Introduction
There they stood; keeping silent company.
Yet of His face, wept searing electricity.

To the lovers of life*
Here they stand, keeping silent company.
No utterance dealt; yet clear in both their minds
A single, brilliant truth:

He longs for her with a savage delight.
And it cries from every fibre, exalting!
It is in the bearing of his eye;
Rifling through her tender flesh
In search of what he knows, from voices ages old, is there:
That her heart will beat for no other as it beats for him right now;
That in this moment, their Souls are bared
To each other’s glares- naked, and blemished, and cowering-
Yet his eyes remain fixed and sure:

And for this, she loves him.

For they have seen each other for the First of Times,
Truly! And as with many the Ancient Laws unfurled,
They stand aware, in lack of ever being taught,
Aware with every atom, every straining tendon tight
That their time's so very short.

And so they drink… wordless
To each other, to their youth, and to their bodies
Shining like never before in the noonday air
Garbed in cloth that snaps and furls around their waists.

They imbibe with electric eyes,
Eyes that are new born to this world of light
And come out screaming, living, and sensitive
For lack of ever being touched.
They revel in their new-found joy;
Pouring from Her figure,
Of Her sleek, supple waist and the arch of her back,
Bristling with delight,
Of His strong hands and easy smile,
That spoke of laughter scattered
Across countless campfires of summers past.

Their light does burn intense as any fire,
And when their brimming anticipation
Overspills its crimson chalice
The silence shall SHATTER.
To find peace again in each other's arms.
Fumbling in sweet darkness-

Of heavy lids, of earthy flesh,
With lips embraced...

In ravenous finality.

Ch. 1.

1.

Behold, thou art dark and comely, my love;
richly hath the sun favoured thee,
delighting in thy presence.
Let me savour thy kisses of wine;
for in the gardens of the temple
the lotus furls open,
wild bees fall asleep on her face.


2.

Lilies and jasmine bloom
in the garden of my love;
falls of wisteria,
carpets of thyme.
Let us lie in the shade of the olives
to gaze on the sky.


3.

For many hours my love slept
  beneath the cedars,
couched on cool swathes of linen,
like the Lord of Midnight enthroned on a cloud.
Long tresses of willows shivered to cool his face.
I called his name but he heard me not,
being entranced in slumber,
deep in the thrall of dreams;
therefore I shall let him awaken when he please.




Ch. 2.

4.

A warm breath of nard is my master, my king,
A great golden deity haloed with stars.
Behold, the noble bearing of a king,
the finely-wrought body of a man.
In my dearest dreams he standeth before me
out of my reach, gesturing for me to follow,
calling unto me like the very embodiment of love.


5.

Night comes softly, o daughters of Jerusalem,
My king's desirous eyes have grown heavy with sleep.
His black hair ripples about his face
  like curtains of smoke,
gold bracelets entice my gaze to
the sinews of his arms.
Like roses unfurling, so open the lips of my love,
  I burn for their flavour,
yet awaken him not till he please.





Ch. 3.

6.

Out of the forest I came, with my
maidens and minions;
with carpets of hibiscus strewn at my feet.
Columns of frankincense curved into the air,
burning from lamps of copper and gold.
From the broad slopes of Edom
my soul's love stopped to observe us.
I felt his warm gaze upon me,
so soft a look as touched like caresses of hands.
I am weary with desire, my lord and king,
Bring me the looks of thine eyes, dark as midnight,
That regard me with touches of silk.


7.

Though I may stand with my legion before thee,
an army behind me,
The west wind roars to my left,
the east to my right,
a million strong with all my banners, warriors
and standard-bearers,
still my delight were only to serve thee,
see how I tremble with awe by thy side.


8.

Behold, my ladies, the noble bearing of a king,
the finely-wrought body of a man.
My king is a custodian of the sanctity of love,
see those arms with the strength to smite
yet full of the will to embrace.
Nightly cometh he to my chambers,
whispering of love,
with the stealth of a lion,
as meek as a lamb.




Ch. 4.

9.

Preparing for my beloved,
I have put on my mantle of midnight sky
garlanded with stars.
My black locks are hung with beads of gold,
my neck is anointed with sandalwood and rose.
Come, my ladies,
Bring me my white chargers,
my sedan lined with silks from Lebanon,
my heralds and cavalcades of guards;
My beloved king awaits my pleasure.






10.

