I've been through Webster's book and none of this
Is good enough to understand your love,
Which held me close against the wide abyss--
Not cast below or rising up above,
Mortality the cost of tasting bliss,
Eternal mourning of a peace-blue dove.
Your touch is more than I and I deserve;
Your soul is where the goddess finds her nerve.

the muse drops in
on a lazy man,
an easy mark
reclining as a well-fed cat
in a spot of sun
that slants its ways
past the crosses in an old window
stuck shut yet still transparent

How absurd to find myself still,
Despite the years of evidence,
Believing that a word or two,
Spoke plainly on a winter's night,
Could warm your clever, unseen lips,
Just enough to call my name.

your unexpected saving grace
amazes me when i get lost
or find myself in some dark place
despairing at the hellish cost
of temporary residence
clocksprung outside what can't be told
through common words of reverence
by penitents within the fold
i slake my thirst in your embrace
long tested by my ignorance
contrast mere heaven with your face
that weathers pain and happenstance
extends the evening star's delight
that i may yet say one thing right

Sometimes the song comes late at night,
A lazy time surrounded by
The light, when paper's never there
Except an envelope or three
Collecting dust and penalties,
In need of stamps, in need of checks
And when eventually I send,
With interest principally enclosed,
These notes to Citibank I know
They won't be read, the warning says
Do not enclose, and yet I think
This can't be correspondence, no?

Pompeo says just relocate,
Don't fret about the climate change,
The ice and fires that rearrange--
At any rate it's much too late.

Pompeii saw fire come raining down,
The melted earth run through the streets.
But we have new technologies--
They've parked the rockets outside town.

We say the same things, same things that we've said.
I wish our words meant more than words can mean.
So little can be said without the heart
Expanding, fighting, breaking, growing old.

to label it absurd
does not deny
the pleasure of the nerves
that lie in wait
of overflowing presence
pushing words aside
for better witnesses

the sixties ended with a folded flag
handed to my mother's sister
in a family cemetery not far
from where we lived
just down the road
from the baptist church
site of the wedding
six months earlier
the merry month before danny left
for training and his first real job
a full year after walter
gave us news
that this fight
was one that lies
sustained
while boys just out of school
married and shipped out
and came back in pieces

Bad news restocked too soon
For proper recognition,
Much less mourning.
The upper hand, with bullets
To spare,  mad
With opportunity,
Triggers the night,
Mocks The freedom of the day,
Shuts the mouths
Of wide-eyed children.

What if she shows
Again, daughter
Of memory,
Willing,
Insistent,
And I am speechless?

What if she wraps
Her legs
Around my face
And my tongue
Gets caught
In my throat?

What if she lies
To me,
Just slightly
Looking
Over my shoulder,
Or below my eyes?

What if she prefers
Sonnets, to a
Questionable sestina,
Or a good liar
To my reckless
Blurtings?

What if I
Can't take
My time,
Or even begin,
Can't say anything
That even I believe?

What would you do,
If I were you
And nothing
Seemed
To come out right,
Or even clever?

How can I
Sleep, while thinking
She may not return?

The path to paradise is not well worn.
I think I see it, but it's never clear,
Just scratches on a rock or silver streams,
Not deep enough to navigate, so I,
The awkward wader, stir up silt and sing
Off key, a howling animal, unclean.

A broken heart doesn't stop.
It's like she told me;
Some things are worse than death. Yes

This late winter snow,
Upon the yellow jonquils,
Forecasts your return.

if love is in your heart tonight
you'll find my foolish,
                                          failing speech
descending with the falling night,
approaching what cannot be reached

white skin of winter
on my not quite old man legs
tells me i never
understand my brother's pain

Backs leaned against the wall,
Legs akimbo on the concrete walk,
It's colder near the ground--
Any weatherman can tell you that--
And yet you can't stand all night,
And the shelter doesn't like the way you look.

On this cold afternoon,  T.V.
Has ****** & Daytona.  You
And I are close enough you could
Come over, yet I don't guess you
Think that's a good idea, nor
Do  I, but thinking isn't all
We do.  We've lost our instinct
And our earthly home, companion,
Lost the rhythm of the slow dance.
I'm not stopping, not this evening
Or tomorrow, will yet present
Myself, still so lightly adorned
That I have said nothing, nothing
At all by my scant appearance.
Things don't happen for a reason,
Not one we don't invent.  Free will
Is out of fashion.  All the new
Philosophers agree on that,
Though fundamentalists dispute
Among themselves such hardshell creed.
I long to taste your skin again.
Come give me time, bring everything.

the world has been held back
to see the shadows cast
where we might find something
unexpected and yet
useful a dropped gas cap
the thin plank from a fence
a couple of red rocks
to accent the flowers
planted by a lost friend

good pitching beat good hitting
on summer nights when Gibson took the mound
and my heart listened
cotton blanket kicked aside
through one earpiece
plugged in a plastic green transistor
radio, letting in
the world
one pitch at a time

Light rain
All hallows day
An orange-faced angry man
Disintegrates
Tune in

They got pills now that take the place of words
So I'm thinking poetry should give it
Over, being unreliable at
Best and dangerous used as intended.
No quaaludes anymore so that rules out
Ballads, but with serotonin juicers
We could all of us be Rod McKuen.

