.
Musical brush strokes paint
               the pink honey moon
               full and bright ;

the melody wafts lightly
               with a sensual scent
               of Jasmine fleur

Lonely hearts sip the sky’s
               lambent elixir’s gentle persuasion
from separately dispersed novas

the perennial blossom of the perpetual tide ..,                                       .
               merely pined moonlight

Immersing wholly in wistful reflection
               alight on wellspring emerald pond

Verily unspoken words cavort
               like musical rivulets spiraling flow
into the crystalline echo

Luna’s haloed heavenly sighs ,
               emanation bestrewn
               shimmering through dark nebula

like shooting stars shattered
               by the weight
               of their darkest radiance,
echoes upon the tide-less mirror pond

               the nimbus of moonlight
               imbuing all the ways I want you . . .


wild is the wind ...© 6.17.2015

Bipolar sunshine;
Life's periodic lullabies
Changing me,
Waking me from ash to animal,
Trapped in the cage
Of my past lies,
Present cries,
Future demise.

But underneath this skin,
I'm still a human;
Boats of evergreen
Floating on tideless seas,
Yet I think I'm dying,
Unready for breathing;
Wild waters, blood oceans;
Mind lost, nightmares healing.

Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails!  Sleep, sleep!  Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil.  Food!  Food!
Offal!  Offal!  that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .

Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby!  The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep.  The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window.  Pay no
heed to him.  He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in.  He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it.  It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.

The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby.  The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves:  go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—

I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle

I like to call it blowing on the harp.  Or wailing.
Like how helpless my mouth is
in the throes of translating wind, how I forget to
unfurl into the hot pleasures
of bath, pearling on around me,
that I had previously spent several dimes of
anticipation on,
even the mounds
of afternoon-special bubbles,
even the pleasure of seeing my own
flushed and perfect skin, mermaided
beneath this tideless sea.

When the urge to blow upon the slim silver box finds me
I almost don’t.  Issues of noise and also
whatever it is when you think “I don’t
know how”. I am surprised to see such
reasonable concerns after all these years
of exacting unreasonable responses
from myself in those silvering and hightide
moments that you never see coming.  

As if there were more to
the how of it than lips and hands
and steam and breath and the now weary bubbles
done tired of waiting
and laid down instead, across the water
in flat white whorls,
in a type of peculiar obedience, to the music above.

Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium.

Pick a pepper.
Cow Palace.
Moth ***** and mouth *****.
Tea bags and sore throats.
Presumptuous candid                                            story-telling anomalies, trite

/masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling\

Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic.
        
                                                                                        Sand gathers boulders.

Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine                                        

                                                        and aesthete.

Curious. Before
clause. The story god.
                                                        The kick of Achilles

                 and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze.
                                        Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood.

                                                                                                Wears gloves. Has colds.

Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies.

Limps                            lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It

makes
meals
and carries them through broken towns,
over smoky ridges,
helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it.                                        One traffic light.   Three thousand three hundred lakes.

Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest.

Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog.

Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless.



Hours go by.

                                                        ...    ­                                      ...

                      ­                    ...

                                        ­                                            ...

Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over.

The bejeweled mid-rim equator

                                                               ­                                                 providence.


Ki­ng and queen.
Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing?

The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

Spectacular plight. Unbelievable nights. Feeling fowl in the palms of another                                                        
                                                                        land where weirs and wilds
and roaring waterfalls
                                                decorated with cowards collecting honey
                                                                                                              combs
through hair-strainers, so brave    soo brave, to brave, to hunter-gatherer
African mission-syndrome types in white long coats and sometimes and dangerously called doctors. Do not stop for lines. Do not stop for lions. Or

                        when stuck in the cauldron of the c t a         & cia

do not weave heavily through traffic, railing divorce into the cellular phone of man        . NO ZHE DOES NOT. NO.

No one eats, anymore.
The pleasure is moved.
The happy have landed.
The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner.

All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air.

Something cumin in the water. I love in French in English. In Germanic.

I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows.

The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows.

I run around Sue
and move back.                         I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A cinder blanketed snow home. An igloo. An ice tale of curiosity, of  

                two cities, twisted cities. Mad dragons and weirder wizards that rear silver and portage the weirs of Elk Grove, thru the elk homes
humming bizarre cantatas, making Raspberry jellish and relishing

inthelast
lightsofthemorning

of an

interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo.
We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing?                

Makes the men to swine, to mew muses. And get choosy on cabooses while

saving Moose.

                                                  maybe like Salvatore Dali would have done

He would halve none of it and brim over with it all.
Make cape flight from coastal waters. Riding the thermal winds of

North Africa, Tomato, and Japan;                              

BEARDEDfrogOFprinceGENEALOGYneededTOO     ...  ...  ... ....  .. . . ... ..

To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays,





but the women never come with the water.


                         [now you're supposed to ask if they keep it for themselves]

sad-leis         'end nose.'

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it.

I smell you on socks

                                                          ­                          .On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. No ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau,

a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's


eh                                                            ­                        eve             nobody home.

And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you.

