bring our lost hearts back
not to analyze again what must have passed
but to chance forgiveness

souls condemned to remember
everything, sadly, regardless of a torture
perhaps now diluted

no, forget this cruel lot between us
lost, cursed, judgment without friendship
and, unfortunately, without sleep

I hedge, contemplating—
a sweating sky appeared to will us on
heating our loyalty, ensuring friendship
after my departure, remembering
our effort, given dearly
pruning

in the future, plant the dead
there; plant passed sections of
time, and the complications that came
of any blend of love in which I fell
wondering, myself, deeply
pruning

toiling without reluctance
once envelopes saw to my habit
cold days, old fears, and limp problems
all the mistakes of upcoming years
have hastened this day
pruning

drifting issues, written away
the fitting demise of a period spent
waiting angrily earnestly suddenly guiltily;
summers, memories from a younger start,
some still halfway in sunshine
pruning

consider, therefore, this case
something finished: the perfect mistake
feeling like the wind swept in unashamed
entangled relationships, waiting afresh;
however, I hedge, suddenly
pruning

one-thousand tiny footsteps
trembling, bleeding, cracked and sore
dinted by a veiled and pallid marble princess
listening to a long-shattered voice

a broken innocence grows
amid years of silent birds pretending,
wordlessly, revealing fleeting green memories
hungry and helplessly hopeless angels

during bleak and violent winters
a lonely twilight shadow dreams of escape
soft prayers fancifully catching late night flights
into tomorrow morning's perfect arms

no innocence pursues reward
and, once satisfied of esteem's pursuit,
it will certainly sacrifice
its inferior wisdom

nothing of pompous dignity becomes
great, no noble integrity, but it surely
brings knavish adoration which
changes its possessors much

rogues and virtue, since deceived,
fear all—unconcerned with pain themselves
never is happiness easily learned, nor
things of such a present wisdom

nervously knowing,
remembering the reasons
our cruel ghosts do not pass completely
because they reveal something of lost hearts,
something of all the feelings you brought,
friendship to a weathered soul

condemned people,
we curse these anonymous ghosts
always so dilute and cruel, yet again
they must be revealed: friendship, always second,
our condemned hearts nervously analyzing
these losses that must be forgotten

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it was a wandering chance
personal, about a touch
an envious touch
she looked outward but
the response was from within
already found in herself
kind and wrong, it had
all been deeply received

locusts ring, the evening's damp
the moist grass bleeds in stillness
the moon remembers what it's seen
and all the things that might have been
your silence comes back all too soon
and suddenly it goes

rousing the air, a ceiling fan
curtains stir an evening mood
the quiet takes me back again
to all the things that might have been
but your silence comes back all too soon
beneath this sky and vacant moon
as I resurrect familiar tunes
and suddenly you go

my own simple art:
I, myself, destroying kisses,
conversation, *******, thoughts
and promises built to make history

fed on cold satisfaction
gorged and happy (oh, what *******!)
I, myself, do without relationships
and ache without these things

Florida was warm to her in the morning
the conversation skipped, false reason
called to her, almost got her, pulling her
loving heart around for a mere beat

she once was living by half, not often
by love, and she slipped out of it all so smoothly
out of her cell, creeping out, to be again

the city was telling her, in short, it knew
of the weathered arms that she had once amazed
still clutching once-fresh words grown blue

Florida was soft to her in the morning—
and she was!—a woman for whom you would
wait for three minutes or three hours
for three weeks or three long years

Freaks:
perceive its
inherent meaning—
societally or personally—
depicted as aberrant;
amid deviant imagery
works individual fear

Freaks:
riven tableaux;
shards and flawed objects
poster children of abnormal
creation, amusingly ******
sideshow tattoos shared
freely among their own

