A questionable son
the one
who chose auto repair
and serial monogamy
finds the golden road
to Washington, D.C. respectability

What does his father do?
He buys him a briefcase

And everything followed
and flowed
from that mineral moment

A career
a wife, in time
a briefcase never used
but full of good wishes
murmurs
and marching orders

The road ahead
seemed wide open
stretching west
into a golden glow
and open it was
purged of hindrance
by the workings of time

So here am I
that golden road
now behind me

Life seems a sand castle
on a castle of sand
with the tide pouring in

It is that last ember
glowing as the fire
goes dark

Tomorrow and tomorrow
beckon from a fabled future
they bid me adieu

I can smell the scent
of decay in this
warm summer's wind
kiss the sweetness of it
on my lips

I do not part willingly
hold out my hand
for every shred of
summer's light

But at the end of it
pack my poor bag
and make a crow's march
home
where I belong

socks, shoes, morning,
                                                “I’m sorry, we don’t believe in ghosts”
work, briefcase, pens, documents,
“I’m sorry, we don’t believe in ghosts”
bus, “I’m sorry,
driver, briefcase, we don’t believe in ghosts.”
taps, brakes, stop, “I’m
                                                stop, stop, sorry,
security guard, elevator, we don’t
floor fifteen, office, believe
briefcase, clasps, in ghosts.”
lunch, small-talk, briefcase, “I’m
                                                gun, registered, sorry, we don’t believe
fifteen floor, in ghosts.”
water-cooler, pulses, torrents, “I’m sorry,
we don’t believe in ghosts” “I’m sorry,
                                                water-cool­er, breathes, trickles, we don’t
fourteenth floor, ceiling, believe in ghosts”
“I’m sorry, we don’t

*** with me is so amazing      
Hey, I’m just Paraphrasing      
However, I was listening to the artist, Rihanna singing this song      
As the song kept plugging along      
Not meaning to come on too strong      
With respect do not get me wrong      
I’ve often wondered, is *** of the body more powerful than *** of the mind      
And no, I do not have a feminist ax to grind      
I will choose my words on this topic and remain kind      
Well, at best that I can      
From my perspective related to this issue between woman and man      
Making love to the female body its ******, it’s pleasurable, and certainly it’s thrilling      
But once nature’s release has been prefilled      
The mind needs a dose of endorphins to be instilled      
Are you still with me on that concept      
I’m speaking for me who needs the combined effect
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
With someone capable of emotional grazing      
Blind dates, we talk about our passions or dreams      
Clothes still on, however, he gets what you mean      
Do we take this night one step farther      
We slept together      
Heated and passionate under silk covers, yet, he knew nothing about the weather      
We were definitely birds of a different feather      
His arms were not even that strong      
His brain got duller as the night prolonged
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sometimes is not all about trailblazing      
Computer Dating      
Keyboard translating      
Breathless words of debate      
Soulful elate      
No physical contact to rate      
But wait      
You can type on computer keys from sunrise to sunset      
If you cannot be bipartisan with words than you can’t articulate      
A break to give since we’ve just met      
Between you and me it’s now mental Russian Roulette      
Spinning my mind landing on red      
Keep your mouth closed as you lay in my bed      
Enticing words danced across my screen      
Pulling me in was all a squandered dream      
We’ll never again experience emotions under the covers      
****** of no analytical bonding from a distance lover      
Once again, a horse of another color 
     
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
In the midst of me praising you as our eyes are glazing      
One night stands      
First of all, you’re taking your life into your own hands      
No commands        
Sedated and scented juices mingling of its passion galore      
Lust filled desires and so much more      
No demands      
Talking on the go, and making no sense, well I be ****      
What a waste of a slam bam and thank you ma’am      
Mental *** on the brain I know it may sound insane      
But my God, it makes me rain      
Intellectual simulations have always been such a turn on      
Take me to task and then I’m far gone      
Rainbow coalitions      
I do not have any petitions      
Never in favor of anyone’s competitions      
Just me, my words, and I      
Reaching for that academic all time high      
Coming at you as I’m ******* with you      
The next morning, I would have told you a thing or two      
Something old or maybe something new      
It all depends on if I’ve pitied a fool      
Not my game, not in my arms      
Not fooled by undercover charms      
Capture my mind until the ringing of my alarm      
Wow, did we really just talk all night long      
Arms were very strong, your mind kept me warm while we discussed society’s storms      
One night stands      
Never with an intelligent man      
He needs a briefcase or a blueprint plan      
He could execute with his own mind      
On his own time      
Using his own dime      
Then he’s ready for my mind      
No prophylactics needed      
Once you gyrate my mind you’ve succeeded      
Feeding me words from the depths of your cerebral cortex to the powers that be      
Lightening my mind up like a Christmas tree      
Now you got me down on my knees      
Thanking you, as I please      
Was it good for you as it was for me
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Mind now resting in a dreamy phase, body has now been thoroughly praised      
Here comes the aftermath of sweet melodies to conversations      
Moaning out all kinds of pronunciations      
Affirmations      
Aspirations      
French words with exclamations      
Giving me perceptual palpitations      
From the knowledge of head ministrations      
Climbing the psychological throne once again      
While whispering words in my ear as my mind adheres      
Once mental energy has been locked in      
Slow dancing, and then a thrusting rush as we begin      
Words of revelations      
Taking my mind beyond the constellations      
To the height of my glorious crown      
I’ve created, rested, and now the essence of my intellect is winding down      
Mental capacity has once again been meticulously interrogated      
Hearts of the minds now segregated  
    
