(for erin)

I'm swimming alone in the river of time
Do rondy rondy rondy, do rondy rhyme,
Remember me as the one who swims here,
It's par, silly sage, nose buryin' time.

I must keep swimming to keep my nose even
With a point on the shore that I think must be mine,
I swim and I swim, and I never stop swimming,
Staying abreast of that arbitrary line.

When I swim over towards it, I start drifting back,
It never gets closer when I swim the oblique,
I turn back and swim harder against the strong current
No closer but even with the shoreline I seek.

I want to turn over and float on my back
And drift idly down, feet first in the stream
With my hands intertwined 'neath my head as I aimlessly
Seek circumstances that are more serene.

With my toes I could point and turn this way and that
Watching cloud pictures pass in the heavenly blue.
But wait! There is something I remember from stories
Of a waterfall somewhere. I think that it's true.

The waterfall stories are full of destruction,
Mangled bodies all broken on sharp rocks below,
So, I swim and I swim and I just keep on swimming,
There is nothing else. I have nowhere to go.

I pull at the water, do breaststroke and crawl and
Dog paddle when I'm tired. How I wish I could fly!
I seldom look over at the shore anymore,
It discourages me so much I just want to cry.

I used to swim as fast as I could
But then I would falter, lose all that I gained,
I now take it easy, I know my own limits,
I don't swim with my body, I swim with my brain!

A friend of mine used to swim with me and tell me
She loved me and wanted to always be there,
To challenge, encourage me, touch me and feel me
Splashing ahead with the burdens we'd bear.

But now she's veered off and she swims at a distance;
I can see her struggling like me, even more.
I'm trying to help but I know I can't reach her
Any more than I can reach that far away shore.

Look around! There are so many boats in the water,
I've been in a few but I've always leapt free
When with sad revelation I've found that their heading
Wasn't anywhere near to the port of "point me"

Ah, who's afraid of those waterfalls anyway,
Maybe, like rollercoasters, they're thrilling I'll bet.
We just fear them, avoid them and make up the stories
Because we have never been over one yet.

It's not easy to keep this stuff dry while I'm swimming,
I can't record anymore in the water, as such.
Would somebody please just hand me some goggles,
My eyes hurt from laughing and crying so much.

just in case
you have been waiting,
someday never comes,
it’s always now,
it never changes
from that, so stop
saying it, someday
I’m going to do
this or that,
someday never comes

I await, faithful poets
with upturned face
for a little debris
from outer space
to fall and land
in just the right place
about noon this coming Monday;

please pray, faithful poets
along with me
for this unlikely event
because it really could be;
we’d be shocked for sure
but secretly,
our mourning hearts
would be full of glee;

(now sing the chorus along with me)

Space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready,
Oh, space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready.

you have it right there
in front of you
in your double sink,
you've got the greasy side
where you toss the stuff
in your life that you are
done with, and needs cleaning,
and then you've got the soapy side
where there is real power
in the grease cutting aspects
of your ambition,
your desire, your dreams,
now where did they come from?
Grab a rag!

I have met so many
beautiful devils,
one tried to stab me,
one tried to shoot me,
on stole my heart, and
when I wanted it back,
she took my car; ******

we could be staring
at the ceiling together
lost in wonder; but no worry,
our time will come;
how does one
pop a champagne cork
with decorum?
is there no way
to decompress
such a powerful reality;
what person lives
in such a weak-*** place
as where you need to cook
on med-high? Let us
invite them back
to simmerland,
poor scorchers
of innocent garlic,
their culinary attempts
of bravado
leave a disting-
guishable aroma behind,
their loving search
for the unknown,
that which was not
before but lays ahead,
is testament
to their sincerity
and enthusiasm,
their recipes
a jumble of surmise,
but they always pull it off

I think you are
my last known
viable human
on this network,
if not this planet;
ordinarity has been
displaced with disparity
and a reaching
for a handhold
in the confusion,
are you here now?
I promise not
to disappear into
my illusionary state
if you promise not
to disclose my location

things which came to mind
when I read your poem,
I have been able to
flesh out with imaginative
reality, wrestling your
dilemmas to the floor
and pinning them there
while the poetic referee
pounded the mat, shouting,
and counting to three,
the match is over now,
and you can be free

