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It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that ******* drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
did you die,
did you drown yourself?
I heard you looked
pretty and glorious
in your best dress
and with flowers
all ready to meet your Maker;
they tell me it was so beautiful
one could only cry to see you in the water…
did you **** yourself
darling Ophelia
because I told you to go join a nunnery?
did you think
your love’s words
meant a nunnery is the same as death
and so honored mad Hamlet’s words that way?
you could have chosen a drier type of death,
you know – though death by drowning,
dearest Ophelia,
dying in a stream and being wet
you save the living the trouble of washing you…
did you die, did you drown
darling Ophelia
Poor, poor Hamlet is gone mad…?
There is nothing left when a noble soul
goes insane…
did you die,
did you drown yourself?
or is that just some new fashion you’ve invented
darling Ophelia
of taking a beauty bath?
Companion picture: Ophelia by John Everett Millais
Recently prolific
Writing reactions

Yeah, not prolific producing babies
or sowing wild oats
Just this unimaginative, pedestrian activity:
Writing reactions
Still prolific at my age….

No, no, no - me no explicit…
don’t have the ***** to be that
but everything is implicit
like if I write about some aspect of life
it’s all there:
the routine, ***, violence, and so on
isn’t everything implicit?

New and popular

how about the
New and Unpopular

OK, I like this guy or gal,
and so I click on LIKE
and the next time I look at it
it says: LIKED
Hey, I still LIKE her!
Look, I still LIKE him!
And why can’t I click on LIKE on my own page?
What’s the matter, can’t I like myself?
Is that a strange notion –
Don’t you guys and gals like yourselves?
Just tongue-in-cheek...
Just for fun…site people don't get upset or worse *******, OK?
There is this idea.
One that lingers through the people it wants to reach.
A concept that wants to grip you.
I attempt to wrap myself around it,
clinging to the lack of clarity.
Hoping for what I want it to be.
It slithers through my fingers
leaving only the residue to show
that I never really had a chance.
You want faith? Then you work for it,”
It said with a thunderous roar.
I hear the words but still don’t comprehend them.
The thought taunts me with its mystery,
I yearn to know it,
feel it.
While it constantly surrounds me,
I can never pull it close.
As figures fade to ghosts
I look towards the sky,
its before I can cage my words
they escape into no man’s land
with this vengeangful cry!
God! why am I the only one who can’t feel you!”
It seems that after
Of words
Hundreds of thousands
Of expressions
My fount has
Dried up
Maybe it’s hormonal…
(cuz this happens)
Maybe I’m depressed… and
Need some ice-cream
(cuz ice-cream always makes things better)
I just don’t feel like writing anything at all…
No thing inspires me
To expound upon it
Can’t even seem to write
A bad poem
Unless I count this one
And I don’t
But I do admit
It is bad
So I will re-start
This bad non-poem
And not talk about
Hormones or depression or ice-cream
(even tho ice-cream always makes things better)
I’ll not expound upon
How I am un-inspired
To ever again
Wax poetic…
But will instead merely query~
Has my fount
Dried up?
I actually sort of enjoyed this...
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