I was scared, and you were scared,
and you are gone, and I am gone,
but in my heart your ghost remains,
a tiny girl inside my brains,
and she keeps me holdin onto the memory
of you and me

Sometimes I wonder—
Tossing, late nights—
Dark hair, dark eyes
Plainer than real
Printed in bold
On the backs of my eyelids—
Is this torture worth,
Are you really worth—

No! yells my angry
Heart, tired, worn-down,
Hands thrown up
Like Sisyphus’,
If his rock even was
Too heavy at the start

No! And none argues,
Only silence.

Next day you’re there—and
Weakly, No! forfeits
My desperate mind,
No! No! No!
My eyes must second
No! No! No!
My palms will to be dry, for
How could you ever be worth—

Then I catch you—
Smiling, the way you do
When you, and your sparkly little eyes,
And your mischievous dimples
All agree that nobody is looking—
Then, the question stumbles
Unfinished from my lips
And I don’t ******* care

I fall powerless, in love again
Every time you smile

Lazy with the ripples, faster on the bubbles,
Giving here a turn and there a bow
In the mellow summer breeze,
Two greenish-brown, veiny little things
Attached like lovers at the stem
Dance in the pond outside my window

Seeing these, my mind inclines
To follow in their mazy march

First a zig and next a zag; a lazy swooping arc;
A sudden, splendid pirouette, until
They tumble over from so much laughter,
Two young things in spring,
Twisting across the pond a gentle dance
Happily for my welcome distraction

My forlorn books, neglected, wave
Their angry pages in the wind

A sudden gust, a frenzy of turns,
A twirling leap!
Then slowly spinning down, locked in embrace;
Another gust! Skyward once more,
Even higher than before!
And falling finally flat,
Tired from dancing, together, they lie
On a bed of shimmering water

And I, I sigh, and rein my gaze
Upon the books upon the desk.

like the great blue heavens needs a burning sun.
in dark of night I look upon the stars,
twinkle-ers which I love,
awaiting only the creeping-red-feeling:
a brand new sun, and
a new blue sky

come on over to me, little duddee
take-a my hand and we, pretty bunnee
gonna gunna go out and-a see us somethin funny and-a
laugh-a all the scary thing aways

A big strong fisher man hooked a swift little fish
Who never got hooked--
At least, never before--
Tabled her upon one wide palm--

Incredible excitement this, for a one so tough in the taking--
The hardest to catch yearn hard for their catching--
Still, she would not be taken easy--
Squirming, flailing, biting, biting,
Biting the rough skin--

OW OW OW, heard she as flying through the air--
As landing in the water-- she splashed, but did not smile--
Feeling now only loneliness,
Now, the clumsy hook of some lesser fisher man

Teabag tugboat trashbag t bone tebow
*****

n I don't like him

Purple drink;
Gets you purple drunk

I've eaten nothing but juice and ***** today

Spt 5-- domestic dispute inv alcohol + firearms Hawkins Terr. area-- Spt 7-- burglary purses stolen from 3 cars Wipple St-- night of Spt 18-19-- vandals untied shoes of large statue Center Park-- Spt 20-- mugging homeless suspect young woman cheeseburger Rt 8--

fingers graze my neckskin;
i have stolen your electricity.

fwizzb

bounce,

soaring up and down and

bounce,

soaring misdirected

thud**.

tripping, tipping over iron railing:

woosh
          
caught by my tail

left foot, right foot, left, right
eyes over everyone's head, just barely
as cameras explode,
wrapped in someone else's clothes;
he didn't own them, hadn't sewn them
but he made them beautiful

no more

and I can't do this **** the same way anymore,
without his smile on runway-right;
she looks so sad and beautiful, they say

*I can't do this **** anymore

Wrapped in your smile, toes toying at the edge
Where your eyes' soft cloth blankets me,
Blocks the wind, and the cold, red brick below,
I and you, swim silent alone,
Hot and deep in a tiny, bright star,
Until turning you tug at the covers,
Dragging with your eyes this warm world,
And the cold rushes back, and the brick,
And the wind.

Noises from the street carry softly over garden walls,
Of passing cars and passersby, and I wonder;
Do you know, any more than they do,
How the corners of your lips, when they open,
Open not to show rows of white pearl,
But instead to consume my heart?

