On a plateau
        by the seashore
sits a naked goddess,

a dryad or a naiad--
       she laments a soft
song of mechanical

love. Bathing in the
        quiet night, the
light, the

diamond-bright
        stillness. She looks
at me with sad eyes.

On a conch-shell loveboat
        together we sail
through snaky canals

of the heart.
        Cool, lapping
water drips

from her long
        seaweed hair as she
sings for me--

we go beneath
        the sea &
look up at

intangible starfish
        that mirror
the stars of the

surface.

Tender fruit, grapevine,
fleshy pulp waiting
inside,

marry me, be my bride.

You're a flower-child,
spread on the bed with
flowers stuck to your little
head,

with Ginsberg & Whitman on
the shelf & feminine mystique
dripping from the
ceiling.

Moon-lady,
Venus,
tides rising & crushing
the shore,

while I snuggle
my flannel for warmth,
trying
not to be a bore.

Framed pictures as you
reminisce on when we
were younger &
untamed.

"We can still be untamed,
we've been framed
for uninsanity!"

But you call me a fool
& put your
porcelain head in my neck
& I feel foolish.

In the damp light of a cloudy day,
muscles aching, waves
crashing,
uncontrollable urges.

Stranded in the pregnant
belly of a ***** secret city
drawing
the red rose of secret union

& we are sheltered
in the ****** warmth of the
blankets,
cocooned like little monsters.

The calming ocean
& the calming whispers
& the tiny kisses
surround me, blot out my thoughts.

You sing me to
sleep &  run little
fingers
through my knotted hair.

Your tiny dollar store
Buddhas belch incense
over
the backdrop of your perfume.

The wind chimes
twinkle & whimper on the
porch where the swingset
rocks in the rain.

"I wish you weren't
engaged but I don't mind
breaking a few taboos."

You laugh like a soft mad fairy
& look down
at your phone & I turn over
on my naked side.

You laugh a funeral
giggle & I know I should have
worshipped you sooner
at the pillow-altar.

Show me Heaven without
death &
the Garden of Earthly Delights
devoid of sin,

show me your sharpened fox
grin &
the way sunset ripples
at your breath,

I will show you sacrifice
& the hidden light
of our lives
in the damp of the night.

I think I like you
because you look at my
Ram's horns
with pale Scorpionic eyes.

I hate you, you know;
you bore me & all
you want is flesh.

"In a row???" I ask, incredulous.

"Nah, man."

"Were you at least #37?"

"Well, yeah. But still that gets to me," he says. He starts counting change, playing with pennies on the glass counter.

"If you didn't see it, it didn't happen," I reply. I pull out a $5.00 bill.

"That's childish!" He looks at me like I'm a babbling idiot.

"That's my life!" It was my life.

"I can't believe you sometimes," he says. Nobody can, bud.

"You better start. I'm smarter than I look." I'm bluffing now; I'm a ******* idiot.

"Yeah, yeah. Do you wanna buy anything or not?" he goes back to his pennies on the glass counter.

"Yeah--Marlboro Reds," I reply hesitantly. For a moment I thought about Camels.

"$5.00 even." It's always $5.00 even when you're with friends.

"Alright."

"Shorts or 100s?"

"****, man, shorts!" It's my turn to look at him like he's a total stranger.

"Just asking." He puts the bill in the register.

"Shorts say badass. 100s say suicide mission."

"I suppose you're right."

"It makes perfect sense!"

"Either way you're going to die."

"Yeah? So are you, buddy."

"*******."

I exit the convenience store, pack my Marlboro Reds, turn two up (one for luck, one for ****, to be smoked lastly out of the pack) and light one.

The headdress danced in the sun
On the Indian's hollow
And eyeless skull.

It was framed in feathers
Brightly-colored serpents in the
Salty air flames licking at
Dancing and ***** bare feet.

Dark-skinned, tall, high cheekbones
And solemn eyes full of
Wisdom--he surveys the
Badlands, Moses's rigid face
Blank and silent in a
Heatwave desert.