You looked up
from your poetry reading
and out the window,
and in your mind’s eye
you saw me, standing
at the end of a long pier
where I had just awakened
from a dream about flying,
with a look of wonder
on my face, because I had
never woken up before from
a dream standing up, except
as a small child who had
sleep-walked into his mother’s room.
There was a moon on the lake
and a small rowboat tied to the pier,
and I climbed down into it, and
as I settled into the boat,
the water rippled and
the lower moon began to shimmer.
In a visual way, it was musical
and I hummed along. As I did
the boat began to move with
no apparent means of power,
effortless propulsion just like
the flying in my dream.
All I could do was relax
and see where the boat
was taking me. In the magic
of the moment I stopped humming
and the boat likewise slowed
to a stop. I stood up and dove
over the side, swam under water
for as long as I could hold my breath,
and when I came up, I saw you there
reading, involved with my words
on the page, and I longed to be with you.
You couldn’t see me waving, you only saw
me climb back into the boat, rowing,
parting the water with a soft, diminishing
slap as I disappeared into the distance,
but I rose from the water, flying again,
and come up behind you; you looked away
from the poem, wondering what it all meant
and I put my hands together and pushed
forward with all my will power and
flew into your heart. That is where I am
now, and I intend to stay until you can
break free from your imagined reality
and come into my story with me.

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away;

my thoughts are not words
  that tell you I miss you;
    they are not pictures
    that conjure your beauty;

there is no color, no line
  no meter, or rhyme
    no past and no future
    no increment of time;

my thoughts are feelings:
  needs, pure wanting
    sometimes,
    expressions of longing

that words would fail at,
  and pictures distract from;
    only touches
    would do them justice;

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away.

if you would consider me for a place in the human race, without thought, then perhaps I could be bought, but I ain't cheap, I came here by dubious means, swimming canals, finding shores, you can put water that is about three hundred degrees below zero into a woodstove and it will melt and sing you the hillbilly national anthem, but I, river swimmer, am a threat?

While looting was a
major concern during
the current catastrophe,
I saw the opportunity;
as a murderer and a thief,
I wouldn’t have to creep in
and be discreet anymore,
I could just boldly
walk in and pick anyone out
and take their wallet,
bludgeon them to death,
if I like, and take
all their cash, and leave
them there; unfortunately
I was thwarted again, by
the unfortunate circumstance
of my own demise, this hospital
room, and all these tubes which
connect me to that life I abhorred.

The temperature has
fallen to ten degrees
and I am looking into the
woodstove now, and seeing
how the densest of wooden
logs eventually succumb
to the fire, and watching
a news report of the LA
fire, and remembering when
I lived there, and flipping
over to the president elect’s
dinner with the governors, and
concluding that even the densest
of people will eventually
succumb to the truth, but
there will be unimaginable
losses (does a period go here
or shall I put a semicolon
just in case?)

I like the girls
at the pizza place,
even though they're
not very feminine,
arguing with the cooks,
exchanging insults
with the dishwashers.
Still, they're good to me
and understand.
The waitress said,
wiping her hands
on her flowered apron,
I'd take you home with me."
And even though
she didn't really mean it,
still, it was a nice
thing to say.
I saw you at our ten year
reunion
with that big-mouth
you married
and I tried to be
friendly
but it was hard
with him there.
I hadn't seen you
since the party
when you rode out
of my life
on his back,
him prancing into
the bedroom and
closing the door,
you laughing.
You were so beautiful
that night, though
not very feminine,
drunk and riding piggyback.
I waited until
the party was over
but you never came out.
I told the pizza girls
how much I wanted to tell you
"I love you," but couldn't
with big-mouth there.
They gave me a free cannoli.
They're nice,
but not very
feminine.

I live in the house of peace
where softness reigns, where
the news is watched but easily
ignored, were not stupid, here,
we just choose a different path
where all things don't collide,
and there is a buffer zone
and foam rubber reigns
and we are all trained to
subtly reject all incoming missiles
and fill the world with songs
and what else, whistles

I hear your cries
from far away, your
needs are not unusual
in any way, you rant
and rave and pretend
to propound, but seriously
is your mind still sound?
No worry. Be happy. An
old prophet sang, for you
and for me, and for all
who need to be found.

I am working up
the courage to
face you all again
ever since I laid
myself bare with
my accounting of
how I thought to
survive; by hording
my words while trying
to stay alive, but
it didn’t work, I
almost choked on them,
and now I feel like
they are just going to
spew out of my mouth again,
and shame me as before

everything is shipshape
around here, a place for
everything, and everything
in its place, there is a softening
layer of snow accumulating amid
the falling temperatures, and the
tempest is at rest, there is wood
in the woodstove, and dinner
on the stove; of course, everything
could change dramatically in a
moment, but not likely under a
blanket of snow in the West Virginia
hills, where constancy is preserved
and treasured just for the sake
of everything else.

