snowflakes spin in the frozen air
the winter sky turns ashen gray
footprints quickly fill with snow
I can almost hear the gentle sound
of your music box beginning to play
sleet clicks and shatters on the windowpane
     and you're eight-hundred miles away

do you know how I long to hold you
to have your kisses warm the night
and your stunning laughter fill my day
no matter how I try, it's hard to know
yeah, it's an awfully heavy load because
     you're eight-hundred miles away

time and distance might conspire
to steal your love away
time is something I just can't fight
nor the fact that you're so far away
when the night wind sighs and there's no one there
it never helps for me to know
     that you're eight-hundred miles away

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

call me

if you have too many thoughts

if you can't sleep

I always think of you

I never sleep

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

God’s flaming muddy puddles wanna smile
but those flickering window flashes lie to me
returning Bible darkness from beaming light

I reach, raising these soiled linen shades
to the pure, blessed tones of the church bell
that claw, tear, but mend—dancing, echoing

exposed, keeping my willing palms on the book
healing emotional knives licking the demon poets
it’s just a dusty Bread Week Sunday, after all

the foggy old *******
with all his naughty noises
and unfinished alley nectar
that relentless cement grind
drifting garbage
aromas pulsing
stench ablaze
****** poisoned crumpled clenched
choked scratched crashed splashed
a parting heartbeat
angelic sweating
all illness forgiven
unconditionally
and finally silence emerges

I write, then
your words appear quickly
almost out of nowhere,
of nowhere that I'm sure,
from no place I'm
certain exists

My handful of shabby
sentences elicit a flood
and your thoughts engulf
me, engage me, suckle
me on hope like a
starving beast

These, our seasons,
always returning to dances
that we know and we do so
unduly well: I will injure
you—without intent—and
you'll withdraw

again,
until next time

It was a fine white linen tablecloth the size of Sevastopol
and I smoothed out the slightest wrinkles one by one, flicking away
tiny—almost imperceptible—crumbs

Front-end loaders delivered the silverware, crate after crate, and
wave upon wave of thundering Chinooks dropped parcels of pleated,
excruciatingly well-starched dinner napkins

An army of kid-gloved waitstaff painstakingly unwrapped a myriad
of fragile place-settings and carefully laid them straight, bristling with
an anticipation heretofore unknown

A steady scarlet stream of hosed fire engines rumbled past to fill each
finely-stemmed water glass around shards of ice chainsawed, ton by ton,
from the diminishing glaciers of Greenland

The steamy aroma of luncheon filled the atmosphere enveloping most
of the entire Eastern seaboard as the sound of tongs metallically clattered
amidst the hiss of the multitudes of grills

All appeared in readiness as I surveyed this near-perfect hall, the size of
Barcelona, and murmuring voices of those waiting mingled with sunlight
passing through the sheer, breezy drapery

I smiled wryly to myself for today I would be supping with those who
have also experienced the loneliness I often feel inside

goodbyes—
there were always goodbyes
and silence
more silence
but always more goodbyes

goodbyes—
ended without an hello
just started
we began again
but always more goodbyes

goodbyes—
ended in our reunions
maybe virtually
perhaps personally
but always more goodbyes

goodbyes—
this time it's goodbye
that just could—
that just might—
that just may—
stick.

and still we touch
like a sensual guess
surprisingly harmful fingers
far too heavy a closeness
anxieties unspoken

uncomfortable night out
street signs and cold burns
a drunk riddled with
people’s cigarettes
and unknown prayers

chemicals and friends
now objectively drinking
our wet suicidal research
every cold sparkling dash
made someone squish

intimacy, desensitized
remembering closeness
we shrug, nickname photos
lonely breaths interacting
no longer dreaming

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

Why?

My, my.

Isn't that
a pertinent
philosophical
question?

sun and demons pour into morning
as I exhale the embers of slumber
my heart's rusted boundaries
trembling, eagerly whispering,
confessing once again a sharp thirst
for the ***** taste of violence

buildings, sidewalks
kitchens, gardens
cigarettes and souls
glorious rage and innocent flesh;
this scarred logic of mine simply
wants to lash out, to harm
and it stinks of insanity

toast and a crisp suit: my disguise
imaginary fantasies, secret and angry
form in this melancholy, useless routine
something is missing— constantly —
but tomorrow may deal me
a more hopeful hand

these perpetual winters end
in stark February glimmers
bringing incomplete spring gardens
moss, violets and waterfall spray
bathed in deafening indifference to me
here I find a calming refuge
Lord, grant me tender isolation

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

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?

