Out of my flesh that hungers
and my mouth that knows
comes the shape I am seeking
for reason.
The curve of your waiting body
fits my waiting hand
your ******* warm as sunlight
your lips quick as young birds
between your thighs the sweet
sharp taste of limes.

Thus I hold you
frank in my heart's eye
in my skin's knowing
as my fingers conceive your flesh
I feel your stomach
moving against me.

Before the moon wanes again
we shall come together.


And I would be the moon
spoken over your beckoning flesh
breaking against reservations
beaching thought
my hands at your high tide
over and under inside you
and the passing of hungers
attended, forgotten.

Darkly risen
the moon speaks
my eyes
judging your roundness
delightful.

Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar;  she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I      N      F      I      N      I      T      Y

A mad ride,landslide always surfing,never reaching, never beaching on the shoreline,
waves and cosines and the sum of my times are strewn across the ocean floor,rising,falling always calling me on and on,
summer's gone the storms are here,three cheers for winter, splintering the dashboard of the sky,looking reverse as I stop to converse with back to back and Jack, the frosty chap,doffs his cap at me ,then freezes up the sea,my home.

Foam and latte are the order of the day,the words are set,I'll get the tab you get the cab and let's go somewhere for a mad ride,landslide..
and so it carries on.

Dark death skirts beaches in blood red,
as coffee colored swells wash in more
carnage to the shores;
we are blindly poisoning our waters.

Toxic plumes of red tide cover the seas,
beaching whales and seals,
manatees, and fishes;
we indiscriminately **** our sea life.

The brisk breeze off the Gulf
brings the smell of rotting death
that is all around;
we are blindly killing ourselves.

Our lifeblood,
the seas and its inhabitants,
slowly slip away;
we disrespect nature.

Mother earth mourns
as we continue
to ****** its inhabitants;
we are dying.

Sometimes it's just a conch shell
I am tired of holding
to my ear.

The birdsong outside my window
fills me more than your affection
ever could. When I say I am in love
with the entire ******* planet,
I mean it is impossible
for me to settle down.

I am not the type to sink
in the river, I want to float
on my back through the bloodstream
of the Earth and let the moon tell me
when it is too dangerous to go
swimming.

I never learned how
to swim. I am far too cautious
when I talk. My body is self-conscious
about letting the chlorine of
a summer pool touch me, fill me
like you used to.

I guess that's why I'm leaving,
love. The open air is a much better lover
than the sea. I would rather burn
inside the marrow of a far-off star
than feel alone at the bottom of the ocean,
only fish to guarantee I'm still alive.

Love is Pluto,
drifting in space searching
for something to hold onto
never knowing it is in orbit
circling something it will
never get to touch.

I wish I'd never touched you.
Never felt the sandpapered scars
that fold inside the creases in
your wrists. Never let you think
I had fallen from heaven, I wish
I'd told you I'm searching
for a way to float on top of clouds
without needing a God to tell me
I'm happy.

Maybe I only loved you
when you were unhappy.
Maybe your shoulder blades
never contained the wings I thought
I could see when the lights were out.

Baby, you were the ink
pouring from Shakespeare's
****** quill. You were the barnacle
in the sand waiting to take in
the blood and screaming disbelief
of a child, you were the whales
beaching themselves in one sorry attempt
to taste the grass.

You were the one
to always keep sinking.
It was your sandpaper
I held under my tongue
hoping it would rasp
long enough for someone
to tell me I was bleeding.

You were always
bleeding, especially when
I was gone. Now,
you breathe smoke
and still tell me it's me
who needs you.

It’s lovely to live on a boat
So mobile a dwelling and remote,
But beaching in sand
To dock on dry land,
Is nicer than bobbing afloat.