I want to slip easily
into tomorrow, no
jolting by noisy
garbage trucks, no
disrespectful distribution
of confusion, no snurgling
confusion of words,
as if

there once was a fisherman
who went looking for words,
(he knew exactly how close
the words words and worms was)
so he took grubs; and pushed them
up into an inconspicuous place
where they festered and were
expelled, (completely without grace)
he survived in the end, without
comment, without friend,
but he wandered, and now is here

if you must
just go slide
down that slide
behind you, and
we'll tell the tourguide
you weren't really
there, but if you like
you can choose
this silly aside
and be happy
for no reason
other than to comply

human extraction is when
you pull a person out
of a situation
where they think
they are trapped
and you see them there,
without a clue,
and what else
can you do,
you reach out,
flip some switches,
pull pulleys and shout,
and pretty soon the poor person
previously captive is out,
and you go drink a beer

Hey, I need to talk to you.
Are you cognizant?
I have whisperings and shouts
needs and advice,
your response will suffice
to further your education,
of me and my clan,
and you and your plan
and I promise,
I will always play the poet
as long as I can

When we long,
we know there is more,
something missing
we need to find,
it is the motivation
to move on,
the essence of dissatisfaction,
the beginning of a journey
toward fulfillment,
it is the recognition
of unrest,
the need to discover
missing mysteries
in life.
Longing feels good,
it feels right;
it is the antidote
to complacency
and smug satisfaction.
When we long,
for others,
for something greater,
we reach past our dilemmas
and difficulties
and defeats,
we begin to climb
to higher ground.
Come, long along.

we don’t waste nuthin’
around these parts,
we boil down the bones
and make slaw of the stalks,
we compost the peels,
and crush up the cans,
eat all the leftovers,
chew roots for our hearts;
we do the same with
memories around here,
we forget all the sad times
and concentrate on cheer,
chew bark when we’re aching
and for sadness drink beer,
you may do as you like,
but be sure, if your wasteful,
better not come around here.

Vote for me for poet of the year,
I can make you laugh,
I can make you fear,
I can make you giggle
like a schoolgirl again,
I can give absolution,
I can make you sin,
I can make you sing
with my meter and timing,
or upset your balance
with imperfect rhyming,
I’ll need your vote
at the end of the year
so, I thought I’d better
start asking you here,
vote for me for poet of the year.

a person,
a chameleon,
an adaptee,
the inveterate migrant,
the person who alters himself
to adapt to the local color,
dress, speech, mode,
who invents himself
to be accepted,
to fit in,
to appear at home,
to blend, must
disguise his true self,
and because he can’t
completely, because
his false description
is insufficient
to cover up     
what he was before,   
what life has molded
him into,
the shape,
the flavor,
and smell,
of his combined
historical circumstances
and conceptions
and upbringings,
the slaps
and kisses
and praises
and criticisms of his years,
then he must invent other false
descriptions about his true self
to counter
the imagined
prejudices
of the ones
he is trying to become like,
and all in all
it is lies, lies,
and more lies
and his true self
goes deeper
and further inside
until it nearly
disappears
and can only
be heard crying softly
in the darkness
by the keenest
of friends.

On a tranquil sea, I float,
upon a cloud;
streaming from my mind
are many flowers,
lilies I lay gently
in array, upon the water.
The wind arranges them
in pleasing patterns,
but then, the wind
grows stronger,
and stirs the water
and the flowers
begin to sink.
I reach desperately
for the ones nearest to me
and fall from the cloud,
helplessly into the sea.
Struggling to stay afloat
I sink beneath the waves,
and there, I am floating
with the sunken flowers,
only now there is no surface
I must remain upon

I know how to make yogurt
and kefir and sauerkraut and
pickles, but I have forgotten
how to make love, maybe
you could show me again

I do not want
a single wish granted,
  because if it is
   I will not have
    this exquisite longing
     in my heart
      for you.
It supplies me with
foolish and wonderful dreams,
  life-giving and death-defying hope,
   hearty laughter
    and childlike vision,
      the plotting of courses
       to distant, unreachable
        shores.
I do not want you
to say yes to me,
  and replace these things
   with the difficult drama
    of mundane reality,
     familiarity,
      with all her
       boisterous children.
No pessimist, I, no fatalist,
no hopeless, gutless,
  whining quitter, I bound
   up the stairway of hope
    three steps at a time
     the longing in my heart
      for your love
       invigorating
        my soul.
Remain aloof, and inaccessible,
and let me dream
   my impossible dreams.

imagine that loneliness
has an executive secretary
who works his/her work schedule,
and loneliness forgets
to give her/him
the proper recognition, and
when he/she forgets everything,
loneliness turns up the isolation

-----------------
-----------------
-----------------
----- me ------
-----------------
-----------------
-----------------

I've only just discovered
that I have latent inert
potential merely by
not acting on my
initial instincts, and
using my mind, but
discovering my fingers
and allowing them their
full potential. . .hence
a;lskjf;alskdjf;allsdkjf'ksljf,
ain't it beautiful??

with them I used to see,
now mere images come
to me, in abstract sometimes,
more substantial when I
am staring you right in the face
here I can only suppose

it don't matter whether I click on you or not, I promise to never, ever be your bot, and promise you words with sincere application, and never surrender to mere duplication, except when I'm winging my supplication I'll try to hold true

