boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

I am the first page of a well-loved novel,
But often the first one ignored,
Dog-eared and transparent at the corners
From the touch of one too many hands
And witness to the enterprising twist of a smile
As my readers are privileged to only pieces of me.

You, like the binding that surrounds me,
Enclose and encircle all that I am. Write a novel
Under my skin. I’ve falsified too many smiles,
Sacrificed even the best of myself for ignorant
Delusions of caressing hands
That take and abuse my corners.

The used bookstore on the corner
Of Middlebury Marbleworks, Otter Creek and window-origami —
My salvation and river-penance. Seek my story with hands
That feel to comprehend, with novel
Softness and a tenderness that ignores
My pleading glances and indecisive smiles

As you speak in hush-whispers. Smile
With your eyes as you touch my spine — corner
Me at the exit. I want you to ignore
Faults, make peace with flaws that inhabit me
Like poetry misplaced within a novel,
Or willow branches falling too low, tired hands.

I memorized the shape of your hands
The first time we danced to Chaplin’s “Smile,”
And wrote on the broadness of your shoulders a novel
Of my sins, apologies stretching to your corners
In villanelles — repeating refrains. It took all of me
To tell you what I could no longer ignore.

Because once you start to ignore
Conflictions that exist in the nerve-endings of your hands,
What you feel becomes a burden. For me,
Sand ran out of the hourglass when our smiles
Stopped touching — and at the corner
Of Maple Street and Printer’s Alley, I said goodbye, our novelty

Gone. Still, I find it hard to ignore what used to be when you smile
As you look at her, your hands on her back in the corner
Of the room. You remain my unfinished novel.

is that what grass is?* i said in awe,
a child once again, wide-eyed with desire--
to explore, to roll and tumble over vastness
crest and trough of hillsides breathing in the sun,
then nap among the cows, pet their broadness
blinking there in ease above the buzzing vale.
am i a child still? i cooed into the wind,
watched it stroke and flicker bright the woven green
atop the next, and felt it in my breast.
am i akin to you? i squinted closer still
at gaze of bovine wakefulness to my refrain--
uncurling there against the matted fresh
with yawning tongues and udder slosh,
bounce of calf, frolic laps, then bullish
mimic make in sport away from watchful eye





.

You are your whole universe
Infinite & complex
With vast space for
What makes you to reside

Although your broadness can
Feel empty, too extensive & lonely
You are limitless, boundless,
Imperfectly organized chaos

Let yourself surround you,
     But never drown you.

I fell numb again today..when I lost myself in the ripples of the ocean color blue.. in your eyes.
As I watched the nervousness.. masked in confidence.. in the furrow of your brow... cascade across your strikingly handsome face.
My heart beat against my chest, swollen from joy and lust..as I fell for the beauty of your soul.
Love.
We sat on the earth and soaked up the hues of red that began to saturate the evening sky.
I inhaled your scent again..hoping that it would flood my lungs, with even more desire than the night prior...not knowing if that was even rational.
Wrapping my legs around your waist..drawing you close as I craved the broadness of your perfectly muscular, strong back pressed into me.
Studying the lines of skillful art that shaped you..
I felt that familiar pull of desire inside of my abdomen..the sting of hunger, lust and passion ignited at my core..
Love.
The way you looked at me that morning..
When your gentle eyes welled with tears.. Our hearts began to beat at the same pace..connected..melding and melting in unison as you ****** your **** manliness as deeply as possible between my thighs.
Passion.
The yearning that swallows my thoughts throughout the days...
Imagination spinning..dreaming of your indescribably flawless body..walking toward me..enrapturing every ounce of desire contained within my being.. Owning me.
Hope.
Igniting the belief to dream..once again.
Of the smell of fall..the memories to be created.. your stoic gorgeous body..that cradles your beautifully fabricated heart..in the center of a fantasy, that is slowly unraveling into the reality in front of my very eyes.
You melt me.
Love. To Love again is truly divine.
To have the chance to love you..is surreal.

1.
I’m climbing hills today
in one, effete poet’s way
they could be metaphors
for all sorts of ‘big life things’
but in another, my belly
is about to give my knees
some trouble

2.
The sepia on this one’s different
there was sometimes bitterness
in steps made here
as the lure of the theme park rides
sat so near
but the years have done a lot
to replace the roller coaster thrill
with the heart weight of hills,
dales and rivers with tales to tell

3.
You remember I mentioned
the metaphor?
And the belly troubling the knees?
Well these things came to pass
as I hauled my carcass up the hill
turning the air blue

The metaphor? Decisions
that once were natural,
easy like breathing
now can feel laboured, burdened
when a step is placed
how can I be sure the ground will hold?