When I am in the embrace of my beloved,
He is worlds of landscapes of desire,
he is all the earth, air and sky to me.
His eyes shineth as my sun and moon,
his broad chest becometh as the
cool desert dunes by night,
where I may rest my head.
Go safely in thy dreams, beloved king,
with sentinel angels, to roost with the doves.




Ch. 5.

11.

Such a turmoil of a dream
hath troubled me, my sisters,
I dreamed that my love approached my window,
Calling unto me through the
rosewood trefoils of the lattice.
Forgetful of our tryst I answered him not,
all oils and fine trappings were put away,
mine eyes were full of slumber.
When finally I rose from my bed
   he had gone.


12.

Overwrought and afraid,
I went out in the streets,
  calling unto my beloved,
receiving no answer and calling again.
  The night watchmen came and found me,
they smote me and denounced me as pagan,
calling me harlot and worshipper of false idols,
harshly they beat me with flails
and threw me into the darkest cellars
of the palace of Solomon.


13.

Awakening at last,
I felt a warm breeze,
It was my love's breath upon my face.
Let all the world suspend in time,
let hate, rage and darkness flee as a shadow,
otherwise let me die here in the arms of my king.
There is but this one hour, one place,
in one lingering moment,
When my soul's love and I are conjoined
in the petals of love.




Ch. 6.

14.

Midnight has fallen in the gardens
  of the temple of Solomon.
The moon communes with her sister in the lake,
painting the magnolias with mother-of-pearl,
turning her buds into silver doves.
Passion and beauty intertwine in my love's garden,
Like the twisted trunks of the fig trees of Judea.
Behold, my beloved,
thou art more comely even than the moon.
Come and walk with me
in the balmy air of night.


15.

Only through the love of another may
a soul come to know of itself.
My king is mine and I am his;
The sun and moon each taketh their
turn in the sky,
the shepherds go sure-footed
over their hills and valleys,
the merchants go their ways in the
spice markets of Lebanon,
while he and I are lost in one another's eyes.




Ch. 7.

16.

Love's weariness hath overcome me,
beloved lord and king.
Bring me thy pleasant fruits, thy tender words,
Lie betwixt my *******; my hair shall
be thy curtain,
these arms shall be as thy cocoon.
Let the tides cease their turning
and the winds give pause to hold their breath.
Awaken not my dearest love, until he please.


17.

Even in sleep,
such beautiful eyes hath my beloved;
his eyelashes rest upon his cheek
like the feet of a butterfly on a lily.
Come, my sisters, we shall make him
a bed of hemp and poppies,
with fruit of the lotus,
that he may languish beside me
for many days and nights.




Ch. 8.

18.

Filling my days and dreams,
here is a man with the grace of a young hart,
whose honeyed voice speaketh mantras of desire.
Arise and follow me, beloved, for my vineyards
are ripe with luscious fruits,
the doves beat their wings and fly from the cots.
Emerging from the amber of sunrise,
with a swirling of veils,
summer dances into the season of our love.


19.

Lying amid the twisting vines
My love and I are deep in each other's embrace
and his lips taste of roses heavy with dew.
I am a queen of the Red Sea,
an orchid from a sacred garden,
and my kingdom reacheth to the farthest hills.
None but my love shall pass the boundary
where my vines bear the sweetest fruit,
nor taste their heady wine.


20.

The gates of my vineyard are wrought of
iron clad with gold,
taller than cedars, decorated with
the royal insignia,
guarded by three score watchmen,
by day and night.
While other men are kept without
and the foxes are driven back by dogs,
see how swiftly they open for thee.




Ch. 9.

21.

Behold, the noble stature of a king,
the finely-wrought body of a man.
In the sanctity of love
we may walk in the realm of paradise,
undisturbed by the foibles of men.
Come beloved, awaken,
the new dawn opens as wide and fresh
as infant eyes.
Come run with me through the spice hills
  and gardens of Lebanon.

As I scale the *****
I note the melody of the wind
With its sweeping symphonic shifts
My nails grind against granite
Before flaking and falling into the abyss
Yet I persist
Upward along the lone path
Where the air recedes like tides
And frost forms fellowship upon my eyes
Before seeking to turn my sore limbs, frigid
Icily assuring each ache is anchored in anxiety
Which stems from the worn clothes of society
Yet as I climb, the fabric is discarded
Like old styles of yesteryear
Now basking in all my naturalness
I finally summit, my thoughts thankfully descend
My heart lifts up its scepter and then my chin
Beating with Brilliance it grins
Furls up it sleeves and wordlessly begins
The work of healing from within

Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.

