The arms of eternity open,
like a sentimental bolero played
at some in-between place,
they open lazily
and incandescently,
encircling the comically and silently raging,

Poetically, and gently,
the phantom draws her wings towards forgetfulness -
at the eye of the temple -
distant,
full of guidance
and potential.
The profound silence of bitter lives.

pocket full of pennies
rolling across the kitchen floor,
down the steps, out the door,

pennies running into the street
(and i'm right behind them.)

"where do you think you are going? and
I m feeling a bit embassed, so i whispered.
"you belong to me,

to keep or to throw away." and

there s a light tap on my shoulder,
and the policeman tells me,

"better find them soon
before they turn to rust,

I couldn't find mine
and I'm sure they turned into dust."

and the echoe from the hole
in my pocket shouts,
" his dreams are
trying to find the waterline."

i did find a few of them, a handful,
(I had swiped my hand as they tried to roll away)

I did grasp a few

but some of the other
pennies i threw into the air
where they may have fallen,
I know not where.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

Sometimes . . .
Such as a Who
. . . at Leeds ,
Or a dream unfullfilled
. . . in Alabama
Or the conflict
. . . daily in Dallas
or the absurd
. . . "Free at last ! Free at Last! Thank God free at last !

The more it changes
The less I recognize
. . . and there you elbow me
saying ,"It remains the same!"

Poetry is like underwear
It's wearable but not necessary
Comes in all shapes and sizes
Any color you would want
with printed statements of facts
Some wear well
Some have holes
Some rise to the occassion
Some barely make it waste deep

Visages perch like leaves offered to the sun,
as we lie below, sleeping in a stream,
toe-to-toe, our gills inundated with burning.

A half-light permits itself to be shown.
Its voice is used.

Sea monkeys may sing their fragments.
Their dreams are sharp coral
that drag power from the broken body
of a shore.
They are in sin -
a thing owned so unseriously.

With the setting sun, the great aftermath
looks on in leisure, and as a slave to the mystique:
time’s wide course
does not return nor continue accordingly.