Notes of rain
on a tin roof
mystify me

I try to put words
to its meaning

As if it is a calling
I listen to its tune

There, sometimes
like a scent of remorse,
a violet storm

Or a flash of a smile
so brilliant it pains

Night stirs the colors
about me with its ladle

But I can’t paint fables
or the whispers that follow

Dreams of love seem so real
for such a short time

I mean to imply something
larger, more inclusive,
grounded and wild

Something that reaches back
into stories we can never tell

Because we are the arc of them,
we are their breathing

Beaching ourselves on lonely shores
wanting only to be saved.

Diabetic Floridians have traded their pancreatic souls for jelly rolls
while shimmying bloated groove things from crooked Citrus Bowls
to kick placenta-shaped globes through two sissified posts of goals
and fondling each other in and amongst obelisk football field poles,
in practice for the third to man righteous slots in State cheese doles
to boldly sashay on promenades with dogs called women for strolls
only to dine upon nature's bounty of termite larvae, slugs & moles,
from countrified cities and urban meadows to ship-beaching shoals
where myopic quasi-goats possess proto-goat gumption to eat trolls
In national shoe economy sectors it's advisable to rehabilitate soles
Remember the Maine, to hell with Spain, explore passages or holes
as it was in 1943's Hit the Ice twixt Elyse Knox & Patric Knowles,
allowing Lou Costello to be raked over the flick's proverbial coals

the tv is too loud and my peeled skin
echoes bleeding beaching, I can't get out
and  next door are screaming

a riot of colour and life and celebration
hurts so much I am taut of breath,
please I need help but the words
won't trip off my tongue

I can't bear the uproar
water flashing, roaring , oh
god the suffocation with the sound
of inebriation

I am trying but I

can't
stand it
anymore.

Sat on the beach looking out to sea.
Memories in my mind, running free.

The blue sea ebbs and flows.
The white tips of the waves glow.
The sound of the wave is noisy.
The wind is blowing breezy.

The wave begins its inward journey.
Picking up speed, it becomes very loudly.
The wave begins to peak and crest.
The wave looks majestic, at is best.

Its journey nearly over, as it begins to fall.
Its reached its destination and crashes to the shore.

The wave once a thing of beauty is no more.
Its role in life is to live and breathe.
Show people beauty that brings you to your knees.

All day people and children play in the sea, swimminig and surfing freely.
But never take the sea for granted be sure you know the rules.
Being unsafe at the seaside is really not cool.

Lost in my memories of beaching days.
There is no better way to say.
I love you Dad and miss you so.

i'm not a hot weather guy

i'm not that summer all year round kind of guy

i toil enough in direct sunlight and hot weather every day,

i have for a very long 36 years now

by early May i am no longer that white guy

i'm already that brown guy,

that savagely tanned guy.

i'm not a beach guy during the day

i don't need to kick sand up in the air with my feet

i don't need to build sand castles with the sun
declaring war upon my back,
my skin

to be fair i find "beaching it" a complete
waste of my time so i never even ponder it

i'm also not the guy that screams "Marco Polo"
in our swimming pool that i am never in

i'm not a boating,

water skiing
or jet skiing guy either,

i'm not missing anything

i don't need bonfires exclusively in summer like most do

i don't need more heat on top of heat,

i'm smarter than that!

i will take a bonfire in crisp autumn air with
the crackling sounds of fallen leaves under my feet

ill take a bonfire to warm my icy hands and toes
after i slide down a snowy country *****
on a rubber tube at lightning speed

i'm not a guy that lays in direct sunlight on purpose

oil lathered over my entire body and tortured skin

cooking my body,

sweating for no other reason
than for vanity and cancer later on in life,

i'm not that guy

i am a guy that likes to cozy and nestle up
in a fresh cool,

apple crisp midnights air

this guy lives for the first sight of a treed hillside blanketed in auburns,

golds,

spearamints,

pumpkins and cinnamons

the first snowflake to fall and dance upon my eyelashes

now that guy i am!

as a poet i also know that i can get just as breathtaking
a sunrise or sunset in the spring,

fall and winter as i can in the summer

so this guy doesn't need a summer time sunrise or sunset either

believe me when i tell ya...

this guy is just not a summer time guy!