Beyond the teepees and the
Black bonfire smoke and
The buffalo rhythm, the plateau has
Risen, bleached bones
Litter the plains as a constant
Reminder.

All these silly stupid
little trees
dripping wet with
awkward leaves,

while I drip with
smoke & write my
loneliness with
eyebrow pencils,

idle in my idiocy
& thinking of nothing
else but thee,

a banquet for the bony
dancing boldly in the
silence,

made up with
pale make-up &
trafficking in tall
tales,

all these stupid
ugly little people,

they taste like disease,

but even in a crowd
all I see is thee.

I am not your enemy.
I want to give you a colossal domain.
I want to bottle up the seas for you.
I want to paint you a picture with the sun's rays.
I want to pull down the moon with a chain & tie it to your pretty waist.

I am not your enemy.
I would give you a palace if I could,
or a distant farmland if your tender soul required.
I would found for you a university,
so that the world's young lovers could learn your
proper caresses.

I am not your enemy.
I would catch for you, if I could,
the world's brightest birds, the world's fairest fishes.
I would build you a zoo, then, with an aquarium,
so that you could watch at your leisure
the creatures of your creation.

I am not your enemy.
I will build you a mausoleum, so that I can entomb
you somewhere where only I can visit you,
with flowers in my hand,
and a pretty pearl necklace,
and tears hanging from my
rounded chin.

This is the song of the handsome people
bleached white bones
dark red flesh
with wrinkles deep and old
as the desert.

Their arrows having disembarked
have faded into the
molten clay of the
mean-spirited earth.

Their heritage having been
habitually crushed with cause
for hatred has been
enveloped in peace and pride
and is cloaked in
dry hides.

Feathered in cold trails of tears
to match trails of aging
they have covered up their
misfortunes with song
and smoke.

Their rainbow carried by the wind
to some far-off pasture
rides on the backs of deer
and dead bison

to be consumed in smoke
and black flame.

Tenderly Dionysus
Wraps us in the folds
Of his earthy, leafy robe
Fragrant and exuberant
Smelling of cotton and
Jubilee and lavender
And he weaves
Necklaces and crowns of
Green verdant clover
Sunflowers for his Muse
Into our thick knots
Of tangled ***** hair

Love melts the heart
and turns it into
chocolate butterflies
that dwell in the stomach.

Love fries the brain
and turns it into
a smooth stone
stuck in the throat.

Love inflames the testicles
and turns them into
furtive little mice
excited for escape.

Love makes you feel
deep like the oceans.

April, April
Your showers come down
In flat gray sheets
And I pregnant the earth
With cardinal majesty

April, April
Your flowery children are cloaked
In green fragrant humility
With roots that kiss
And **** gently at the wet earth

April, April
The sun smiles on you today
As you sit beneath
The cloud blankets of Sky
And cry

She is the goddess,
all-receptive and coagulating
eternally to shift with
our rhythms, our wants,
our needs.

She is as old
as all the dark rivers
that coalesce into the
perfection of the sea.

She is the lady
who opens herself
and ushers us onto
our golden throne,
and urges us to drink
from her ******
chalice.

She was alive in the Way,
and in the Water,
and in the Moon,
and in the Blood
of the Ages that flows
still in the veins of a
hidden world.

She is the perfect wife,
the wise crone,
the impetuous harlot,
ill of temper and all-forgiving.

O Reaper,
dark jewel in the shimmering sea of night
sickly flower blooming in the garden
pale wanderer of the doom-bound desert,
weave for me a tapestry
and drape it over the blinking stars.

O Death,
sweet fragrance of the morning
rapping on the windowsill,
compose for me a symphony
to haunt my ears as I sleep.

O Ghost,
gentle and geriatric in the dim moonlight,
sweep off the collecting dust
and blow it into the four winds
to carry us off on the backs
of the eagles.

O Ghoul,
your silhouette as the sunlight dims,
carve for me a juniper tree
so that I may dance around it
and welcome thee.

O Plague,
humming in the breath of the insects
crawling on the furs of the beasts,
pour for me a strong drink
to quench the flames of my disease.