Even at the peak, where I once
could exhale at the majesty of a job well done
I’m now fraught with the thought
of the journey down

4.
This river is different
at home the stream accompanies me
on local walks, showing me the known
and keeping my chin up

Here, the bold broadness of the river
hides secrets and speaks in a deeper tongue
coarse fish, familiar to me
are replaced by those that anglers prize

I am both lost and a little more alive

5.
Looking into the faces
of teenagers dressed for town centres,
either striding ahead
or shambling behind
parents intent on extolling
the virtues of fresh air and nature
while feeling strangely out of breath at the climb

closer in, the adolescent eyes show
a plethora of emotion
contempt, depression, longing
utter conviction that life is happening
somewhere, anywhere else

but if I may offer some advice: relent
as in a few blurred years
you’ll succumb to the same fossilisation
and will need some routes to remember

I used a thesaurus for this
I wanted to have the right word
for when you look at me
and laugh
because you’re amazed
I’m in front of you.
I wanted the right word
for when you unexpectedly
grab my hand
and say what I’m thinking.
For the way grape and melon slushies
or ice cream with too many sprinkles
are things for only us.
For all of those times I’ve said
“I know”
when I don’t.
Spitting off the tops of parking garages.
When I try to tell you what you are to me.
Trying to describe the deeps of your eyes,
my strange love for your nose,
and that smile that launched a thousand blood cells
or something.
The broadness of your shoulders I imagine curling
into sometimes
when I’m feeling tired.
VITAE
I wanted to fly kites and sing
directly
on
key.

Looking in to the mirror of forever,
through the shattered remnants of the past and the future.
Longing for something that can never be conquered.
Like the fortress of euphoria that the heavens cover.

In a cloudy, eerie midnight darkness,
where only starlight illuminates the sky's broadness.
I venture to the realm of never ending sadness.
only to fall prey to hungry hyena's of loneliness.

As every part of myself shred to bits and pieces,
blood and tears shed for my own helplessness.
I started to realize that the tears are not for the pain of ruptures,
but for the pain of the heart that has loss it's purpose.

As I lie down and weep to the pain of loneliness and sadneness.
The sky's cleared up, moonlight shines the heaven's darkness.
I conclude that this is just part of the consequences,
of whether I really deserve to be in the euphoric fortress.

It's been two years
since Baruch saw Yehudit
for the first time
on the school bus

that long
since that first kiss
that Christmas
under that moon

and stars
now as she turns
from the window
she says

what time will your mother
be home?
about 50 minutes
he says

on the bus?
yes on the bus
he answers
she stands there naked

the sunlight coming
over shoulders
and lighting up
her brown hair

she looks at him
lying there on the bed
hands behind his head
he searches her eyes

the blueness of them
the heaviness
of her *******
the love bites

the peasantness
the broadness of hips
have we time for more?
she asks

maybe
he says
she moves to the bed
and climbs up beside him

and lays her head
on his chest
I would never have dreamed
of this last year

she says
she kisses his stomach
lips damp warm
he strokes her shoulder

runs a finger
along her spine
she giggles
kisses him more

what would your mother say
if she found us thus?
he asks
don't think of it

she says
she lies beside him
he kisses her breast
softly

slowly
she turns towards him
runs a finger
down his thigh

he senses her movement
she imagines her mother
coming up the stairs
the heavy stomp

the booming voice
a smacking hand
she lies on her back
senses his movement

she embraces him
her hands knotted
behind him
he hears the dog bark

downstairs
he freezes
what's up?
she asks

earlier bus
he replies
he slips from the bed
and runs to the window

his mother is walking up
the road from the bus stop
quick
he says

she's coming
who?
she says
lying there

with a vacant stare
my mother's coming
quick dress
out the back door

the space of time
the movement of bodies
his mother's slow pace
towards the house

the dog barking louder
semi clothed
Yehudit runs with items
out the back door

with Baruch behind
along the back path
by orchard and logs
out the back gate

she in front
clutching shoes
and stockings
he watching

as he runs
her peasant body
swaying
like a mighty ship

on perilous seas
and storing away
as he runs
everything he sees.

tomorrow when you wake up
may your eyes shimmer
in the glance of an innate hope
behold the silhouette of someone
who mattered more
tomorrow when the sun shines
may your smile get a
fresh lease of life
and put a flavoured broadness
into mine
while we stand against
each other tomorrow
may you set
our past at defiance
strain every nerve
to give love
another chance

What the dream
was about
I have small

recollection,
only that you
were there,

there in that
black overcoat,
your broadness,

your silent presence,
and I hugged you,
my son,

and yet did not
remember you
were dead

until I woke.
I wanted
to return

to the dream
but it
had dissolved

some place
inside
my head.