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sweet words whispered to your male ego, minds blazing        
Perceptual notations moving inside of me      
Bending me over, as you lick up and down my womanly creed      
A passionate quick kiss as your mind sinks into my intellectual abyss      
From my mind to your fathom lips      
Seductively gyrating my hips      
Raising the nature of your hard ****      
Love and Hugs        
Soft tongue bathing your body, massage oil, and caressing rubs

Quick steps slosh through thick puddles
Pushing forward through the empty, soaking street.
The pressing rain blurs sky and earth;
Air full with pounding, insistent water.

Tugging a soggy gray hood
Further down his dripping forehead,
He checks the time and breaks into a lopsided run,
Briefcase bouncing heavy on tired legs.

It's eight forty three
Running for the eight forty five bus;

It's eight forty four,
Running for the
Crowded board room meetings,
Pressed navy suit jackets, too-tight striped ties;

It's eight forty five,
Sprinting for
Five times breathed office air,
Carpets stained with three am coffee spills.

A strong, outstretched hand
Steadies the man as he rounds a corner,
Propelled straight into the small figure leaping across the sidewalk.
Slowing to step around the boy-

The little boy,
Dancing.
Arms reaching high, face scrunched towards the glowing, falling, sky.
The little boy,
In a blue rain coat and yellow boots;
In the empty
Gray street,
In the pounding morning rain.

Shyly glancing up
Into blank eyes,

Moments

          stretch

                    on the soaking street corner

And the small boy with his yellow boots
And the tall man with his leather briefcase.
The young boy with his tentative smile
The tall man with his tired legs.

Innocence and wonder reflected
Back into the man's eyes
As the briefcase clicked against the pavement,
As a pair of yellow boots squished into soft new mud,

As two heads tilt up to the clouds,
Two pairs of eyes close to the sky.
Sheets of rain slide over two faces,
Over smooth curves and wrinkling paths.

The steady, uneven, rhythm of the raindrops is broken
By the eight forty five bus

By the scrape of the briefcase
On the wet pavement

By the quickly fading footsteps
Disappearing in the rain

And then
Into

A cloud of exhaust

You frighten me.
Plain and simple, I am frightened.
I have a briefcase full of fear,
that I have packed so tight,
that I could not possibly fit one more worry inside.
I think,
that if I tried,
it would burst open and spill all over the ground.
Exposing me again, in ways I've long ignored.

I am afraid you will be fickle,
that you will grow bored with me,
and resign me to a shelf of fond, forgettable, memories.
I am not suited to being a suitor.
I am afraid I will frighten you,
that a certain look or a touch,
will send me screaming and cowering,
and having seen that part of me,
you will turn away.
I am not without such insanity.
I am afraid you will move too quickly,
burn me for warmth,
before finding new kindling,
and leaving me thin and grey like smoke.
I am not a cigarette, nor a burning filter.
I am afraid I will drive you away,
when my heart is heavy,
and my fortunes fall,
and I cannot see the sun for the clouds.
I am not without such storms.

I am not afraid that you will hurt me.
There is no need to fear certainty.
So let me be clear,
you will hurt me.
I am prepared to hurt.
I am a hand that feels the first warmth of spring,
after being clasped in prayer,
after a long winter spent on my knees.
When feeling returns, it hurts.
Always and inevitably.
The hurt is needed to get blood flowing again.
So forgive me, should I call you pins and needles.
However, I am one well acquainted with hurt.

I do not break easily.
But, please, do not take this as an invitation
to bend, spindle, or mutilate.
While my flesh may cover for me,
I carry many scars,
and do not forget them easily.
I do, however, have a profound capacity for forgiveness.
And patience.
And passion.
Even if I forget it at times.
Like I forgot that my heart is made of fire.
Like I forgot that my eyes are full of stars.
Like I forgot that my mind contains multitudes.
Like I forgot that I know how to speak
     with my fingers
              my hips
              my lips
              my tongue
      and my toes.

