Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.

I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.

I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say

What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery

When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since

How pretentious can be the silence
in the mornings of the hot summer days!
I felt nothing no more, for patience
is not limited to formal love and it says:

It was just me. The rest of the world delivers
heavy waves stumbling against my wall,
trying to set right the serpentined rivers
of crying, flowing on my crusty skin of a wooden doll.

The Sun, a dragon that throws flames on his nose,
the Wind, too coward to show his refreshing face,
the Sky, discolored in the distance, it froze,
just the Moon closed his eyes, leaving no trace .

Me and I, were not well together,
but I have found the power to listen to myself,
sipping the sweet-bitter coffee, feeling a bit better,
I was learning again to live, to be an other self.

I knew that one day the blank pages will be coloured,
That the ink stains of my soul will disappear,
That I will forget about the storm that is uncovered,
the call of love will be on my side, without shedding no tear.

I knew that butterflies melody I would hear soon,
Birds chattering happy over the green forest,
That I will never hear poor souls screaming in the noon,
That all this will be simple memories on my wrist.

Now I extinguish my thirst with accords of violin,
Mistrust has deserted from my sleepless earth,
Regrets have become sad songs of flowers on my skin,
In the breeze of the morning, forgetting my wound's birth.

I'm a boy made out of wood
And with you I know I could
Be painted better than I am now
To befriend an artist like you somehow
My hair and shoes are made of clay
Molded carelessly, messy, you'd say
Fix me, bend me, make me new
But please don't make me into you
Someone made me, someone great
But made of wood, I know my fate
Will be met in a fire, so easy to catch
For I know I'll fall in love with a match.

If you build a wooden statue of my father,
I will break it down to pieces to build a home
and light a fire to warm my freezing wife.

If you leave food offerings for my mother,
I will collect and cook them to provide a feast
that will feed my hungry son.

If you commemorate a pond for my ancestors,
I will draw multiple buckets to cleanse wounds
and offer water to my thirsty daughter.

If you ***** a golden statue in my memory,
I will instruct my predecessors to smelt me down
into small pieces and spread wealth to my family.

If you wish to remember good souls and actions,
celebrate them by giving to those in need.

the 3pm sun is streaming through
the window with
glued-on paper flakes
illuminating the furniture
casting dark shadows
against light wood
and i'm tasting snow
on my tongue
and thinking that this
feels like freedom

A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.

Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?  

So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.

Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.

No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.  

*March,  2007

Anguished lavish
laureates has driven
me slightly mad

tangerine lemon rounds

Erudites of oolong parties
flying on the wreckages
of forgotten sideral castles

ice cubes crushed in the psychadelia

Nuances of never tomorrows,
slicky dew drops
glistening
jadded wells of deep thoughts
callin'
green algae lakes
emerging

Pale planes oozing
silvery Neptune forks
n'waves flyin'from above

witchery wands in love with wondrous comets

Thou sparkling dispersive
master machine mind
feedin' on
oak wooden spoons
tightly, tenderly
sippin'
magnified tinder
from thy glances

daemons of thy unconsciousness breathing

me *******
flow and ebb
thou chest ebb
and flows

bonvivants bountyful beams

The inflamable black
powder burnin'
to take off
like a swift rocket
like a swell day's
endless delight

The gold
The pink
The brave new horizons

Openin' grunges and volcanic
desires
pinnin' lovers, gluein' them to-
gether in a desperate gloom
of unforgiven erotica

And The Poems
who make you tremble
as a luscious cream on the top
of Thou Vicious Beauty

*fenderstrater jaguars silent roar

the damage
has already
    been done
by the time
  brass tacks
rise to
  the surface,
and all the pretty
maidens are stacked
   like Russian wooden
       nesting dolls,*
in an insatiable
  hunger, yearning
   to possess
     the most toys