O Maiden,
creeping into cronehood as the clocks stop
drifting down the clear stream into the damp
floating with the smoke to be imprisoned
multi-faced and schizophrenic,
sing for me a rhapsody
a hymn for my church of undoing.

O Glacier,
still and monumental,
melt into the sea of shining
and polish for me a mirror
to see clearly a glimpse
of mortality.


O Thanatos,
born at the beginning of time
flowering into youthful beauty
falling corpse-like in the rocks,
kiss the clouds and the trees
and write for me some poetry
to ease me into the long sleep.

Smoking a beer
Drinking a cigarette
Greenery, a waterfall coming
Up from the ground
Suckling at the roots
And the dirt.

My tongue suckles
At my busted lips.

Headache, muscles aching
Uncontrollably.

I tried to write
a novel
once.

It was about a town
called Foxtrot,
Kentucky
in the hot Georgia summer
and three people
that lived there.

There was a symbolic
dogwood tree (it stood
for innocence)
and it rotted away
when the femme fatale
was *****.

Her lover ***** her; he was
apparently a violent man.

Her other lover mourned
but was not sad anymore
once he had shot
the ******.

Then in recompense
the lady opened herself to him.

"1+0=3" she said.

And that was when he realized
that the universe is
***, a battle
of creative impulses.

Someday I'll go back
and try to write about Foxtrot,
Kentucky again.

This time, the man will be *****
and we will see what
the universe is like for him
then.

I have become accustomed
to the way the barks of dogs
envelope me when I am walking
in my decrepit neighborhood
smoking a cigarette.

The sounds, all different, engulf
my senses. It is as though
they know with canine intensity
(they know deep in their teeth)
that the tar smoke smell
is out of place among the
damp trees and trodden flowers.

I have become accustomed
to the way Mrs. Parkinson
(old lady with Parkinson's)
turns her head away while watering
her smiling tulips when I
turn to look at her
looking at me with disapproval.

I have become accustomed
to the burn of the inhale
and flicking the embers on the asphalt
and stomping the finished
smoking stump when the
inches have turned to ashes.

My fingers are yellow and brittle
but I'll never give up the habit
because I like to feel
like a cowboy.

After I make my way back
To old 1947 New York skyscraper city
In a time machine jalopy
The same color as a baby blue sky
With leather seats and chrome wheels
I would like to stop
In an old burger restaurant
Stinking of grilled meat and
Marlboro smoke and the stench
Of permed hair
To order a burger and salted fries
And I would like to stop just once
And stare out the wide window
Into a busy New York street
At the beautiful women
And the beautiful men
While I sip my coca cola
Out of a chilled glass bottle
And you **** on a gorgeous red
Cherry straight from the top of your
Cold vanilla milkshake

Pale heave of heavy *****
with each blossom of panting
breath--blue
roads of veins line the
tops of tender *******--
the hair on the head
a straw-colored pigeon's
nest unbrushed and dull--
the eyes are sunken and darkened
like Cleopatra and Isis
beneath light and gentle brow--
the lips soft and pink
like the skin of a babe and
the light of the Crucifixion--
rosebuds, rosebuds, darling rosebuds!
Reach out into empty silent air
spread out on the velvet sheets
to become scarlet and inflamed.

woo
woo
woo

solid solitary
crying out into
the night

around the fire
our emerald eyes
bleed

to inhabit the
stars

shamans dancing
wooping
hollering
shouting
roaring into the
invisible

air
invisible
snakes wrapping
themselves

around
our limbs

phantom elves
shaking
in the embers
of a dream

I just wanted to be
your tugboat captain,
your name engraved
on the hull, my name
enmeshed with your
skull.

Dance around in your tutu,
yes, suspended on one toe,
yes, now slip it off &
crawl into the bath.

I just wanted to be
your tugboat captain,
your skin wrapped
around the mast, your
skeleton draped upon
the shaft.

Look up at me with blue eyes, yes,
open up your pink mouth, yes,
now steer with your feet &
take us to the mainland.