Freaks:
characters sell
self-loathing as humor
without any constraint
singularly populating
deep-rooted circuses
like lines in their Bibles

bound, dark birds cannot speak
or move, but are mated together,
wounded, yet glowing still within;
memory finds forgiveness, child,
in each cherished haven lost

only the blessed have been lovers;
without someone to listen, unheard,
real shelter and warmth, yet ungiven;
relentless endings and losses beget
new voices rich in mourning

my instincts realized you
my movements craved hours
because time, more than pleasure
intertwined with you, your rapture
feeding on my desire
my delight

duvets imprisoned us
dreaming then: sweaty, satisfied
glad you slaughtered me, not the bed
how else to see the situation?
never bothering to
stand all night

accentuated pleasure; wishing
never to awaken, never to exist
you drowned me and dominated me
left me all square from my body
increasingly vulnerable, alone
as free as sleep

cocoons as windows
disguised as tea, disguised as silk
that protective solid, a one-way order
no outside touch

outside, morning
organs *****, larval, the sticky crevice
recalled from leafy fluids
making sin from sin

corroded sins
untouched, unwatched, remain concealed
remain in another forgotten cocoon
yet they still yield silk

another silk
of morning sweaters, coarctate, twig solid
offering cocoons of another casing
another skin, another order

resisting order, reminiscent
hard, evolving, exarate, growing teeth
to touch and tear at exoskeletons
another fluid appetite

cocoons and fluids
the remains of caterpillars and wings
every secret allowed, accumulating effort
and one-way mourning

morning as a window
mesh-like, yet opaque, and exquisitely final
morning: everything to the cocoon!
I facilitate my order

patience eclipses, with thievish grace
love being too much in my care

any progress wants art, colour, bravery
locked in disdainful eternity

no cunning, no colour, little breath
I am ill-used, fully, simply desiring sleep

images and quotes
I will share with you, at last
at least for me, at last for me
at least, at last, for me

I will express myself to you
just for me, and that's the benefit
for me, at least, right now
at least, at last, for me

I will express myself to hurt you
my words and memory to hurt you
I will share my thoughts, share
all of them, at last, for me

Lastly will I share, at least,
my pain with you, and then, for me,
I will share the slippery things
for me, at least, at last for me
at least, at last, for me

other clocks, there are,
living through nature
depending on fixed rotations
working in time and sense
segmented, experienced
forming a continued understanding—
a different timekeeping


people do think
speculate, order the intuitive
hold to their understandings
successful and precise
keeping time enslaved in minutes
controlled and grown into hours
and days, navigated within


abundant rhythms
when overlapped in natural ways
house landscapes and observations
in well-kept gardens
a careful harvest
working together in fields
as servants watch


a sense, a time
befitting such gardens
a sense of clocks, inexact
a completely different literacy
the particular clock-time being provided
through a framework overseen
by these plants and water

sensational dark eyes
and your smooth scent
behind cool, twisted silk
palpably warm pressures
struggling hypnotically across
bedroom walls and blurred wrists
lips glow silently, close in the dark
ridges flicker across edges of umber
shadows test the viscous, paraffin light
against my throat, your smooth scent and
sensational dark eyes

shouldn’t a graveyard,
awaiting our most fearful memories, embalm
all that may necessarily bloom?

in that cemetery, never spoken
all becomes flawed and slippery memory
with hope poisoning the vines

find these buried roses waiting
necessarily venomous, always waiting
reckoning with the chaos

buried wholly, suspended perfectly
seldom deemed worthy, seldom betaken
now signifying nothing

I hear the past
laughing
calling
sobbing
and crawling
back on its filthy hands and knees
begging to get back in
clawing to get back in
crying out loudly
howling, chafing and aching
to get back in

they really aren't pieces of any one quilt
regarding one person, say, quite content,
easily content, actually and entirely sure
that certain novel thoughts might be
the diverse scraps of one of us—
perhaps they can comprise us yet

comprehend the larger totality, dear
little value lies in discrete images seen
in a lambent world, contriving to enlarge you,
please you, as if that would interest anyone—
well, there might still be a few—in a strange art
borne far too long, too much of it in pieces

*******, myself
I choose ******* myself
many small ******* to keep
that feeling of something engorged
always for myself

seminal pleasures gained
in each pocket used, spectral, every turn
touch memories and pieces of feelings
without destroying me, or
seemingly so