Then her impending nuptials
Were what derailed our love affair,
As often is the case with fools,
Who don't have sense enough to care
That locks on bars still have a key,
And sentences expire with time,
And locked up gackers get set free
At midnight when the towers chime.
Has time run swift beneath your feet,
Enough to turn your head again--
That sideways glance, the summer heat,
At last the fall come out within,
As you, my love, conspire with Puck,
Goodfellow with a slanted look.

poor white out walking
too much beer and crystal
do cellphones flash like handguns
in the afternoon sun?
five bullets in his neck
grand jury understood
the deputy's decision
knew what the DA wanted
or didn't
the promotion to detective
came sooner
than might have been expected

What's worth remembering
Is hard to say,
Words being less than innocent,
Harder to  avoid than
Disappointment
Or the boneyard
And seldom adequate,
Even when arranged
Carefully,
Like a fresh cut spray
On the remains
Of what was once
Alive.

in this imperfect paradise
strung in between the quiet night
a chiseler in melting ice
ambivalent about the light
goes missing when you look away
while colors change their future

I have seen words leave their shelter,
Get confused in bitter weather,
Call for help and not be heard.
I wouldn't want to be a word.

I've got some pages left to fill,
To speculate upon free will,
Stumbling through philosophy,
I can't be sure that I am me.

Anxiety is evidence,
Strong fear of every consequence.
Perhaps you understand this pain,
I don't believe I've said a thing.

Allow these lines to draw your heart tonight
Away from where it scatters every day.
Observe each scratched & curious black mark,
A cursive incantation, ancient skry--
Almost as if arranged by me or you.

The things we have no use for anymore
line the sidewalk where chalk once marked hopscotch
for days before the rain washed it away.
Back then one night we listened all night long
to Joni Mitchell  and Charlie Mingus,
most likely Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong,
Jimi Hendrix.  Things led to things; we danced,
we drank red wine.  I've known no better time.

Sell the records, the sofa with my long impression.
Give away what doesn't sell.
What I dread is not the night but morning,
coffee in an empty room, black coffee scalding hot. Don't sell the coffee maker.
It's a good one, very hard to replace.

No words engraved in stone or spread on sheets
Can touch the simple sadness of your voice
This last day of December, bittersweet,
Remembering our kisses and your choice,
Conventional but not the love you need--
Too dry, too dry, for one whose lips are moist,
From conversation, sometimes poetry,
From thinking nothing when you lie with me.

I'd like this night shift better
If words were worth your time,
Or I had more command of them--
Enough to move your eyebrows,
Call all your lovers liars,
Convince you I'm your touching stone.

This small town quiet night has left
My mind imagining you free,
The world cracked open at its fault,
Fruit ripe and willing from that tree
That leaves no indication here,
Where traffic is a happenstance
Until you make yourself appear
And I invite your sly advance...
Fresh Eden always ours to test
Against a subtle offering
To be like gods and never rest
And never cease at conjuring.
Come ******* seed in innocence--
Don't look behind for consequence.

How fine would these lines need to be,
To find their way inside your mind,
And move your body southerly?
Could my words even be that kind?
Erato, lend your song to me,
And teach my lips the way to find
My missing lover's broken heart,
To give her back this swollen part.

Come live with me, my naughty love,
If only in a fevered dream.
I'll swan you need a god above
To hear you when you laugh and scream.
So please yourself & picture me,
How perfect was our ecstasy.

to find the finest things things the night
permits needs words & flesh subsumed,
an alchemy of second sight
from chaos yet a smidgen mined
of ecstasy through horror sung,
the pleasure of a mortal realm
where ripe fruit strangely falls unhung,
sweet taste beneath the bitter elm.
whose will can guide the hunter's barge,
forecast his raucous wanderings?
a raven or a dove in charge
of carrion and olive sprigs,
a turkish van set swim for shore,
as black and white as ancient lore

Suppose he's Buddha, or maybe Jesus
Christ, a mendicant testifying here
With his boots off already and I light
An incense stick, he says they're from the same
Factory as Tony Lamas and the
Only difference is the label and the
Sole and he only needs ten bucks to buy
Some food and I say we don't sell used boots,
Nor any kind actually as we're a pipe
And record store, but he has his pants off,
Jeans better than Levi's and just broke in,
He'll throw them in for a dollar or two.
The store next door takes clothes, but only on
Consignment and he needs to eat tonight
Or maybe a bag though he never says
It, I can tell he's low on something bad
To need, so I pass him the sawbuck and
Tell him to keep his bluejeans and put his
Boots back on as he's likely to need them
Where he's going, mention the soup kitchen
Downtown, though I know he's salivating
For a straw, or else a needle.  Someone
Else comes in, looking for Norwegian Wood.