Ah,
but where are my friends?

I envy those who
sleep beneath the ground
as I toss and turn
beneath my sheets.

The rain coats the windows,
the clear paint on the wooden walls,
sheets of gray steel on the sidewalk,
blank faces in the windows--

the quietude, the quaintness, the
quilt of rain in the forests
and dripping from the roofs.

And where are my friends?

Away, miles away,
far from my wet eyes.

We all have something to give
and you have given me your all.

This room, sunlight streaming
through dusty windows,
has become the seat of the soul,
the altar to ambiguity.

Do your bones creak?
Do your muscles ache
in the afterglow?

Gather up your things,
everything you brought here,
and disperse--
your gentle face stabs my
heart.

You were such a masterpiece,
such a beautiful work of art,
stinking of forests and ***** water.

I find you ugly now,
a wasted bag of bones,
and I must commit these
words to paper
to make a monument
to my own periodic
misogyny.

If you want to be a poet,
just pretend to be depressed.

Drink alcohol, cut yourself, &
pop pills.

Listen to angry music &
wear black every day.

If you dare to smile we will
cut you from the canon!

To be a poet is to be a disciple,
a saddened & sickened disciple.

If you aren't angsty & angry
you cannot be a poet.

Poetry is about sadness
& hate & anger.

Poetry is a way for teenagers
to hate their parents
& get away with it.

Alas, I cannot be a poet;
I believe in Heaven, you see,
or something like it
& enjoy life
immensely.

I dissected a cow's eye
Today.

I cut the muscle from the pale ball
And cut that alabaster sphere
In half.

The cornea was as hard as a marble
And perfectly round
When I lifted it from

The ****** pale moon
That stared up at my scalpel.

It was a returning.

I will never be enough of a man
To dowse my saffron robes
In cold gasoline and set it aflame
In buddhistic conviction--
My dreams would scamper
From my burning head to find another,
My flesh would crack and burn
Like old parchment
In rough palms.

I will never be enough of man
To eat buckshot out of
A hollow cold steely gun
My mouth wrapped around the
Reaffirming thickness--
My eyes would dart and then close
My ears would ring and then collapse
Like an old building
Consumed in flames.

I will never be enough of a man
To wrap a rope round my neck
And stare blankly ahead
To seize the day
From God's hands--
My face would bulge
My limbs would twitch
Like a dying rodent
In the throes of cancer.

I will always be enough of a man
To kiss your lips
With my own and feel
Your curves in my hands
And look at the sun--
My trembling hands falter
My eyes can't see to feel for you
Like a blind pianist
Playing the blues.

Madness?
Nay, gnosis--
remembering how to kiss
the waters, remembering
how to embrace the flames.

Io Io
Pan Pan

Wreathed in flowers,
feet wreathed in fire,
eyes twinkle dark,
shining from the lyre

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Sun burning red
and pregnant,
possibility, paradox

Io Pan Pan
Io Pan

Sun giving life,
father gives the Word,
He taketh away
just as He giveth
and He giveth
and maketh the grass
green

Io Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

He gives the fire,
He taketh it away

Io Pan
Pan Pan Io

From over the sea
the stars blinking
with rapidity

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Lust in the rivers,
hate in the mountains,
the hills are sighing,
the Nymphs are naked

Io Pan

The moon, mother,
matronly marvel
give us the sight
true sight to see
with shining gaze
perfume flowers
in ***** ****** daze

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Pan

The marble thigh,
the glass eye,
bathed in blood
on bridal bed of
burning

Io Pan
Pan Pan
Io Pan Pan

Envy the golden python,
throw thyself
towards the golden dawn
bathed in the flowers
of perfumed fawn

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Thrusting sword into ferns
of folding, the damp, the wicked
the opened eye
the one hand clapping

Pan
Pan Pan
Io

Reside in the grasp
of the vermillion snake
the vermin moving
in meadows
thorny meadows
lie silent in silver shadows

Io Io Pan

Flowers on the gypsy rod,
fleshy gate of God
bleeding and burning

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

flayed unto deaf ignorance,
leave me here
in my opensky sepulchre,
skyclad & open,
arms spread upon an iron
cross, feet drenched in
blood (it pools on the ground
like rust) to die in the
pregnant sun, to turn to ash,
to be reborn in dust,
to leap across the earth
carried by a stranger's wind,
into unknown territories--
beyond here lies nothing.

