I'm standing close by a river of rhyme,
where words cascade, in endless pantomime,
each line is a ripple, on the rugose water's crest,
but the chaotic current seems a randomized mess.

I see waves of words riding swells of sonnet,
into concrete verse, only to crash upon it.
There are dark plaintive whirlpools of elegy
and swirling haikus kissing off sharp envoi.

This river of rhyme could wash me away,
with its desperate currents of poetic dismay.
Its sensual verses can become a toxic wine,
oh, God, don’t let me drown in the river of rhyme.

I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.

It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.

The boy could run
but he couldn't walk
Had no time to think
No room to talk
Passed by more people
than he ever helped
Never knew anything
except for what he felt
But one thing good
we can say about the man
is that he's long gone now
and, here, we all stand

Just a dose of nanites
Neural pattern alight
Optic nerve, perfect sight
Lightning strike down my spine
New image, cultured design
Reverberations through my body and mind
Recall undeterred, I feel it all
And at the same time absolutely nothing
The emptiness of perfection, absent flaws
The bore of excellence
Is the struggle forgotten

To no avail

you left your blueish dress
twisted by the pool’s edge
like a cold monument
to every single misstep
and my heart is overwhelmed
with visions of a dancing grave

via crucis in the morning
carry me to our palisade
while these tiny arcs of light
leave my eyes, breaking easily
and your voice keeps me awake
i believe that i need this

you were wrong
i am nothing
but one more familiar face
amid the pageantry

What’s this glaze
over my eyes…

A heavy mist
with fingers…
that lingers.
A cataract that
dives and claws
into the black
of irises.

A film,
a veil,
a canvas botched
and vandalised
with arguing paints.
And indelible black
that sings of sadness,
highlights the aches
of dejection
and screams
betrayal.

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013

I kept running
through the wilderness,
day after desperate day,
Sometimes I saw
the scenery -
Most times I
was too afraid
Sometimes I felt loved
but then I cringed and
it flew away
But mostly I kept running
day after desperate day

I kept running through
the wilderness,
On passed the concrete grid -
into foreign lands
where no one knew the
things I did
If anyone ever misses me
I'm right here for them to find
In the wilderness just a mile
or two outside my stable mind