And I seem you, to me. I seam you to me.

the maze

inside the rules of the car
you promise me that no matter what
insane or compromising thought might
have arisen from either our mouths,

there would always be the maze to keep us as friends- naked friends. ******* friends. hot, ****, blonde and brown haired beasts summoning our human equity to arouse and arraign each other, each's other:

say,
drowning in internacional shipping bombings, lost at terminals, aboard flights.

noting our beasts

the minimalist pianissimo of black and white keys, the growing spirits of a Richter violin filling us up
with anti-matter, inside this hours black tideless extremes. this place's mooring soporific tinders. You placed this cart of humanness too close to the life you live

even say,

rules i wanted to know but
never have to practise in your absence
nowness self-less and losing to the light, losing to the ocean, each ounce of life is now vastly different

inside of me
where dead worms
cannot crawl
i continue to die beside your sprawl
where heavy night brings memories of
your skin affixed n entwined
each of your twelve unspoken names
each of these hours that won't be mine

and as this box of earth resigns
its peace, i wish never to have known
this haunting sea, where quaffing like
the enigma of misery
my secret voice cannot be free
my eyes cannot bare their sight to see
if ever chance should be

My life-long journey I made
to the furthest edge
of experience--in patience
and humility-- old age
begins to tell but no message
of understanding or joy
has greeted me in my passage
I'm far from being enriched
what's before me
is dim and desolate--
the field is parched
the trees are starved
the sea is tideless
the sky is charcoal-black
birds have taken flight
new havens to locate
they would never come back

there's nothing here
for an old man to celebrate
but to sigh and regret--

there's not the slightest flicker
of light in the stealthy night
there's no moon awaiting
nor a single star in sight-

I feel the utter emptiness
my heart begins to cry
my feet are frozen in numbness
as the bitter winds unabatedly blow by.

At the black bottom of the loch
layers of forgotten days,
long dead, long lost
stir

Though the surface is glass
ruffled by no wind
tideless, seeming safe,
wait -

At any moment
the rot of what was thought
safely buried, hidden,
may rise

And the deeper it was drowned
the bigger bursts its ghost
smashing the reflected sky
forever

My back is to the loch
I walk untroubled hills but wish
that I could turn, raise hands, shout
"Stop!"

And help you.
Only help you.
I wish
that I could help you.

What emotion is this ?

This tideless ocean
that breaks nightly
upon
scotch stained rocks...

as I drowned my sorrows

reflecting upon
mine own repulsion
of myself

in spillage soaked emultion.

Bartab grows
bearing teeth of broken glass
as late night melancholy
bites me in the ***

The jukebox
offers his ten cents worth

Pour me a drink and I'll tell you some lies

change the record
pull the plug
pay off the stranger with the cigar **** eyes.

One more for the road
and maybe I'll leave

for there's too many ghosts
wearing out hearts
on their sleeves...

For my hearts the Titanic
smashed on fresh ice

as I head out in the rain storm
to take the Everlys advice.

Moon tideless
mud ***** at
rubber booted cocklers.

Crackle of *******
crustacean lifted
by ***** slipshod

Raising fractal shells
in practice old as man.

Listless boats loll
sealess, same little
boats, fishers of men
dunkirk.

Migrant birds ebb
and flow from africa,
struggle for land.

Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium. Pick a pepper. Cow Palace. Moth ***** and mouth *****. Tea bags and sore throats. Presumptuous candid story-telling anomalies, trite masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling. Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic. Sand gathers boulders. Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine and aesthete. Curious. Before clause. The story god. The kick to the Achilles and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze. Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood. Wears gloves. Has colds. Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies. Limps lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It makes meals and carries them through broken towns, over smokey ridges, helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it. One traffic light. Three thousand three hundred lakes. Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest. Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog. Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless. Hours go by. Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over. The bejeweled mid-rim equator providence. King and queen. Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing? The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

No one eats, anymore. The pleasure is moved. The happy have landed. The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner. All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air. Something cumin in the water. I love in French. In English. In Germanic. I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows. The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows. I run around and move back. I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A neige built snow home. An igloo. A tale of curiosity, of interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo. We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing? Makes the men to swine, to amuse muses. To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays but the women never come with the water.-

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it. I smell you on socks. On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. The none-ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawaling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau, a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's nobody home. And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you. And I seam you, to me. I seam you to me.

As we sway
Like stone statutes
Under the tideless
Moon

As
We
/Cold marble/
The night
Away .

As we plummet,
Wet-winged to the
Sea .

And
Me ,
Gun-faced    as
Children .

Wolf-mouthed , as
Love .

Bring me your/cities
To
Wipe   spittle-edge  .lips

With something to
Grip

To grip
T0

  .grip



I



   grip.you

The conscious sea arrests hold of me,
Collective knowledge streams to my head,
With new eyes of three, I now can see,
I’m swimming in secrets of the dead.

A tideless sea, of consistency,
Not up nor down, behind or ahead,
All Life dissolved in pure unity,
All life woven from a single thread.

One drop is whole– The Entirety,
Reality fits on a pin’s head,
Uprooting all I thought there to be,
Replacing it with nothing instead.

Thoughts absent beyond duality,
And time crawls while elusive and sped,
All is formless unfettered and free,
And no words say what needs to be said.

The conscious sea arrests hold of me,
Collective knowledge streams to my head,
With new eyes of three, I now can see,
I’m swimming in secrets of the dead.

A tideless sea, of consistency,
Not up nor down, behind or ahead,
All Life dissolved in pure unity,
All life woven from a single thread.

One drop is whole– The Entirety,
Reality fits on a pin’s head,
Uprooting all I thought there to be,
Replacing it with nothing instead.

Thoughts absent beyond duality,
And time crawls while elusive and sped,
All is formless unfettered and free,
And no words say what needs to be said.

Like the still ocean
Waves so gentle
Sweeping the shores
The gentle rustle comes to still
tideless waters come to rise
Moonlit crescents fall
shallow tides endless light
Betrays no hearts for no single purpose
For the oceans floor hides no secret
Decrepid yet whole
No reason is beyond that which lies in the hidden deeps
For all to seek yet so few to find