I was 15 years old
when I tried ******
for the first time.

I got it from an older girl
with a mane of obsidian
hair and a porcelain face
shaped like all
her teardrops.

She told me she'd let me
**** her
if I went to prom with her.

I didn't want to **** her;
she smelled like
the Boston Harbor.

I smoked the ******
that first time.

Gray smoke curled thickly
into the damp air of
a basement haunt--
in the Georgian heat
the rain had steamed away.

It tasted like the sands of Persia
or the ambrosia of Mount
Olympus.

It smelled awful;
burnt rubber after a highway
blowout.

I couldn't move;
I sat on my moth-eaten
sofa, dozing in and out
of life in a golden daze.

Everything was golden then
in that instant and I knew
the golden love of a mother's
glowing gaze for the first time.

Then I heaved and my stomach
purged itself.

Then I knew the black hate
of my own vicious glare
for the first time and awoke
an hour later.

Then I threw up my guts
again.

When I woke to the sounds of silence
once more I was confronted
with a golden warmth
and the feeling of the presence
of the Sacred Heart--

and I knew that I loved it.

I've got my love
on the tip of my finger
& I'm holding a drop
just above your
halo,

waiting on it
to soak through to
your clothing.

There's purity
in the streetlights,

innocence in the dull
sheen of the water
still wet on the streets,

and love in your
breaths.

Your chest beats
slowly in the thickening
fog,

slowly and heavily,

you shouldn't have smoked
that cigarette,

you desolation angel.

And we pass the
gas stations and the
cornerstores and the
neon OPEN signs
flash and blink at us,

telling us something
gravely important,

inviting us
into their jeweled
corridors,

their zoo.

There is a light
in your eyes that
never goes out,

looking up at me
in the meager light
of the urban decay
(lights are still on in the
highrises and the section 8
houses & they burn &
we wonder)
trying to find
an answer trickling
from my lips,

like saltwater--
but I can't say
anything.

I've been too stricken.

Stricken by the sudden
sound of pealing bells
in the distance,

stricken by the lightning
quick flash of silver
from when our hands
lazily touch,

like a hard tap on the
spine & a hard tug
on the tail.

My insides roll,

my throat is dry,

can't stop fidgeting,

what price cigarettes?

I feel faded like my
old blue jeans,

& speckled in baby
blue paint,

walking sideways
down a dank alley
where a bicycle sits
propped against
old mossbricks.

The smell of the rain
clings heavy on
our clothes, the taste
of the rain seeps
between my cracked
lips.

& you clutch my
hand in yours (I
can feel the heat, I
can smell your
butterflies & taste
the sewage from
rusted vents) and kiss
me ******* the mouth.

Left hand meets your
waist,

right hand holds yours,

just below eye level
& I can feel you smile
as my kisses deepen you
& open you,

I can feel your teeth
brush my lips soft
like a paintbrush,

I can feel your nails
like chalk
on the smooth
back of my neck,

& then we step out
into the nightlife,
smelling like cigar smoke
and a drunken day.

"You're always so right about everything," she says.

Yes, dear, but it comes at a price.
I am hardly ever surprised.

O! sweet Angel;
cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph,
cradle the night in
delicate French hands,
bend it to match your invisible
words, your intangible sentences.

You have the most beautiful face
in Europe, did you know that?

The eyes, vacant and holy;
the mouth, tender and rose-shaped;
the nose, delicate like veneer;

the twilight black and white
plays off the intelligence
in your face
and howls out mad words,
brilliant words, works
of art.

We are a breed
trapped in your silken
and desolate stare,

forever to study you and
scrutinize you, your fiendish ways,
your rambunctious poetries--

your poetries are published
in Heaven, did you know that?