Angels bowling in heaven*, grandma always said;
I’d nod—it seemed plausible enough for a while,
Til I decided so much bowling sounded more like hell.

When I read stories about aesthetically electric worlds,
Places where everything pops and fizzes
Big giant arcs of radiant, swirling, scintillating *** and color,
With folks wild as devils;
It hurts me to live in no such place.

Walking one day some sidewalk in a downpour,
The gentle kiss of rain on face and hands,
Amidst a million identically imperfect droplets,
I spot one, darling Snowflake in the sky.

Thrusting with my hand I catch the fragile beauty;
Behold her limpid, gleaming crystal form;
Learn in my warm palm her unique glow;
Hope never to take from her my eyes again.

But far too hot with fire was licked my flesh,
Far too bright and burning lamped my gazing eyes—
My tender wet snowflake like a lonesome tear
Left my trembling palm and ran back to the sky.

When even now I walk in gentle rain,
Many years since and many soggy days;
Sometimes my tears will join the falling drops—
How could I love them, after knowing her?

Guys.
Girl by the milk machine

(I’d milk* her machine)

Fat stripes draped over trim curves—
Slats of blue, white, blue, white
Quietly surrendered to slender, silent
Black at middle-thigh; And I –
****!

[Yeah dude her *** is big—
If you’re into that]

Walking in a sloping district
Down an uneventful day,
A fossil rubber round, abandoned,
Found itself amidst our way.

Aha! And with some slight excitement
Set my friend upon the tire,
Upon its side he set the beast
Then rolling, gently let it fly
With just a touch; but balanced well

Despite disuse of many years,
It looked quite ready to revolve;
So natural it seemed to feel
That at this sudden turn of fate
An ancient, sleepy something stirred;

Remembrance of old spinning glories
Drove the hill-tire bottomward and
Building speed now every turn
More reckless, frantic than the last;
All just precaution soonly spurned
The rubber ring was flying fast.

In fact so fast, so far, so straight
Maneuvering the grade until
In happenstance it found a ramp
Some distance further down the hill;
A broken shard of tabletop
Astride some heaped-up garbage leaned,
Served duty fine to sky-ify
The rolling, racing, flighty fiend
And missile-make our eager hero;

Hero though no longer after
Smashing some poor stranger’s glass;
Fighting back our tumult
Quickly ran we for the summit,

Panting, bending at the top,
He turned to me, my friend and said:
*****…they usually stop

If I met you again tomorrow
Knowing you,
I would point to the sun and say:
I drew that for you
see
wrinkled in the rain.
But would you find me strange?

Would you trace love into my palm?
Tug on me to tug on you,
Arms and fingertips, skin and muscles
Made electric elastic between us?

Or would you stand…
Blink…
Awkward…ha ha… smile and
Get the hell out of there?

Quickly too, on bouncy toes
Leaving poor me
No choice but to chase you down,
Squeeze your shoulders and
Show you the future
In my eyes

Progress leaps, amid lulls, for three wed muses:
Innovation, imitation, contest

Imagine, visitor, a vast room full of bits of straight string—
People stand all around, some scratch their heads, none moves,
Until our brave hero approaches slowly one little length,
Gives her a twist, and voila!
A circle.
A room full of straight strings, and one circle.

Seeing, some other soul thinks, aye! Crass,
Wrong, how unperfect!
Makes a circle too, from another pair of ends—
Look, look! He cries, much better!

On and on likewise, go men and strings,
Til not a single straight string remains,
Only circles, and men
Scratching heads, in none the foggiest idea
What’s to be done with a room full of circles.

If ever you cannot believe that things
On the whole are much different than what you feel—
Scout the horizon—
Does the earth —look— round?

the sage who finds his buddha
in a bowl of hot noodle soup

There lives in man a fire which lies,
Behind our eyes and in our skin;
Upon our tongue the birdie sings
To shake the world
To move all things
To light the coal-cold night
With purple flame,
With leaping golden flame;

It touches on another’s breast
Who smiles at you,
Who calls your name;

Farce is life for man so dark,
So unconvinced, so full with doubt as he
Amidst the hours, months and years
When all the fire’s
Gone out.