Empty eyes where you
Once reflected all the world
As it existed

It's too fine, with the break in the weather,
This strange humility that's found
Me wanting,  still not knowing where
My mind has been,  or what surrounds
The afternoon, its slow despair
Confounding every effort made
To make amends or clear the air,
In which we each pass too afraid
To use it in the evening damp
When less self-conscious animals
Avoid the halo from the lamp
And touch the night with mating calls.
I'd barter souls,  of heaven blest,
To offer you the morning's crest.

My thoughts of you as I awake
Are not as pure as angels' dreams,
Unless they spent their night on earth,
Carousing at some roadside inn,
Leg wrestling on an unmade bed
To learn the mortal ways of man,
Which gods themselves scarce understand,
Except at certain festivals,
Or on a mission comically
Disguised as fowl or serpentry,
Beguiling those less innocent
Than you, my love, could ever be.
Small wonder that I'm losing sleep,
Imagining myself in deep.

We've outdone Father Abraham
In sacrificing girls and boys;
Along the border, in the wars
That serve no cause but oligarchs,
Who reassign the deity,
Call Moloch to America,
With powder, pills and poverty,
While celebrating liberty.

Don't fault the peasants, red or blue,
Whose votes have been corrected by
The players in the party rooms.
The unwashed--unbrushed teeth on edge-
Come out of hell for processing,
Discover yet another ring.

Culled from
         The Feeling Good Handbook

1.  Anxiety, worry, or fear
2.  Feeling things around you are strange
3.  Feeling detached from your body
4.  Unexpected panic attacks
5.  Apprehension, a sense of doom.
6.  Feeling tense, uptight or on edge
7.  Difficulty concentrating
8.  Racing thoughts, having your mind jump
9.  Frightening fantasies, daydreams
10. Feeling that you're losing control
11. Fears of cracking up or crazy
12. Fears of passing out or fainting
13. Fears of heart attack or dying
14. Concerns about looking foolish
15. Fear of being isolated
16. Criticism, disapproval
17. Fears about something terrible
18. Racing or pounding of the heart
19. Pain, pressure, tightness in the chest
20. Tingling or numbness in the toes
21. A discomfort in the stomach
22. Constipation, diarrhea
23. Restlessness and/or jumpiness
24. Tension, tightness in the muscles
25. A sweating not brought on by heat
26. A lump or tightness in the throat
27. Trembling or shaking legs or hands
28. Rubbery and /or "jelly" legs
29. Feeling dizzy or off balance
30. Choking or difficulty breathing
31. Headaches, pains in the neck or back
32. Discomforting hot flashes, chills
33. Feelin easily exhausted

       All of the above, accounted

on this side of the cross
the shadow moves
with the morning sun
slow motion,
the angle more acute
as the length dissolves.
had we patience,
or set a watch,
midday would bring
a new direction

of all transgressions recognized,
the worst is what misuses most
the power of a lie disguised
as love

I once knew a girl from Kentucky,
Whose husband would not let her f**k me.
He landed in jail,
And could not make bail.
Now all of my friends call me lucky.

When words could help I didn't say enough,
And when you needed silence I was loud.

When flowers turn their faces
From the sun,
Only then
Could I look away
From whatever you are,
To disregard
The blind child's arrow,
The taste
Of your shoulders,
Movement
Of your fingers,
Almost magic.

replacement of the rugged cross
cruel Aires morning fountain pen
not nearing what is truly lost
incomprehensible to men
you might have known the passion spent
if anything is close recalled
no curtain opened only rent
now tracing of the shroud is stalled
while my unlikely mind is wrapped
around the inconsistencies
of ancient echoed thunderclap
disturbing modern witnesses
who made this testimony mine
another hand, forgotten time

From watered seed, who knows what grows,
In fertile, broken soil.  Your choice--
Who coined that pregnant word, and how?
A woman has decisions, yes,
Confusion and a life to live.
Gone past those gates and flaming sword,
Long legacy of guilt and shame,
For those who keep the world alive.

Your lips impress love's mortal claim--
Wild nights, red wine, fellated mind,
Where I have loved you long and hard.
Cold fingers beckon, crow beaks shine,
Confirm the cropper's shadowing,
Dark cloak that augurs closing time.

All words eventually miss
Their mark, so what
I say--no matter
How well said--remains
An insufficient testament
To your embrace.

at seventeen i couldn't wait
to blow this town discover more
the world itself an open door
my innocence an unlocked gate
how anyone explains the time
since then is fine with me tonight
it shouldn't take this long or quite
so many failures underlined
what's done is done the world goes on
its seasons full of reckonings
too powerful for knaves or kings
whose plots are often ****** upon
rock solid etchings stood in rows
as all ambition ebbs and flows

From the garden of Heaven a western breeze
Blows through the leaves of my garden of earth
                                             --Hafiz

Humility comes easier
And easier, accumulates
In the pockets of poverty,
The deep rivers of the heartland,
Where we're told by cashiers to have
A blessed day--sing, count your many--
And it's true as the western breeze,
Where leaves flutter, underrated.

Compassion, in the garden of
Heaven, God's country, flown over
Aside from quick stops to mine votes,
Cannot be regained in this land
By anything less than human,
By any houses not holy.