The airport
Has a clean smell
That furls into your nose
And on your jacket
And it reaches your
Mind
And your
Heart
The smell
Causes years
It wants you to leave
It wants you to stay
It's the smell of departure
Hopeful and new
Or old and tired
It's leaving
Forever
Or just a couple weeks
It's vacation
And loss
It's departure.

The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways
His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped
His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath,
That moved in the beginning o'er his face,
Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves
To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall.
Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up,
As at the first, to water the great earth,
And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms
Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind,
And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear
Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth
Over the boundless blue, where joyously
The bright crests of innumerable waves
Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands
Of a great multitude are upward flung
In acclamation. I behold the ships
Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle,
Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home
From the old world. It is thy friendly breeze
That bears them, with the riches of the land,
And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port,
The shouting ****** climbs and furls the sail.

  But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face
The blast that wakes the fury of the sea?
Oh God! thy justice makes the world turn pale,
When on the armed fleet, that royally
Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite
Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm,
Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks
Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails
Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts
Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks,
Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf,
Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed
In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed
By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks.
Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause,
A moment, from the ****** work of war.

  These restless surges eat away the shores
Of earth's old continents; the fertile plain
Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down,
And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar
In the green chambers of the middle sea,
Where broadest spread the waters and the line
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work,
Creator! thou dost teach the coral worm
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age,
He builds beneath the waters, till, at last,
His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check
The long wave rolling from the southern pole
To break upon Japan. Thou bid'st the fires,
That smoulder under ocean, heave on high
The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks,
A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird.
The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts
With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; sweet airs
Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers,
Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look
On thy creation and pronounce it good.
Its valleys, glorious with their summer green,
Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods,
Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join
The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn.

Whirl!
My girl’s saree fringe
swirls;
round my face it
furls…
Blow again, north wind!

There has not been for a long time a spring
as beautiful as this one; the grass, just before mowing,
is thick and wet with dew. At night bird cries
come up from the edge of the marsh, a crimson shoal
lies in the east till the morning hours.
In such a season, every voice becomes for us
a shout of triumph. Glory, pain and glory
to the grass, to the clouds, to the green oak wood.
The gates of the earth torn open, the key
to the earth revealed. A star is greeting the day.
Then why do your eyes  hold an impure gleam
like the eyes of those who have not tasted
evil and long only for crime? Why does this heat
and depth of hatred radiate
from your narrowed eyes? To you the rule,
for you clouds in golden rings
play a music, maples by the road exalt you.
The invisible rein on every living thing
leads to your hand--pull, and they all
turn a half-circle under the canopy
called cirrus. And your tasks? A wooden mountain
awaits you, the place for cities in the air,
a valley where wheat should grow, a table, a white page
on which, maybe, a long poem could be started,
joy and toil. And the road bolts like an animal,
it falls away so quickly, leaving a trail of dust,
that there is scarcely a sight to prepare a nod for,
the hand's grip already weakened, a sigh, and the storm is over.
And then they carry the malefactor through the fields,
rocking his grey head, and above the seashore
on a tree-lined avenue, they put him down
where the wind from the bay furls banner
and schoolchildren run on the gravel paths,
singing their songs.

--"So that neighing in the gardens, drinking on the green
so that, not knowing whether they are happy or just weary,
they take bread from the hands of their pregnant wives.
They bow their heads to nothing in their lives.
My brothers, avid for pleasure, smiling, beery,
have the world for a granary, a house of joy?"

--"Ah, dark rabble at their vernal feasts
and creamatoria rising like white cliffs
and smoke seeping from the dead wasps' nests.
In a stammer of mandolins, a dust-cloud of scythes,
on heaps of food and mosses stomped ash-grey,
the new sun rises on another day."

For a long time there has not been a spring
as beautiful as this one to the voyager.
The expanse of water seems to him dense
as the blood of a hemlock. And a fleet of sails
speeding in the dark, like the last
vibration of a pure note. He saw
human figures scattered on the sands
under the light of the planets, falling from the vault
of heaven, and when a wave grew silent, it was silent,
the foam smelled of ioding? heliotrope?
They sang on the dunes, Maria, Maria,
resting a spattered hand on the saddle
and he didn't know if this was the new sign
that promises salvation, but kills first.
Three times must the wheel of blindness
turn, before I took without fear at the power
sleeping in my own hand, and recognize spring,
the sky, the seas, and the dark, massed land.
Three times will the liars have conquered
before the great truth appears alive
and in the splendor of one moment
stand spring and the sky, the seas, the lands.