They are made of glass and I am
afraid that my hands may
crush them when
I bring my fingers across
newly-printed pages.

My own poetries are so *******,
demonic; Enoch smiles
in the land of the dead and
prepares them for printing.

My own nature is so bland,
so ritualistic, so uninteresting;
I am not a ***,
I am not a rebel,
I am not a drug fiend;
I am a student
playing at being an anarchist.

But your lice-infested sheets
are gone and burned.

Your lover's hand,
now decayed beneath the French earth.

The ***** dens of Paris,
the absinthe dens of Paris,
seem to be gone.

You would not enjoy it here
anymore.

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for you have the most angelic
face in Heaven--
the clouds pale next to you,
the cherubs with their trumpets
turn away and weep.

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for we have a lot to teach
one another.

There is a vast, cool intelligence out there
watching & searching in the blackness of space
& reaching out into the vertices of time
to pluck our minutes from under our chins
& to steal our seconds from under our upturned
noses. They take our time & give us nothing
in return, unsympathetic to our four-dimensional
existence & our tiny ideas & our meaningless
ideals. They strike at the moment of ******
when we stare into the gateless gate &
all of life is white & drips like yolk from a
fallen egg, drips like snow onto the branches of
enormous trees, drips like ***** out of the
**** of a blushing *****, drips like milk
into a cylindrical glass, all the way to the brim,
& then filleth over to cover the wood of
a well-polished table.

There is the tree--
it juts out of the earth,
a sword in the stone.

Alone in a field
of green grass, alone
amongst the flowers,
the emboldened
plumage.

The leaves, greeny finery,
ancient and reborn
age after age,
sag beneath the weight
of the breeze
and the clouds.

A girl
her skin the color of the pearls
was listening for
the angels, curled up
beneath a dogwood tree

My Angel comes to me
in the light of the morning.

She wears white linens
that cling to her skin
and illuminate her lovely
form.

Her Scorpio eyes
pierce my mind like a
fish hook and drag out
hidden desires.

She pulls me into her frame
and touches my flesh with
soft beautiful hands.

Her face presses my face
she pulls me by the root
and waters the vine and smells
like vanilla waterfalls.

She brushes my tongue with
hers, her lips with mine
and wraps slender arms
about my neck.

Her hips sway when she
glides down the twilight
corridor.

She moves her golden hair
from her neck and pulls my head
there--I lick and kiss and bite
like a wild animal
and she groans.

My Angel touched my ****
and the jeweled seraphim
danced.

Socrates died in the ******* gutter,
his head smashed on the marble
pillars of the Parthenon,
blood soaked the streets of Athens--
          the **** of the city was dry,
          the **** of the city made wet
          with weeping.

The river ran red down the legs
of Athena, the rose of mysterious union
made her genius shudder & contort--
          ****** was the sunrise,
          ****** the terrible roofs of
          marbled Athens.

The jeweled night was loud and furtive,
the philosopher's blood made stains
on the nation, rusty were the gates of
the aqueducts, the asylums.

I made love
a few days ago
to an unattractive girl
in a Doors t shirt

at 7:30 AM
as the sun came up
over the apartment
rooftops.

The morning birds
were singing a song
that was both beautiful
ad melancholic,

to herald the occasion.
My synapses fired off
and my adrenaline said
"yes" and my heart

shrunk away shyly.
When it was over I had
a cigarette that smelled
better than she did.

She tasted like
cigarettes and red wine
and I had no choice
but to let myself in

to the colossal void
of human intimacy.
The door opened and
beckoned me

with loving fingers
and opened palms.
Her lips caressed
the flesh of my neck

and gave me chills.
She held me in her hand.
She held me in her mouth.
Guilt

overwhelmed my
ugly spirit, my ugly
face. But these are doors
that must be breached

if one is to be a man;
more importantly,
a poet.

My dog
loves to be walked.

When I pick up the
black leash he jumps
and his tail wags
with sunshine and
his mouth waters with
glee.

In the wintertime
he shivers in the yard
and in the summertime
he sweats and pants
like a caveman.