*******.
I think I still ache simply because
I'm always keeping someone, myself
in every other pocket, every outlet
fed with blue contrivance

precious kisses
hungry kisses aching for someone
to touch this last torn and weary pocket, trying
the warmth of my skin, something so easy
soothing the cool segments inside

someone asking for art
studying art, feeling art, then doing art
wanting, choosing, and finally clutching
this one last small myth
of who I am

where are your words
where are your words
where are your words now
poet?

into wordless work falls
one's soul—and I panic!
will I awaken God
in this quiet of years
that still deafens like a wall?
will I learn by His seventh word?
for you, by you
good fruit was raised
in our own garden
quiet and strong
gathered, rooted
in the golden summer air
whose breath told of hours, of days
of far richer poetry

trees die, however
like lovers and myself
speaking often of tears
yet never any face
giving over a once-nourished world
to hushed laughter
our world—spent—
we now groan
and meet the changes
with neither peace nor trust
just seasons
grasses and farewells
the wakes of ghosts exposed
by fertile reason

penetrate long distressed flesh
and restless darkness
enmeshed layers still cloaked
in our voracious fantasy

merging acute thirsts, covert
flowers, veiled hungers
remembering breathless caresses
moons, costumes and lies

tender thoughts, like silent paintings
of hoary smoke and love
disappear beneath savage absolution
and the keenest doubt

fear and rearranged writing
committed, disgusting drinking
holding, expecting, waiting
even now, buried like
a promise in a graveyard
chaotic with my roses
reckoning nothing but
poisonous hopes and anger

drunks and women, napkins and pencils
remote bartenders unscrewing rivers of cheap grape
blue moonlight cafés, bars and broken windows

a pretty waitress and coffee, ashes and fear
aging liquor, layers of dust, and a little ***** beer
lonely shifting curtains and my own used bed

crackling radio and comfortless poetic ***
these naked fingernails sneaking into dry pockets
cigarettes, sadness, and a cold wet towel

pouring water in the desert

blue from lack of air—my heart

collapsed under all the wait

now I see everything again

Somehow people could grow and go

and move happily among inspiring college friends

Literature, professors, winter love, everyone’s camaraderie—

sometimes wondering to myself if I really belonged


Now I'm feeling like becoming

the same person I was on campus, being the same again

Would that be a fine change to close out my life?

Then would I have to think anymore?

You say you don't want to nag
but I really think you do, Mom
You've always tried to live my life for me
My college days have come and gone so quickly
and now it's time for you
to set me free

Mistakes were something you just
never could accept, Mom
from my father, or my brother, or from me
Sometimes you made my life a living hell, Mom
but that's something you would never
let yourself see

   And now the time is drawing near
   for me to go away
   I really hope I'll find myself
   missing you
   But I'm so weary of being seen and never heard, Mom
   now it's time for me to start a life
   without you

Did you know I always needed your affection?
Do you know what it always
would have meant to me?
I thought I'd get it if I could reach perfection
and I walked through hell before
I found it couldn't be

Well, I guess your mistakes were
always made out of love, Mom
I can't believe you really meant to hurt me
and it's sad that you never really knew you did
Still, I just always wanted your love, Mom
not your sympathy

   And now the time is drawing near
   for me to go away
   I really hope I'll find myself
   missing you
   But I'm so weary of being seen and never heard, Mom
   now it's time for me to start a life
   without you

I learn so much just watching your fingers
       move along those strings
       so quickly, so gracefully
       from note to note
I try to follow while my clumsy hands
       struggle to keep pace
       from fret to fret
       I suffer, but you smile at me

Your shining nails will
flash along that violin
anticipation rises as I wait
for you to begin
Well, I might be in the wrong time
and I may be a measure behind
but I look for the confidence I find
       in your blue eyes

You give so much, I see it in the faces
       of those you have touched
       would it help you to know
       you've also been touching me?
So play your songs, those simple melodies
       late here in the afternoon
       can't you see just what it is
       you do for me?