*Wilmo, 1936

Another year furls its petals, bedecking the world in orange and red and yellow.

The fresh apples picked and pressed,
the cider scent wafts up,
spectral cinnamon scents this season.

It is futile to delay summers parting,
Even now the kisses at dawn are cooler
The rays less direct the days growing shorter.

But it is a time of sustenance,
Gathered in labors, sustaining stores.
This season of togetherness,
Distinct flavors of allspice and nutmeg,
Pumpkin and sweet potato.
Feast and celebration.

As the living world recedes into the long sleep
I try to forget the hardships endured,
And dwell in the replay of your masterpiece day.
I compared you to various poets,
You laughed demurely,
I did not know how amazing, and precious
You were back then,
Green shoots still grew in my garden.
As autumn approaches absolute dominance
I think of the spring I fell deeply in love with you,
Your charms rained down on everything you touched
And then the sky cracked, and we fled together,
But the diligent one,
The one who knows treachery as the interior of her eyelid
Is tattooed with every manner of trickery,
She is magnificent in her cruelty,
A beautiful creature in her own right,
But a miserable wretch compared to you.
She wanted me, and she ripped me from your hands,
Like when she will rip you from my hands,
And so on until she has what she really wants.
You do not deserve such things.
You deserve more than this universe can provide,
Yet you ask, oh so much less.
Knowing that you will leave me
Is the falling of bright colored leaves.
Five shades of red, three shades of orange,
Mixed and blended yellows,
Exquisite multicolored rain.
My autumn has arrived.

Your words of tender, mellow slur
are furls and wisps of thin, streaming clouds;
       dancing ecstatic,
       swaying hypnotic,
       sailing on the somber oceans of the wind--
then nestling as mist
   at the doors of these still lake lips of mine,
   hankering to swallow and wallow the low-resting, quiet, ambrosial fog.

Getting Ready
On the go
Doing things
Need a blow

Giddy gaggle
Endless Gags
Toothy giggles
Tongues a wag

Dressing up
Getting down
Goofing off
Clownin round

Pretty girls
Wearing pearls
Dancing Swirls
Fluffy Furls

Blowing Kisses
Giving Hugs
Singing Ditties
Cut a Rug

Buoyant Banter
Flashing Smiles
Bubbly Blabber
Smoking Milds

Shakin *****
Gettin Down
Wigglin *******
Goofy Gowns

Keep a Groovin
Boogie all night
Shake Them Legs
Les Dames et Dynomite

Oakland
8/23/01

Music Selection:
Jackson 5
Dancing Machine

The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The -isms and the -anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

The Fates are subtle girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!

We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What come of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!

Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The--isms and the--anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'

The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!

We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'

Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!

Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'

Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'

Envoy

Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'

How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades—
smoke furls and curls among the glass—
before a man belies his fame?

The corner of the room pervades—
imbued with smoke if so to pass—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades?

Visage so cool but starts to jade;
will eyes see through and to surpass,
before a man belies his fame?

Caught in the great aesthetical wake,
the fans will bend and surge en masse—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades?

His words, his voice, depict a sage—
I wonder if the lore will last
before a man belies his fame.

But once the petals cease to sway
and blades blow back a pompous ***—
How long behind Bob Dylan’s shades,
before a man belies his fame?

