The lights of passing cars dance
On the darkened ceiling—
The only light in a pitch-black room
Is periodical and flickers away
Like a monarch butterfly
On honeymoon with a new lover.

The sickly smell of lilacs hangs
In the still air—
A remnant from the incense,
A reminder of previous activities,
The scent sticking to the walls
Like cobwebs, to the ceiling like ice sickles.

The sound of the television in the other room
Intrudes through the cracked door—
It is a ghost that talks hurriedly
Of things that no one should care about;
It finds its way into my ears
Where it holes itself up like a chipmunk in hibernation.

The hours pass away like relatives or lilac bushes
At the start of the new winter—
I lie awake haunted by the television,
The rancid smell of dead flowers,
The light of busy cars,
And this horrible poem.

This poem bleeds out of my pen as though it
Had a heart, and I stabbed the heart—
As though its blue pulsing ink veins like vines
Had been cut; the ghost of the words won’t
Let me sleep, so I may as well
Stay up.

The sun peeks over the horizon like a newborn baby
Peeking out of the womb—
She spreads her rosy fingers and her rosy lips
And her grin creeps into the dark room,
I can hear the rooster crow; I can feel the moon find his way back
Into the cave.

Silence—
It blossoms like tumors
On our lips; the face
Of the moon looks into the
Window and sniffs you;
His lips crawl up and down
Your flesh, a maddened desirous
Spider.

Country music—
It plays on the radio, a testament
To human boredom; it is a lullaby
And we sift through the static to find
It with our ears;
It fades, we keep the beat,
Then the voice croons back,
Almost asleep.

Angels—
They chant in a choir high
Above us; the noise is golden
And it pours down like honey
Dripping into our eyes;
It tastes good, we scrape it like
Sleep from tired eyelids, or
Leaves from the gutter.

Flowers—
They are blooming outside like
Tumors on our lips; they are different colors,
We follow the rainbow and then
Return to the quiet room;
We can only lie simply beneath a canopy
Of Chinese drywall that stares
Down like a lost lover.

Silence—
It blossoms as I hold
Up the mirror we have built;
It is made of sand
And crumbles in my fingers;
The tumors on our lips leap out
And crash through the red rag
Of an alcoholic day.

When I see you,
I see a choir of doves
As white as the cliffs of Dover;
Your cheeks are the upturned
Bellies of fallen sparrows.

Every part of you sings in time
With the music that gravity makes
Between the spheres.

I am speechless;
It is amazing that you have
Fallen gently beside me,
Graceful, pretty, pretty as
A Basho haiku.



Your eyelashes are the spines
Of tiny fallen hummingbirds;
They cannot flutter anymore—
        Your gravity has stolen
        All of their vitality.

When you move,
All I hear is the sound of
Wings closing and opening
Again.

When you call me near to you
To say that your body is not
Beautiful, I want to
Call near to me the ancient mouths
Of every man and every beast
And every waterfall
To tell you differently.

I want to testify against you;
I want to change your mind;
But I surrender before you
So I can hear your voice
Even if it is wrong.

God in the window
God in the door
God in the staircase
God all over the floor;
        We went out tonight,
        Wondering, weeping,
        Dreary down city lanes
        And lonely in the street.
The trees line the sidewalk
The trees are staring at us
God is in the majesty of the trees
God is in the wisdom of the air;
        There is grime in the cracks,
        The cracks of the ***** street,
        And it springs up like April showers
        And it licks the air like May flowers.
The puddles rest at the edge
The puddles are still and shallow
God is in the naivety of the puddles
God is in the exultance of the moonlight;
        We are home now to rest and dine,
        Comfortable in the warmth of the fire,
        At ease with the taste of the house
        And God is in the house.

Desperation is the language
Of men in gray suits and women in
Gray dresses who count digital money
As if it mattered;
The language of the men with the
Combovers and the women with the
Horn-rimmed glasses with shining
Clear fingernails constantly
Glancing at the expensive watch
On their thin wrists that pulse
With fast food, caffeine,
And a million multicolored pills.
There is a computer in his back pocket
And he has never heard the angels.
Her purse is made of leather
And she has never ridden on a horse
Or even been on a farm
Encased in the stench of manure
And hay as opposed to the familiar wonderful
Fragrance of the gaseous air
That lurks in the alleys and the white
Smell of processed food
In the offices and the campuses.
They will laugh and cry about it all again
In Limbo and hold one another
Like a crucifix at the end of a row
Of pretty rosary beads, at the end
Of a row of pews, at the edge of the feet
Of marble Jesus, who stands and cries tears
As heavy and beautiful as the Brooklyn Bridge
And is powerless to adjust his crown
Of thorns, for his wrists are bleeding
Drops of blood as big and beatific
As the stock exchange.

She is the lady of the harvest--
                 I travel blindly to her garden
                 to smell the flowers and bask
                 in the remnants of what is left
                 of dead October;
                 she shows me how to look
                 into the garbage, into the flowers
                 to see the heroes in the weeds,
                 the ladies in the morning;
                 they lean out towards love,
                 they will lean that way forever
                 and ever.

Not even the vultures
will touch your rotten
meat, so why should I?