cramped in the close quarters of my logic
there's a painting party going on.

but i've brought some shellac to seal
the tender places, the cut out picture postcards
of memories i saved, savor, slave over so carefully.
their disconnected connections splayed upon my walls.

i should paint over them, i know.
i should cover them over with a nice, bright white.

but the colors, the patterns, they
are a blueprint on the bones of my house.

they are my proof, my logical proof of illogical theories.
my picture postcards of impossible possibilities.

the decoupage of dreams' dalliance
dances upon these walls, definitively,

the cogent evidence of our coup de coeur.

There She lay,bare,naked,
lost,in a decoupage of dreams,
Mesmerized by Faces,
Faces with the same eyes,
the same smile,His smile!
She dreams and She is happy.
She feels him,His touch!
His  Hungry lips on  Her soft lips
His cheeks brushing Her Own,
His fingertips playing  on her
slender neck in upward
and downward movements.
His  dry mouth ******* sweet  nectar
from Her milk honey pulped breast.
His thighs brusing her long silk legs,
He nourishes his prey,with effection,
tender care,love and protection.
He feeds her with his Warmth,
misting the cold glass with his breath.
The mosaiced glass which traps Her
soul in a lonely scared desperate world.
He breathes her in,He gives her life
He gives all  that He is, to Her,
Her flesh molds with his own,
She moans,they  sweat,He sighs,
making love to her,gently,
as She begs Him for more.
There She lay,bare,naked,
lost in a decoupage of dreams,
The clock tick -tocks the time,
and ,the dream soon gone.
He kisses her forehead,
wraps her in a red blanket
of passion and yearn,
till he returns,till he finds her,
and splashes Her life
with water colours
once again. . . . . . . .

Swirl devil wind,
reek dusty havoc.
A mustang watches.

Silly hermit crab,
try on a new home,
a Budlight can.

Longacres racetrack,
ghost horses called to post
by Boeing trumpets.

I would decoupage
our love.
Life for art's sake.

My hanging fucshia
attracts a humming bird.
The nectar's on me.

I like words.
Each is often imperfect alone
But the skill lies
In stringing them together
In just the right order
In just the right way to convey
The galaxy in my mind.

I like words.
They stick smooth to my brain
Like the thinnest decoupage
Every inch neatly covered
Every crevice every crack
Every layer after
Every sheer layer.

the remarkable thing is that in all of my confusion about you, I really knew from the beginning all I needed to know and then some. I knew that this glass panel I had placed before me was mucky and soaked with dirt; I was seeing the full picture, but through the wrong lens. I don’t think about you much anymore, maybe once or twice every now and then, but all of the bundles of escape and the masks of summer were torched in all of our distractions from reality. time has moved like it always does, and our minds have evolved to our own separate desires. for you that would be the fake laughs and twisted foul calls you don’t fully agree with, and for me, well I’m not really sure at this point… maybe it’s my decoupage of memories that keep me going, or maybe it’s just the benefit of the doubt. sometimes, I picture all kinds of wildflowers; purple, yellow, red, and white, and I try to imagine them as the serenity in my life, so out of the ordinary to be left unnoticed. that’s exactly how you have become, just a plain old wildflower in my life left on the side of the highway.


(j.a.r.)

Toy guerilla warrior
his voice is pagan smog
                                                 his eyes are bitter coal
                                                 a rolling pebble

pinning a breach
upon a hedgerow path                       

                                                               he is a Golem splitting a wall
                                                               freeing a maiden ******

                                                               A Summons to a devil
                                                               shoots their tin hearts

                                                               a Decoupage screen is
                                                               no trust in a redeemer

                                                               and I'm on my knees
                                                               this All Hallow's Eve.

Gateways to the heart
change through the seasons.

Youthful romanticism,
tempted by pastels
sweet scented carnations
valentines in pink envelopes
a rosebud mouth.

Passionate eroticism,
eyes seek carnal depths
lips' open invitation
rose petal paths
and pulsing tempos.

Love divine, a decoupage,
years layered on years
passion and comfort
within familiar folds,
your skin next to mine.

The Better to see you with my Dear

yes I know my eyes are bigger
and I have telescopic lenses
trying to see beyond the camouflage
that you hide behind

but it is the sense of urgency
not so much the false pretenses
your hidden tricks with decoupage
that really blows my mind

you climb the ivory fences
looking down on Wrigley Field
under Funk and Wagnalls porch
inside an empty jelly jar

so hard to keep track of
your words of daily yield
by the light of your burning torch
bounced like an old bumper car

the magic words to break the spell
abracadbra alakazam
make the serpent stand abrupt
or make him disappear

so we exchange pleasant thoughts
and a bite of roasted ham
I'll keep my eyes wide shut
the better to see you with my dear

Gomer LePoet ...

A line cook at Denny’s (must have own pans)
Is an artist, accomplished in assemblage
Compositions of eggs (rather like Cezanne’s)
Toast, bacon, waffles for his decoupage

His gesso is the window layered in steam
Built of reflections and condensation
Hinting at the flowing Interstate stream
Beyond the No Smoking pumping station

The line cook has indeed his pans and plans -
Art, as the muse of cookery commands

I will rewrite history.



will decoupage the walls and lay
today's newspapers across our scripts
notated phone calls between
you                  and                 i

will let the past be the past  but
i will scumble it over in red alkyd flat
line the hairlines with vicuna threads
and  braided burlap

will let the sink run till it
lifts edges of the counter,
soapstone memorials we
built to emphasize our
bitter weaknesses for
eachother to live up to
till everything runs between
the floorboards
everything about you             and                 i
will bubble up and release
gently snap and move apart
we were no mettalurgists
but we tried--
to be as hard as all get up
iconel hearts stripping
eachother and you
bought out, you win
you're the alloy
and I am
raw skin and soul


but  I willl not be
bothered by the upheaval
as much as i break apart
(because I have been)
making a fool of myself
but i have hope that something
new will crack the casing
i am leaving in the quietest
way possible
relocating
he left months ago
and i am just starting to pack
my things but i wouldn't have
it any other way--
have you ever tried to force a
purge?

here i am,
here it is

the runoff.

With what I see, I draft a sketch
(and not how it should be)
I fill details, with all your loves
minutiae like Versailles, and such
colour here, a sculpture
there, a broken heart, alcoves
wainscotted with toil(e). some
envy carvings, poetry: a decoupage
of words,
said over years, re-cited
into countless tears,
ripened ensilage and patterns
recognised surprise,
through my hand I trace a line.
How I see, what I beget, is
defined as mine
stand and be yourself
through traffic, silence, and mindset
and if you don’t remember, know
that I do.not forget.

Your eyes hold a promise
of a thousand vignettes;
a sewn art of narratives
and sunshine metaphors.

The soft wind in your hair
is unborn poetry
carrying a hefty cloud
of sonnets and cinquains
figuratively crafted
with a wreath of sweetbay magnolia.

Your heart is brevity;
a tapestry of haikus and senryu,
decoupage of ballads
in a sea of poetic musings.

You are made of rhythmic quatrains;
an endless ocean of poetry.
And i'm an anthophile
with lungs made from flowers


forever drowning in your smile.