You're sitting at the beach,
The waves tickling your feet
As you cry and tremble and weep.
You've suffered before, but not
Like this, this back and forth
Ripping and pounding at your
Chest, as the rest of the world,
The sea, the seagulls, the fuzzy
White furls of the ships in the
Distance, the wood of the pier
Cracking, the people on the
Pier smiling and laughing,
All of it swims around you
As you struggle to breathe.
Jack came over earlier and
Told you "We've been through
Since last June, we just didn't
Have the guts to admit it
To each other." You wish you
Had a bottle of wine in your hand.
You wish some prince or even
Some homely fella', with a
Star Trek shirt and a slightly
Unkempt beard and a goofy
Chuckle would come across
You and offer to hug you,
With that slight stench of beer a
Welcoming sign that he might
Invite you to have some more.
Anything but another Jack.
Anything but Jack. Jack had been
A prize, a gift, a jewel.
Jack had filled your time
And space, and the history is
Playing over and over in your
Head, and you're trying to erase
The asterisk next to each scene
And clip in this tangled up
And knotted movie. Jack wanted
You. Jack wanted you and you
Still want him, and you wish
You could have felt him when
You had the chance. Felt
His soul when he stood up
For what he believed in,
Felt his tears when he cried
His heart out, felt his trembling
Hands in yours when he
Said his first "I love you,"
Felt his scar from the car
Accident that he said you
Helped him get through, felt
His warm body against you
And inside you and his hot
Breath and kisses on your lips
As your hips wrestled, felt his
Pain that he was ashamed of
But felt brave enough to
Share it with you. All of it.
You wish you could have felt
Him when you had the chance.
But you didn't, because you
Couldn't, and eventually he
Felt that same way about you.
You couldn't feel him when
You were there. You were there,
But you weren't really there.
And now you're waiting for
The tide to kick in, with
Images of being taken in
Slithering in and out of
Your imagination. You want
To shout out loud but you
Don't want anyone to look,
And you try to squeeze
Your ears together so
You don't have to hear,
Though you only end up
Hearing more, and you
Close your eyes tightly so
You don't have to see,
Though you only see more.
In your core you're burning up,
And waves of tears keep
Oscillating from within you.
There's nothing more for you.
This is you and who you
Are. How could you ever love
Someone if you could never
Really feel them? How would
You ever let them love you
If you will never let them
Feel you? Feel your pain
When your steel container
Of a heart cracks and
They can see all the shame that
You've buried and held in there,
Feel your fingernails running
Through their hair and up
And down their back as
They feel you tighten and implode
With them, feel the scars on
Your arms from all the harm
You've put yourself through,
Feel your trembling body
In the cold and hug and kiss
And love you back to health,
Feel when you need to cry but
That old voice screams at
You to hold it in because
You can't let anyone in through
That door, feel you when you
Stand up and say you
Have to go when really
You want to stay but you
Need to go. Need to go
To the beach and sit in
A heap of sand until the
Tide washes you away.
Takes you away from this
Place and all it wants
To take from you. And then
A homely dude with a
Star Wars shirt and
Unkempt hair asks "Hey,
Are you okay over there?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," you
Reply. "You sure?" "Yes,
I'm sure, I'm fine. Just had
A bad day. Thanks, though,
By the way." "Sure, no prob.
Have a goodnight. Hope you
Feel better." "Thanks. Goodnight."
And you get up and leave,
Walking to your car, wiping
Sand off your hands and
Your **** and legs, and
Start the car. You head
For home. You have to pick
Up your clothes from the
Cleaners tomorrow.

The support of a hand,
A game-changing palm clasp,
Like a coach to the shoulder pads
Of an athlete.
I don't feel I deserve it,
But I don't want to sway a friendly gesture
Because then do I feel I denied help
Sent my way.
I need that tangible gift,
Whether in a corn maze of doubt
Or in a harvest of success.
It's amazing, it's a grace
To have received at least one someone's hand
Staccato your back, your shoulder,
Even a friendly fist-nudge
That lunges your motivation forward.
How blessed I have been
To have had many people
Non-sensually give what I cannot see
Yet what I perceive indelible:
Their blessing and cheers for me
That I feel when a hand furls 'round my shoulder
And then fades away to let me harness that I.V. of assurance
Injected with sound decision and faith.
For those who never felt this kind of gesture,
Let these words be a pat on your shoulder.
You're doing just fine.

and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.

Write if you might
Write what is trite
Write till you tingle
Write, don't mingle
Write what soothes
Write while booz'd
Write away the smirks
Write until it hurts
Write how she furls
Write till she hurls
Write what may
Write the day
Write the sky
Write, don't ask why.

His eyes blindfolded by sleep, he densely gropes about grabbing my hand between both
of his.
Enclosing mine own between his Faberge egg of callouses and scars.
He holds my hand as if made of porcelain between his blonde-tufted, chiseled pectorals.
The tufts shift beneath the weight of our hands with each heave of mellifluous breath, silhouetted by pthalo blue lights from the electronic tomes casting their oceanic net about the room.
Chronographs edge further into their rotation, and his tides of breath bear the gentle weight of his hands more heavily about mine.
A dulling crash of sleep furls about my hand - starting at the top and settling somewhere between the tufts.
I begin to wonder if the heartbeat I feel in my hand is his or mine.
As I begin to drift back to sleep with disregard to whether or not I will wake with a functioning hand; a yawn encompasses his form pulling the Faberge egg apart, and shocking a syncopated known trumming through my hand.
A smile washes over both of our faces; in blindfolded sleep for him, and me with an interest in illumination within his maniform Fabrege clasp.