But you have an art about you.
You are drawing me (closer).
I am drawn.
You are a mystery,
that I promise I will not try to solve,
although I may dismantle the etymology of our conversations.
You are snowflakes on my tongue,
that I want to melt on your inner thigh.
You are delight and delirium,
decadence drizzled down with dew.
You are the roots entwined
in the gaps between your fingers
You are the ocean echoing
inside of your ribcage
(thanks for that one e.e.cummings)
You are my gut screaming at my brain
in gibberish sounds I barely comprehend.
You are a word that almost sounds like home,
a forest, a clear view of the city, a flower, wreathed in flame,
a cat with a story for each life, a joke forgotten, a sigh remembered,
warm hands, milk chocolate, three dances, one just made up,
laughter under teary eyes, *** under starry skies, hamburgers with eggs,
four weeks and three days, or was it nine weeks and five days,
and more and more and more and so much more.

I want you to see that I am full of scripture,
that I burn so God has something to read at night.
I want you to kiss me when the lights go out,
and not stop until the candles burn blue.
I want you to look in my eyes, and see
the world as it must look from heaven.
I want you to pull open my ribcage,
and start my heart beating again.
I want you to breathe fire into my lungs,
so I have no choice but to dance, and spit, and shout.
I want you to show me my hands are not for eating ash,
nor my mouth for vomiting ink onto the page.
I want you to see a constellation in my skin,
that you trace until it is tattooed to my bones.
I want you to sing me lullabies at dawn,
after I've been up all night painting the wind.
But I am not one for glorifying forever,
and you are not one for begging promises.
Thus, I am frightened.
             and I am alive.
So please,
stay.

Hovering
Delicately
Gently

Floating above the earth
Calming
Cleansing

A man
In black suit
With briefcase

Walks
Proudly through

A bicycle
A footbridge

All in this moment
Of beauty

She has a place for me in her heart
I've heard the others say the same
Yet I still
May rest my head
Where she would stay
Whilst all the others are long gone
Heart is a heavy word
Reminiscent of stranger times
Comforting to say the least

A shackle and a briefcase
Share her room with me
One wonders if an invitation is real
When not in writing
Enticement is real
As real as flesh and blood
As real as her
Laced ******* with frills
Bluey green
A colour best described as teal
Or was it turquoise?
Though that never mattered
Not important to me
Not a single detail

I told her not to be afraid of living
She said fearlessness is for the dead
I enquired about the living dead
She laughed
We are the only monsters
That feed off of life
We are the only demons
That go bump in the night

She is a goddess
A truly **** mess
I would like to pay homage
To the warmth between her legs
But there are many a pilgrim
And it is well documented that
I hold nothing sacred
Though I do have her favor
For now
Yet my invitation remains unanswered
I never knew a briefcase
Could be so ominous

Though she'll never be my queen
She still ***** me like I'm king

we have everything and we have nothing
and some men do it in churches
and some men do it by tearing butterflies
in half
and some men do it in Palm Springs
laying it into butterblondes
with Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
nothing and everything,
the face melting down to the last puff
in a cellar in Corpus Christi.
there's something for the touts, the nuns,
the grocery clerks and you . . .
something at 8 a.m., something in the library
something in the river,
everything and nothing.
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it --
one
two
three
and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead
meat, its bones against your bones
something and nothing.
it's always early enough to die and
it's always too late,
and the drill of blood in the basin white
it tells you nothing at all
and the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
to dismiss the frost . . .
they tell you nothing at all.

we have everything and we have nothing --
days with glass edges and the impossible stink
of river moss -- worse than ****;
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
****** interest, with as much sense in defeat as
in victory; slow days like mules
******* it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
up a road where a madman sits waiting among
bluejays and wrens netted in and ****** a flakey
grey.
good days too of wine and shouting, fights
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around
your bowels buried in moans,
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
that robbed you.
days when children say funny and brilliant things
like savages trying to send you a message through
their bodies while their bodies are still
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
and down without locks and paychecks and
ideals and possessions and beetle-like
opinions.
days when you can cry all day long in
a green room with the door locked, days
when you can laugh at the breadman
because his legs are too long, days
of looking at hedges . . .

and nothing, and nothing, the days of
the bosses, yellow men
with bad breath and big feet, men
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
as if melody had never been invented, men
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
profit, men with expensive wives they possess
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
or shown-off or to be walled away from
the incompetent, men who'd **** you
because they're crazy and justify it because
it's the law, men who stand in front of
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
men with luxury yachts who can sail around
the world and yet never get out of their vest
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
like slugs, and not as good . . .
and nothing, getting your last paycheck
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
barbershop, at a job you didn't want
anyway.
income tax, sickness, servility, broken
arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing
come out like an old pillow.

we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay --
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all
the ones you thought would never go.

days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don't want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you'll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you'll keep looking
keep looking
******* your ******* little
ah ah   no no   maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.