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

I can still feel your fists on me
beating me, pounding on my chest
screaming until you collapse into my arms
and the violence
dissolves into tears

I can still feel those tears on me
wetting me, falling to my skin
crying until, at last through swollen eyes,
you can see I know the
pain of all your fears

I can still feel your lips on me
tenderly, your touch upon my skin
warming me like the sun heats the rocks
dancing as I feel
your soft caress

a touch of your passion
what I seem to require
a touch of your passion
the intensity of love
that evokes
my desire

we sadly haven't drowned our blues
like fragile creatures, the snake drained
yeah, we weave a troubled escape
out of someone else's everlasting bruises

our romance worships forgotten letters
seemingly locked in imagined contact
a prayer drum’s darkened destination
caring aching crying, but changing entirely

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

face and hands of an angel
surrounded in black
beneath your umbrella burns
a cigarette ash
the roadies all working, rain
flows cross the stage
in the twilight of the mountains
are you showing your age?

Big Star, do you
do you remember the times
when you did your own sound checks
and you didn't mind
tuning your Martin and
testing the mike
and you almost felt like
a big star

a lone girl in the rainfall
at the foot of the stage
in her eyes burns the fire
you once had at her age
she opened her act long
before all the stars
and she stares up and dreams
that she might go just as far

so, Little Star, don't you let
that fire go out
keep writing and playing and
traveling about
there was a time when that Big Star
once stood in your shoes
and remembers the years she spent
paying her dues

and, Big Star, please glance past
the glare of the lights
you might see someone who
someday just might
be standing in her own Big Star shoes—
an overnight sensation
many years in the making
riding the buses and
enduring the same frustration as you—
all to become a big star
just like you

a tough emptiness
reflecting yesterday
and a bedroom display

fallen rhymes,
fashions drenched
in a shock season

trapped and choking
bright pop feathers
shattered *******

biting sister voices
of candy compassion
and loving destruction

surrounding skin with
exact negative cuts
and positive kills

destroying warm daddy,
yearning for mommy
privately bruised

jaws smiling forgiveness
spreading ****** tales of
powerful emotion

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

Oh, listen —
and forget forever
we’ll wink at wonders
giggle near hopeful windows
carrying falling light and
in recovery, devouring the air

Oh, listen —
papers so lean at midnight
messages of delight without strokes
open and trying insatiably
soaring—with courageous flex—they break!
now behind us, burning water

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

I sip my morning coffee
and you open a bottle of Coke
I give you a little kiss, but I wonder
if there's really any hope
You listen to me slurp
while I listen to you burp
Sometimes I have to wonder
if we can ever make it work
'cause I'm a cup of coffee guy
and you're a bottle of Coke

You've never seen a Western
Where's your streaming service hide 'em?
Those biopics about Russian aristocracy
won't be suggested right beside them
You order pretzels at the theater, baby
and I get Junior Mints
Do you think that maybe we both
should be picking up these hints?
You're a cheesy pretzel girl at the movies
and I'm just the Junior Mints

How I can watch a title fight
you find completely incomprehensible
But as you know little about boxing, your
position's a little less than defensible
You don't know the rope-a-dope
but I'll admit I don't watch daytime soaps
and I don't criticize them because
do I watch 'em?  Nope.
I'm a nighttime rope-a-dope kind of guy
and you're the daytime soaps

I'm just a battered old paper cup of take-out coffee
girl, and you're a refreshing... curvy... glistening...
completely and wholly satisfying...
bottle of Coke

Masculinity is pervasively formulaic
and just a bull in the forest to me
Women are far more genuinely human
and breathe comparably better air

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

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

cut yourself free
it would behoove you completely
it would allow you better than
this rather difficult life

cut yourself free
for you haven’t ever controlled
your bitter frozen little world—
something prevents you

cut yourself free

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

difficult letters remain
a packed drawer overflowing
not with photography, but
kept in place by written
words, keen right through your chest;
oh, once we exchanged enjoyment
but now these treasures twist our hearts
like the blessed will of God

Drive
Someday alive
Someday I’ll find terrific
     love, crap, courage
even though
even though
     Could have
         used a Human author
who understands Poetry crap stuff
Could have used a Human author
    who understands Poetry crap stuff
Driving alone,
    confused
Someone called
    the words
          Someone didn’t call you
Someday
happily becoming
    a used Human author
          understanding Poetry crap stuff
Drive:
    first Pretty Big nice flower arrangement
Drive:
    first Pretty Big nice funny arrangements
Someday alive
    someday, Friends, available
             finding terrific love
Absolutely we could have used a Human author
    who understands Poetry
Absolutely I could have used a Human author
    understanding Poetry crap stuff
Fall
      day,
Keep
      reading
Find
terrific
love:

      Drive

3/5.
Gail:
looks at speaker
expressionless
unmoving

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.

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.

3/12.
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.

3/14.
no gail

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.

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).

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

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

4/16.
No Scott.

empty, obsessive longing
              profound

faded, naked pain
              glorious

benevolent ashes
              surrender

an ineffably flawed fool
              still

trembling, once-shattered bones
              rise

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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