an earlier life
reveal to me the answer my spirit
so that you may walk in my dreams
and open the door to both worlds

some dark
some bright
some come to light
during the wee hours of night
some crystal clear
some just out of sight
but all are real and all are right
as I slip into the fearless flight
of the mind's eye

How can I read your poetry
when even in silence
I fear the most
Life , a twisted cornucopia
of blood , hair , bone
I hear the prayer calls
and hide in the shadows
The narrow streets
have eyes hidden in cloth
always watching . . . in silence
Even in my disguise I stand out . . . a foreigner
I smell different , walk different , am different
The white hot sands are covered in ashes
The ashes of dreams and the lives that are no more

How can I read your poetry when I am living in the bowels of the words

The lines become those narrow streets of hostile intent

The paragraphs become those eyes always watching me everytime I turn around

Here on the rooftop late at night there's that **** silence as thick as the sticky heat that I can't escape

How , I ask so disconcertedly , can I even get beyond the title

Maybe the plane won't be delayed tomorrow

I pray a Christian prayer before first call

. . . . how ?

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

. . . as I sit on the dunes looking at the sea . . .

I contemplate what was , what is , what is due

I watch the waves come in and crash , recede , and crash again

So were my chances that came in waves , receded and crashed again

My life's foundation resides on these impermanate dunes

I cannot stand for long on the shifting sands ,
changing with the winds of time , before I am forced to move

Motion made me . . .
The vibration of the small details
I know you know but you never told me

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

But that doesn't matter anymore