Sweet
take a peek
white beneath
caramel spongy spreadable
peep
sugar sweet
pixie treat
lick the center
preserv-ed member
it's true.
but it's not good for you.

A reflection on his rippled crest
The Moon lays lightly
down upon his chest
she answers him
Paris, on the Jersey shore
distance like Helene lore
Will your ship sail to her then?
Harrowing Hectors have
sent their horses before
and she'll have no more.

he is an ocean
still
silent blue
passion, like undercurrents
striking him through
she would sail over him, in her craft
fragile like a paper boat
a waxen heart temple
afloat
to catch currents in her shafts

her siren call is piercing shrill
the ocean then bends to her will
and then, in waves
as oceans do
it saturates and wets her through
and if cleansed, then stripped
bare and bathed in moonlight kiss...
if she hides it is because
she wanes in waxing love
and to give her silver light
she must appear at night

spin
coptering fall
a nocturnal dance
in poem's thrall
Look up! she sees him now
he wants to catch the moon, somehow
she hides in the sun
when night is done
but she kisses his face at night
kisses it with Lunar light

the curve of her crescent
heavy
present.
in his hands he can sense
the moon has no defense.

I know better than
to test you
Cosmic Man
You read between the lines
just fine
but can you really
read this mind?

If so, you know
what I keep in there
stark
bare
not even a chair
or seat or a throne
to call your Emperial Home

Creations are a *****, I know
and we don't catch on.
Man has always been slow.

But if you condemn me,
then remember who made me
Save a place for me at your Judgement Show
Front row, when it's my time to go

If you're there, that is,
then this game is rigged
and I, no hope to win...
condemned to sin...
Well...
and I'm sure it sticks
in your craw sometimes
to know how lovely
to see how fine
how it can feel Divine
to sin in kind.

Hard walled and
White
ON GUARD against
errant beams of light,
my cubicle is
half my home
but at night.

Memo to Self,
in Memorandum
a small death everyday
to be slave in return for pay
work, ALL work
and no play.

and all the dull boys
Jacks on their hills
work and work to pay the bills
to buy all the right toys
hope to play with the big boys.
and I sit quiet
in a box
I make no noise.

'shhhhhhhhhh'
my machines
hum and whisper
they say 'don't worry sister...
you won't go far'.

I am afraid of your ghost
hiding behind smiles
and stares
hiding everywhere.
I am afraid, it's true
and in a sense
I guess I was afraid of you.
In my mind the knife
the cut
the swipe
the ****** wipe.
boo!
Giest Liebe darling
Does my ghost
frighten you?

I've uncovered you.
discovered the secret room in which you've tossed
your little boy fears and joys
and lust and loss
the shark tank of the subconscious mind
in which your primal fish brain circles circles.

a son
A Sun
(Yes, I see that, too)
and The Mother that holds your hand, and one
one for every age --
a breast to quiet every whimper or rage.
the quiet confidence of knowing
the world
was built for you
just for you
and all around
is your potential reality unfolding
fourth dimensional iterations like collector cards
cowboypolicemankingsoldierboss
Employee of the Month
Nobel Prize Winner...
...PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!
Welcome home
and here's your dinner.

All of it jumbled
stacked precariously among the
love and lust and momentum of
moving from boy into man
and how glorious.

You said to me
"There is more than one way to look at it."

I said,
Indeed.

When she would call, I'd
consult the tea leaves
(was fresh out
of aviary livers)
cross fingers
smile with my words
and brace for...

..well, one never knew
what was coming.

We watched from our corners
from afar
a separating expanse, the static of our own
insecurities.  
I was too lofty...
you, unreachable.
The both of us feeling
something lost.

purveyors of manufactured

kitsch

reminiscent of

plaster wall pool hall pastime bulls

eye

plastered

America’s

got stars

stripes

corncob pipes in

straight

lines and circles within circles
within

I’s

Jasper laid himself down on the plains of canvas in

perpetual concentrics

perpetuating eccentric eclectic economics of

subcutaneous pricetag politics.

bull’s

eyes on the prize of a new American dream

a dream deferred and defined

in straight and curved

lines.

Precarious eggs on crooked roads that lead from

The clavicle cleft

of triangle bends and

breaks

Into flesh.

Weighty heads toppling over from

Too much weeping against war

Melancholy Amadeo

mustered from angles and refracted light

The rose blossoms of a youthful cheek

And from cheek to chin, sharp angles reflecting fractal transformations

Triangle

Egg

Snake

The sinewy curve of a young woman’s

Nape

And ever so subtle blushes on ***** and face

How do shadows fall

So subtly?

Spare me the sight of your scars
Fault lines torn in flesh
Barbed wire of a biological sort
Raised rivers
Violating your landscape.
The cruelest punishment, helplessness
To watch your perfect form
Distressed

Pressing red pigment
Boldly on those curved slopes
Smile at me again.

Sounds like you
Sounds like your subconscious
Peekaboo
Masochistic
Melodic
Preternatural, true.
Your form is a construct
Consistently mistook
For a word that was given by another
Your mind is cloven
Intrinsically woven
For a thought that was a lover.

Sounds like you
Sounds like an allegoric
Stain glass shoe
Chopped-up slivers of ego goo
Like a small tin cymbal
Ring of truth.