In the fall
he is content to
have his tiny claws
crush dead leaves
and in the springtime
he is content to
run in the fresh greenery.

He ******
because the world is his
territory.

scraping
lead against the
    paper, rough
    sounds
  of natural
        peace
                &
        moving along
                    together
  but feel
        heartily
                amongst
    seaside drapes
            and the
  immaculate
            carpet of
              night.

I have a shaggy mess
of brown hair that
stays tangled & rankled
to fall over my glasses
like a flag. Smoke from my
cigarette trails behind
me when I walk,
in the direction of the
breeze. I have short legs
and long fingernails that
break often. I wear an old
sandalwood Buddhist
mala rosary on my thin
and bony right wrist.
I've never made a necklace
of flowers--

maybe I'll start
making those tomorrow.

Diaper-smell, sweet rosewater--
out here, far from the sea,
in a church where the sailors
never go,

(the flies buzz on the altar,
they land on the sacrifice,
they feast)

she dances with scarves &
swords, she gyrates &
stares with ceramic eyes.
Lady of the cloth,
pale of skin & dark of
hair, golden choker about
her neck, red letter upon
her breast,

(the flies baptize themselves
against the meager sunlight)

she dances.

Pick it up with your delicate fingers;
The tiny oval, purple and bruised,
And in it is contained a life, and cold juice.

Nurtured by the sun, surrounded by
Fresh air in a vineyard; now
Bathed in the sterile light

Of a public school cafeteria.
If grapes have a religion, I’m
Sure the sun is the Son of God

And wine tasters are the dogs of Hell.
If grapes could talk, would they mention
How ugly you look

As you raise grape after grape into your
Grape-colored mouth? I want to speak to the
Grapes; I want to know what they are
Knowing.

The leaves form a shade (a dead mobile)
Hanging over the heads
Of the pedestrians,
Who don’t even notice
That summer’s beauty has been
Stiffened; summer’s leaves
Are falling as if they were
Birds soaring too close to the sun
And so fall down in loneliness.
It is as if orchards are dying high up
In space; as if star orchards have
Lost their weight, and so fall resignedly
On the head of the earth. But
Something is holding all of this falling up,
Isn’t it?

There is a married feeling
dark soft and warm
snuggled against my back
between seas of blankets.

Soft breathing, warm skin
and i am scared to roll over
into the wisdom of your beauty

because I don't want to
disturb you.

Red roses lurching
over sky blue picket fence

and my snake of smoke
is curling to dissipate
in the breeze

trying to feel the majesty
of air.

These are colors unseen
& fires unhidden
but you have to look
to discern.

In the darkness
of these corridors
we crouched
amidst low-hanging
ferns and sterile white
lights.

Wild animals crept
outside the windows,
birds perched on the
windowsills,
there were fish in the
streaming brown
sewage.

Beyond the wide wooden
doors, in the auditorium,
there are fires burning
that no one has seen.

There are plays
going on constantly,
embittered actors on
the stage, tightrope walkers
bedecked in merriment,
never looking at the sun,
pale like a polar bear's
fur.

They usher us in one
by one, taking our tickets,
and send us in
over & over
to burn in their
eternal furnaces.

In the warmth
of a hot Georgia day
the sun hangs
suspended
on his invisible crucifix.

The clouds are
a fine pillow-fort
beneath the
innocent
blanket of the dripping sky.

The trees are
poking out from the earth
and praying
hopefully
for the spring to come sooner.

It is the wild wine
(not your whiskey,
nor your beer)
that sets me to singing
in the sullen afternoon.

The bottle
(heavy in my bony hand,
full of blushing ambrosia)
tilts back to feed
my gullet
swollen and red
as a fat, over-ripe leech.

O but this,
my Sermon on the Mount,
is one of dulled ecstasy
and ****** craving,
craving the touch of skin,
the ecstasy of the hunt.

Beautiful nectar,
bounty of the grove,
wellspring of violent
visions,
I drink and am drunk
on you,
elegant muse-water,
portentous deluge.