Oh, how the brave do fall, when the furls of power sprawl to cover all.

Simple joys of life unbound scatter along the sullied ground, there to be              unfound and kicked around.

Oh how their beauties fade, when never have they paid for that which made the lives in which they parade.

The toils of love can never rise above the pride that has never seen the shove of a painful rebuff.

How do we repair this harmful error, when so long it finds its heir both here and there?

Never can they change to lives full of range that they find strange, and relax in its fangs.

So glory to the just, who shutter from the dust, exactly as they must, to find the things they distrust and move in spite of these painful thrusts.

It is these pains which goad us on, in these we find our song to move along and trust that which breaks the bonds to these drugs we’re on.

So, I tell you now, find how this world tries to tie you down, then break the walls which crowd until they lay on the ground,

And in this you shall be free, to live the life which you see and find your eternity in all that comes to be.

O, bitter skies with speckled heavens!
Beyond the idle thinker’s eye --
Serenely still without impressions,
Unconcerned with passers-by.

Beneath your canopy, on high,
Pleasured moans and tortured cries
Become the same with passing time.

Such elegance, so divine!
And without a chance to make it mine --
How my soul can't help but shake.

O, Master of Fortune and Weaver of Fate!
Your will unwinds in billows and furls.
With patient breath and silent ache,
Could I but stand within those curls!

In posing as a nautilus
he is a sun; a son, star
the quiet murmurs of ocean
in the darkest part of night –

his chest is a cave in which to sleep
a shelter in which breath tunnels through veins
or wind? He is the tempest,
the hurricane pealing as a bell,
pealing or peeling back landscape
picking apart houses, hillsides,
like the bones of a corpse

and his is the storm, the tide
as it bemoans lost love for the moon –
in his pain, he throws himself
against the Cliffside and he shatters;

in posing as an ocean
he furls, curls like fingers of water
clinging to shore; in reflecting
he is the sun, stars, moon and sky
the wind and whistling through his bones
and breath –

he is the softness with which we sleep
dreams brought to flesh
curled as a nautilus or a shell,
heavy with soft, unspoken words,
hours of quiet murmurs.

My gaze guides pink and blue of quiet calculator
Searching for the LCD
Hidden behind a pointless screen
As the outside pours itself upon me

It really tickles the soul,
The unbounding energy
I twist and shout as my skin furls
Curls with the waves of R.L-itty biting Goosebumps

Yet I can see between the trees of an old office park
The burned remains of waxy candle-like light
scattered across the rainy windowpanes
that fell around me in an amniotic metal box
I filled with an unopened lung

And behind the neon light she danced pretty as a queen
A silhouette, a silent dream
And I saw her in the drops of heaven,
In the rains of light,
And in the fuzzy deep inside
that echoed the hearty rumble of an engine
And carried me through wet asphalt
Of an unending night

Until I found a bridle

To bewitch she would let me ride

Yet in knowing ways she would dissatisfy,
Show the glaring between her eyes,
Tell me all the things between the sky
The she felt kept us from touching

No amount of metal screen
Or electronic ideation
Will fix the willful sublimation
of our shackled spirits
To realms out of reach

With human aye I fill my gaseous pouch
with the leathery sickly burning draught
of aromatic spinning gin and tonic
The threw my head over the bar
And out the door, into oiled alley,
Where She and I met lips there
Where we both smelled of reek
And Where weak minds tortured like glass
stained with the memories of fine wine

And a sense of overpowering divine

When we paired and parted,
Left for spheres
And both sought some different way out of..
here.

A tattooed man, burly and grey,
twists his hemp-fiber rope.
He thinks only of this cable’s lay,
not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope.

His skin is bronzed and deeply creased
echoing the waves of the sea.
The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece
recall thousands of mornings misty.

His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors
as his mind glides through his tasks.
He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers
on his worn body from times long past.

Silently he furls the white canvas sails
and stows the great ropes below.
He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail
all the sea salt on the deck white as snow.