(later)

this is the shortest joke in history,
only four words, a dialogue,
question and answer period,
an inquiry, a response, and
somehow it gets a laugh,
emma would love it!

look at your clock
and believe it won’t lie,
while others, on the other
side of the world will sigh,
and side with me, I have
recruited them all,
don’t you see, they were all
weary, and forlorn, until I
showed up, with my
happy, my cheer
and my freaking
good luck; so hear
me out, I’ve had
enough psychedelics
for a really good bout
and I won’t shut up
and I won’t (fill in the blank)

fie upon you
my subjects,
you have no idea
what I have done
for you, to bring you
to the brink of wonder.
you are all conclusionless,
while I only, reign in
alcoholic confusion
helpless while spouting
these illusions

long lost lovers
of humanity, why
do you persist, it
has to be painful

or maybe I should
just stand on the thing
I want you to see, and
hail you as you walk by

if I wanted you to see
what I saw, wouldn't it
be better to just point,
rather than conjure a
bunch of flowery language
gibberish that leaves you
wondering who the hell I am

The whippoorwills
are a portent of dawn;
long before sun’s rising
they awaken the
alert ones who
welcome the light,
encourage the morning
with its singing birds
and countless bugs,
enthusiastic for life;
whirlpoolS spin endlessly,
grabbing whatever they can
and swirling it
down into darkness;
whippoorwills are for
the listening ones;
the hum of the freeway
and the buzz of mowers
and trimmers
and blowers and
planes and gulls
is for the others
who swat at ambience,
caught in life’s vortex.

Still ones,
listening ones,
stop the wheel!
Everyone grab a spoke.
Let’s turn the spiral
in the other
direction, let it come
from the center out.

When I went to church
they often sang the
horrified beagle song,
and it made me chuckle
to myself, they sang,
"in my life, lord, be glorified,
beagle horrified, in my life, lord,
beagle horrified today."

for what can compare
with the fanciful
drama of dreamland
where mechanics long for
the rusty old tools
of their past
and swans
larger than life
call to you
with raucous honking
then carry you
to magnificent heights
riding on their
billowing backs
bundled in blankets
of warmth among
the brilliance of stars
and a simple flat tire
results in multiple
tow trucks hauling
each other higher
while troves
of innocent children
explore pristine
mountain towns
in awe of nothing
in search of fun
and happy old ladies
with open purses
provide substance
with pleasure
and the prospect
of gloom
is nowhere
to be seen?

I spent the first half
of my dream
trying to find
the superglue;
finally, I went
to a store
and they only had
eleven tubes
for six dollars.
I couldn’t do it.
I knew I had six tubes
somewhere at home.
Then the clerk
gave me two tubes
she had in her drawer.
At last! I had my superglue.

I spent the second half
of my dream
trying to figure out
what I needed the
superglue for,
and why the neighbor
was driving his truck
in my yard
and who all those
noisy people were
that prevented me
from hearing
what you were
trying to say.

methinks, the would-be poets
have all lost their sense of humor
and are engaged in a tragic struggle
to retain their personal identity,
to keep from falling off some edge,
to decry a most miserable love affair,
to keen coyote-like at a disappearing moon,
to obtain sympathies only available
from other well-meaning sycophants,
and have also lost a certain dignity
that goes with the creative urge, the
willingness to throw off convention, to
explore, to invent situations unreal,
where they are the victors, the
heroes and heroines of a dying literature,
and to laugh out loud at all the circumstances
that have brought them to expose themselves
in such an unseemly manner
I raise a New Year's glass to you all
may you find peace, dignity, purpose
and regard in the coming year, and
overcome the forces of doom

I asked this question of a one armed man,
“Can you plant a seed and make it grow?”
He said, “I really do not think I can.”

The same I asked of another one armed man,
He said he could but half-heartedly did sow;
He never finished with his plan.

The third bragged heartily but never began;
He talked a lot of all the things he’d put in every row,
But in the end, he ran.

The fourth realized it as a good thing to do, and
When he tried, what do you know?
He succeeded and became a better man.

The time in anyone’s life is not a prohibitive span,
To try out things that challenge you to grow;
Be brave, and try to do all the things you can,
And don’t be discouraged when you have to change the plan.

Honestly, I have no
feeling about now
just now, because
I am hiding, I am
not really here,
and time is behind me;
I can be here, silent
forever; but time
likes to creep up,
and when it does,
I kick it back
with my left foot,
and when I'm standing
that takes some practice;
divided right down
the ******* middle
is my mind,
and my balance
eventually always lands
on the gravity

there isn't much
time left, the
round things
are all rolling
down the hill

I keep Hello Poetry
at the bottom of my page
so that when I need to
descend into language
I stop gesticulating
in such awkward
maneuvers, and
start to think