Freedom paid for with lives and blood,
boots on the ground all around the world,
landing craft beaching on foreign shores,
as bullets, whizz by and bombs explode.

Aircraft were flown, in all manner of skies,
ready to act at a crackle of the radio,
the black depths patrolled by submariners,
watching and listening with tools of sound.

Floating on the surface of the worlds waters,
gun metal gray monsters loaded for bear,
the sailors pride evident in the gleam,
inspiring respect, and fear.

From out of planes they bail,
carrying everything they need,
landing behind and among the enemy,
this is where heroes are born.

Uniforms shined and polished
medals pinned upon proud chests,
tears fall down everyone's cheeks,
as flags are draped and salutes fired.

Freedom purchased with brave lives,
still, some must soldier on,
remember and respect,
the ones in uniform.

I ate the crumbley matter
I ain't
adjacent to
in shame

all those
nearby
tilts
covering

unkempt hair
glasses
timepieces
gone awry

til now
beaching
inland edge
up sharp

i've cut
into
tomorrow
sweet like

I am the redwood tree reaching down to the core of the earth and up to the sky

I am the northern lights flashing rainbow colors through the sky  

I am the light flashing from a lighthouse and glowing from the bottom of the ocean

I am a gray whale swimming from the warm waters of the south to the northern ice

I am depleting, my roots shrinking, my branches being cut down

I am lights flickering out from the energy, negative all around me

I am floating with plastic bags and beaching on the sand

I am the ice, melting and unable to support life

I am fading into nothingness, extinction created by thoughtlessness

I am the light and I am fading....

Love, the Earth

I admit, first night was hell...
and hell is not a place of screaming
and torture or fire
and crowd management panic
of a stampede...
it's a silence, a dealing eating silence
to suppose fish don't feel pain
with the exception of the fish
that are also mammals,
whales: who commit suicide by
beaching themselves...
that's not suicide Jonah?
When was the last time a whale
was invoked with such majesty-biblical
the former hellspawn of the depths
Yes what depths are to speak
of Mr. Psychologist if the whale
is a creature that requires a breath
it's not some lantershish
some abomination but a familiar beating
heart of mammalian unison...
hell is a silence... a deafening awe
that pairs scissors with knives...
mountains with former mountains
that are now deserts...
what used to be the great mountains
of Sahara... so much so that people
decided to revise what used to be
by spitting and ******* and *******
a birth of civilization via the concept
of life preserved eternal
in the great necropolis:
first night, just humming of the cctv
computer, that eight eyed ghoul...
i the ghost to boot...
impromptu: buy myself a radio....
patua spreschen...
in the 12h from 7pm to 7am
there is so much you can do...
with sugar and caffeine
and I started smoking again to double up
on what caffeine misses...
reading Dune with enough time
apart from seeing the movie
to appreciate the words...
backgammon and the banality of
games of fate, chance, imagine chess
being orientated around the luck, the draw,
die...
reaching out to loved ones, esp one,
magnetic girl: dried pasta muncher
as I wonder: pebble dust if she
switched to a diet of swallowing metal
knots...
I am mentally drained and finally
reaching a worker-ant crescendo
of being numbed into a dissociation
von-sein-da (from-being-there) or hier:
heir to "a" here: problem solving
Athens and the Germanic black root
of humor and full moons
Arbeit arbeit macht not so frail...
Tiredness and the contingency plan
of thinking about endurance sports...
like walking marathon lengths of distance
is easier than standing as pilgrim
in the fort of pillar for the same amount of time:
if not double that...
only today I wept at the sun
then talked
then laughed
then became mad spontaneously
and only for a short while...
besides the capacity to have
to eat for the reassurance of stamina...
there's only so much you can do
within the confines of the night on
a 12h ball breaker...
I get bouts of insatiable need to
******* to ease off the pressure
on my shoulders, Promethium Atlas
rereading of the vicinity...
but! if I treat writing this dribble-scribble
like others might relax when
solving a crossword puzzle...
8 cameras and I try to be professional
about it, namely: to be present
but also with the alias: invisible:
gently nudging reality into motion
beginning from the shadow-front...
then I wait for the hour of radio
transmission from 12am onwards
where advertisers give up churning
milk into the butter to dough of
attention spans willing to shpend
shpend shpend.... seriously?
Pedantic of me: if Liszt the Z is a surd
like in thought you can write
(th)ou(gh)t...
I ought I not note oughts and noughts...
primo: th is
what conjecture is relating
theta to eta...in Greek...
This third night and I'm in my element
I am finally orientated
to the compactness of scrutiny of space
and the hyperbolic concept of time-fluctuations:
minutes are meaningful...
hours are meaningless...
days are organic...
weeks and perhaps...
months don't exist...
years I pardon with the gravitas of
a meaning that's inorganic...
time is a special creature
while space with all the universe
so... oh so *******... un- -spec- -tac-
-ular! Ursuline girls would know...
Tis my first night of writing while
on the "job" and how gratifying
the similtude of being ambidextrous
schizoid bilingual of mind..
Schubert first... people should seriously
switch off their t.v. sets and get into
the kink of listening
to classical music radio station at night...
the **** and geese flying?
Solo goose... sorry missed that
Bad WiFi in Lebanon?
Walkie Talkies exploding because
Zee Chimney ChooChoos said so?
Mount my ******* Orion to Zion cannon
of trajectory?
This **** had been happening
since that eventful day I was flying
back from Kauai, last year, 7th October,
2000... 23...
wow... only 15 minutes past 11pm
And I have 8 hours to conjure up
a human with abrupt allowances
of deviating from the magic of:
making inanimate objects animate!