I play chess to compress these distressed thoughts
I'm making progress through the process to get access to myself
You said
We would go too the tomb
You read
The heat in my eyes
You deny
All that you see
They can't collect their mess so i could play chess to stop my stress
They couldn't believe what i left at the express to express my broadness
You said
We would go too the tomb
You read
The heat in my eyes
You deny
All that you see
I try to suppress my obsess over success but my thoughts overwhelmingly pass through the back of my mind
You came in
Think about myself
I play chess to make less of a mess
Whatever happens
To you and i
We will have an ending
Now we have to suppress my intellect
Collect yours
play chess to compress these distressed thoughts
You said
We would go too the tomb
But you were soon gone
You read
The heat in my eyes
Delete me completely
Believe in what you dream
You deny
You abandon me
All that i see

You know me by now...
I catch you
with messy hair
under the new face
of night, smiling
miles into the workings
of my eyes,
& I'm all undone.

You're lip smoking
as we walk canal south,
the whited angles
of swan wings
tenting the water
beside your laughter.

You know me by now...
your fleet kiss is blown
across a blue broadness
that could never stop it,
never,
          never.

My body pressed down by stacks of dictionaries and thesauruses
And people desperate to iron out my creases before they need to use me,
I lay flat against the map of the town, my cheek brushing a tree’s branches.
The paper town is pretty to perfection, all done down in diffused pastels
It’s long and tall, but it has zero broadness to its name-
A perfect match for me in those days leading up to a stint in rehab
But SHHHHH!! We’re aren’t allowed to talk about rehab.
The river that flows unassumingly through town traces a line across my thighs,
Covering up with its blue murk the lil red scratches that paint my skin
But SHHHHH!! We’re aren’t allowed to talk about those problems either.
The paper town is quiet and quaint on the face,
Which is good given there’s not much else to see here.
The infinities wasted here linger below like the taste of peanut butter
But anyone could see from a glance the lives frozen in one serene moment
What they can’t see, the part that’s hidden under the soil, the second layer of paper
Is that the moment is surely fading into a photograph
And slowly, slowly, slowly… the paper town is home only to pathetic paper people.
Picture perfect. Perfect picture.
I can feel my heart disintegrating with each passing day I can’t give it any meaning
And I can feel my blood boiling with each day the powers that be control me and I don’t know why
I can’t find any rhyme or reason that works for me, I can’t find a meaning to be me, or being this
I’m made of paper, blowing in the wind wherever it wants to take me
I’m a powerless slip of paper with a painted on smile fading in the brilliant sunlight I’m driving into.
I fade. I’m not even a fresh paper anymore.
But I feel doomed to be a paper forever. So I fade.

I was going through
this box I've had
since my father died
it's full of the things
he saved about me
my third grade report
card calling me social
but not much of a rule
follower or my dorm
room clean-out card
all those things but
what tore me up
were all these short
stories I wrote when
I was 17 or 18 and had
these dreams of being
the next Joyce I barely
even remember some
of them but what I do
remember is that dad
always wanted to write
a story together father
and son and kept giving
me ideas to start my half
of it and I never did
I never wrote a ******
word I might have sent
him an idea and then
never followed up and
now he's gone and what
I wouldn't give to just
write a few **** words
for him to show him
I took it seriously and
maybe give him just
that one more chance to
open up and tell me what
kinds of things rested
in the broadness of his mind.

To be precise
Is to lack broadness.
The world is limited
For I am limited.
The world extends me
To include myself.

I'm defined by my outside,
The negative position of being,
I am my joy of living,
The decision to remain,
A choice,
A place,
Wordless definition,
A completion of the space.

I am. The sum of all possibilities
Could only lead to this.
I am a result,
A process,
But I am a creature creating.
Because all of this
I can only be insufficient:
Otherwise I would lack existence.