The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies
as seagulls circle and sing their own lay.
But the sailor man hears not their cries —
He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh.

The oaken ship now glides at slow pace,
adrift on the wide open waters.
A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace:
He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter.

He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line.
He sails to be one with the sea.
He waits in calm as the smell of the brine
signals his new bride has welcomed his plea.

Ages hence a wreck will be found
with just one skeleton aboard.
But upon one bony finger, a round
gold band shines out like a vast hoard.

Always get this feeling,
like a bullet the size of a bowling ball
is stuck deep in my chest. Like,
a child lost in a supermarket
whose parents were stabbed
outside in their minivan.
Got a shake in my hands
or a spark in the front of my skull
I can't press out no matter
how hard I squeeze my forehead.
My brow furls.
Think about biting off the tongue
a lot lately. I have you, always,
in place of cold solace or warm comfort.
No real reason, emptiness just
creeps up on you and grabs you
like a good friend. Gotta love it, right?
When you want to just
climb in a box with your
arms around yourself;
it's like your holding something
together.
"Like" it...
It's not even anyone's fault anymore,
I just get here on my own.
I know the path, and I follow it.
There's not enough sad songs in
the worn out jewel cases from the
90's to 2004 to stop my...
I don't believe in souls anymore...
from being troubled.
In the back of a yellow cab,
somewhere inside, raining.
The driver looks at you in the rear-view,
asks, "Where are we going?"
You curl up by the window.
Just gaze at the storefronts,
the gait of the ordinary citizens.
"Yeah", you tell him, softly,
"Anywhere is fine."

You are steam, a romantic thing--
Silent, hot, always moving,
Ever-present where there is heat,
Life-giving substance and abundance,
Where there is tension and congestion.

But you are the kind of steam
That comes out of a humidifier
Your healing powers come from
A store-bought jug,
Worth less than a dollar.

Distilled--lacking in others’
Emotional impurities,
The little minerals that give the rest
Of us compassion and soul

Children try to play with you--
They engulf your furls in their mouths
Then open them and let you go, like dragons.
You linger in the air for winter.

I don’t know about her,
But I’m not sick anymore
Thank you for clearing this mucus
From my lungs.

"You're magical" he murmurs beneath his furls of bounding hair, his breath laced with the cooing cleanliness of a spurring romance.
I cup his face to examine his scintillating grin entrancing me to believe neither of us are human.
We are two slices of the universe haphazardly but precisely aligned.
Two flesh curled folk relishing in the moment of magic.
It's not I who espouses magic, but the amorphous entity between us.
The bridging between two worlds embedding a sliver of your entity into my universe.
Inextricably connected this little dash of magic will be buried in my flesh, a patch of milky iridescence, igniting me to seek the magic in a world riddled in havoc.

Streetlights line walkways like rows of miniature moons
I bask in them without respite
Creatures of the night sing harmonically
A private anthem shared across generations
There seems to be enough space for my own crooning

In a gust, the summoned lover appears
Wind greets me with irreverence
She kisses my pursed lips passionately
I savor the iciness as it distills in my blood

Above, the clouds collide chaotically
An astral ocean rumbles and swells
Its apocalyptic morphing draws one too many smiles
The pure, red sky delivers teardrop invitations

I soak in the crimson waves
They envelope me, elevate me
Wind eagerly grasps my arm
We spirit away to eternal shade

Promises were kept, dreams fulfilled
Freedom furls around my lungs
Daylight forces itself through my mouth and flees
Sighs of relief follow it

Finally home,
I sink beneath the inky stratosphere

The curtains curl,
the cloth furls.
The wind whispers sweet nothings
across your face.

Your face dappled by your hair.
The shadow of your smile,
ripples across your face.

The pale moonlight,
playing tricks with your body,
as I hold it.

Closer and Closer you move,
Warmer and Warmer you become.
The feel of skin against skin,
Turns the cold into heat.

Heated bodies become one,
Hot breath on your back,
as you sleep...

In the cold nights,
We've become one...

Spotted glints,
of lost luster,
in sealed oyster.
Still I obeyed the tape.
Navigating devoid of footholds,
simply stepped to the next petal, and strode.
Sundered squeaks, creaky hinges, floorboards, still,
there are inklings every other instant.
Uncertain of furls in the sail, wrent the rotten rudder from the stern.
Still there are tints in the stitching,
at the fringes. They billow.
The thievery was unintended.