My hands sail
with seasoned ****** steering
  precision
slowly southward,
along the waves
  of your hair,
before beaching along
        silky skinned shores.

Navigating marked territory
my fingertips travel,
      tracing
  southwardly patiently
journeying my modern odyssey
along your ribcage paved path
  towards my epicurean mecca
of lush fuzzed meadows
while you cling to me
in our linen pastures
with cosied ivy proximity.

Your spread spent body
      covers the disheveled
    bedspread,
  soaking wet
skin glistening
  bronze,
  from a
first placed finish.

Eliade is ambiguous
Abraham and Isaac too

Ishmael knows ambiguity
God hears in Hebrew

I cannot fear my contradictions
They prove I am quite human

My mind flies toward the divine
But no one is assumin'

That I actually get there
I'm down here with all the others

So often so afraid
For my wife and sons and brothers

The body is the prison of the soul
According to Plato's teaching

But those bodies look so fine
When beauty Satellite Beaching

The soul is a mystery
No evidence until its absence

Sometimes I think she's my soul
That I haven't had since

We all become a corpse
Cornel West says that's funky

Eaten by worms or burned to ashes
Discarded and car *****

When my body turns to ashes
Throw them in Elliott Bay

If T.S. Eliot swims by
Tell him I say Hey

                         Along the Way

Diabetic Floridians have traded their pancreatic souls for jelly rolls
while shimmying bloated groove things from crooked Citrus Bowls
to kick placenta-shaped globes through two sissified posts of goals
and fondling each other in and amongst obelisk football field poles,
in practice for the third to man righteous slots in State cheese doles
to boldly sashay on promenades with dogs called women for strolls
only to dine upon nature's bounty of termite larvae, slugs & moles,
from countrified cities and urban meadows to ship-beaching shoals
where myopic quasi-goats possess proto-goat gumption to eat trolls
In national shoe economy sectors it's advisable to rehabilitate soles
Remember the  Maine, to hell with Spain, explore passages or holes
as it was in 1943's Hit the Ice twixt Elyse Knox & Patric Knowles,
allowing Lou Costello to be raked over the flick's proverbial coals