Your shining nails will
flash along that violin
anticipation rises as I wait
for you to begin
Well, I might be in the wrong time
and I may be a measure behind
still I look for the confidence I find
       in your blue eyes

you lie sleeping as I watch
waiting for you to awaken
gazing upon your skin, your hair
as you gently wet your lips
with just the tip of your tongue

bedclothes slowly rise and fall
as you draw sleep's shallow breaths
and send them softly whispering
through the dim morning light
your fingers gently flex

subtle movements drift across your face
I want you to return to me
to see you react upon awakening
finding me so near
your eyelids quickly flutter

My lips brush lightly against your hair
I linger lazily on its scent
as your eyes begin to open, I wonder
what will I see in them
and what will you see in mine?

when numbs the autumn wind
I panic, dear
and see the changing light
of pastures and riven houses

solitude meets me yet again
moments change
I change, I without nerve
who once might have onward leapt

but you, entranced
you, who cannot ever be patient
ever longing to meet
now, as in our first garden

flowers, sunbeams, trees
nourished by light and passion
once housed in exaltation
now inert in landlocked slumber

they became an unchanging place
that fits not so easily these days
where time, in its patient receptacle
learns to wait

and wept no shadow flowers
when all burst autumn
the course of nature changes,
flux enough to burst the waters

and wept no shadow flowers
all becoming, then, light
within this garden of colours
rich with the hills' laughter

those hills, that laughter
that world, recalled like a baby
lying still beneath the trees
without any summer

4/16.
No Scott.

3/26.
Gail:
Still the same;
caught her noting something
about either
Theresa or
Mary.

3/14.
no gail

3/24.
Tapping her foot
while doing her
worksheet: "Value Traits."
Staring off into space
because she is done.
Looks at speaker sometimes.
Distant
(eyes don't seem focused).

3/5.
Gail:
looks at speaker
expressionless
unmoving

3/12.
Fiddles with ring --
Taking notes underneath
her notebook today
like crazy --
Is not in her
standard body position --
Not watching speakers today --
Waves her hands when she speaks --
Rolls her finger --
Not staring today --
She smiled.

3/10.
Looks around very little.
Moves very little, maybe
just to scratch or stretch.
Looks at speaker without
changing expression
ever.
Usually returns to same body
position started at several times
during class.
Every day
so far.

3/21.
Smiling
Fiddling with her pen!
(as it lay on her notebook)
Always sits with ankles crossed
She stretches!
Eyes dart
head turns
and always faces the speaker
and for the most part watches
the speaker's face but
her eyes still dart around.

4/21.
Watching others take notes.
Staring into space.
Looks at the speaker if he or she
   is in a comfortable line of sight.
Averts his eyes away from the person
   he's speaking to at first.
Doodles.

4/14:
Taking notes;
Contributed to class;
Playing with pen;
Pen in his mouth
(in the corner);
Feet flat on floor;
Leans on his elbow;
Bounces pen off the side of his face;
Appeared to doodle briefly at points

Why?

My, my.

Isn't that
a pertinent
philosophical
question?

Boredom sits
heavily on our
heads.  I've never
seen so many blank
faces in my life.
He goes on and on
and on and on,
gesticulating,
describing, hopping
from one example
to the next:
"I died in a
complex society!"

I face this gray and solemn light
but still I live, with all my might
And when the days turn long and bright
I think that I would find it nice

I hate this season’s crystal hand
baring trees and freezing land
To have someone who understands
I think that I would find it nice

I track the slippery streets alone
Hope for hope, but I find none
I pray aloud that she’ll come home
I know she’d ease this grip of ice

And I think that I would find it nice

empty, obsessive longing
              profound

faded, naked pain
              glorious

benevolent ashes
              surrender

an ineffably flawed fool
              still

trembling, once-shattered bones
              rise

Frightened and confused
perhaps happily alive

Hell has a history written by the author
of this awful game

And while poetry laughs at our troubles
it tries to understand

I'm just a ruddy human, God
****, ******, **** it

****!