He touched our hands
But unconcernedly this famous man
And would not look us in the eye
For fear of contact or what might be worse, connection
And we could hardly blame him, for after all
He had each day been singled out for close inspection
By ones like us, in awe of his celebrity
Circled in the shade of his perfection
Hoping for the star-dust sprinkle of acuity
Or sparkling eyes, admission to his inner cult and clan

He wore blue jeans
And scuffed sneakers as a badge of proof
Of his coolness and unconcern
While we his audience with concealed attention
Enviously eyed his hairy confidence, unconsciously
Imitating in each phrase that low convention
Made small adjustments to our store-bought suits and ties
And nodded several times in bright pretension
Made small amendments to our smiles and lies
Flicked photo-phones in pursuit of custom and routine

He gave a speech
A flippant interview, this famous creature
A well tossed phrase, a rounded cliche
Poured forth like brandy in a glass, convivial
Or apple cider-ed vinegar in pewter mugs
A sardonically French-accented phrase habitual
Well humored, heavy lidded with testosterone
At interlocutor women with the pens and pads
Delivered in a low and purring monotone
For all the world as lovers, each to each

He stretched a smile
A modulated shift of teeth and beard
"Genius? Not I"  with deprecation
"My shallow intellect, so poor and so ephemeral"
Delivered in a tone that mocked inclusion
While we assumed an elegance, unintentional
A nonchalance that shields the wide charades
Unmoving in our breathless, but conventional
Genuflection to the the notion that pervades                                                      
Our addictive appetite now sated. For a while.                              
                                                                ­                                  
He kissed their cheeks
And stroked their arms, with sensuous ambivalence
But absently, as if he cared so little
In his farewell. 'A bientot' he said and 'Au revoir'
And slipped away amongst the moving Milan crowds
Creative and creator, irredeemably a star
With, in his wake the smiling scriveners staring
At his retreating back in Stark excitement
In the middle of the circling and squaring, at
The alpha-wolfic effigy. The Shepherd and his sheep.

. . . says a twig to a stream, to a river to the sea . . .
“Why do you struggle so very mightily?
The ice grabs you like it’s beholden me.”
B
ut the water gurgles, below, unconcernedly.
“Once I bore a crown so light and green!
Where is it now? Only you have seen!
In the Fall I blazed the brightest red!
Now, in the Winter, I wish you were dead . . .”
The twig remembers that Spring comes again;
its leaves will be born and unfurl then,
“And Fall will give them to you to take from me!”
. . . says the twig to the stream to the river to the far away sea . . .

But the twig’s just a shadow the stream must pass through.
The ocean calls it home, so that’s what it’ll do.
The stream was born of a past Winter’s ice
and the twig’s just a shadow through which it must slice.
And . . . maybe it might bear a leaf or two
but it can’t remember what it might do.

An Ocean rages at the earth and the sky!
Rocks are torn to pebbles and mists flung to fly.
Then one day its water, as rain,
awakes the twig to leaf again.
And a twig looks down at the slice of shade
its leaves, once again, upon the stream, have made.
And forgets, come Fall, what colors there’ll be;
another twig is born of a branch of a tree.

One far Winter the water will freeze,
a cold dire wind will strip branches from trees.
One Old Twig floats down to the sea
and uncovers one thing a twig might be:
bright driftwood cast far ashore
and it’s not now a twig anymore.

A Flame spits embers at the dark, starry sky.
The children of its anger upon the winds do fly.
A tree gives those children a home in its leaves
as an iced over stream groans and grieves;
praying for safe passage through the Shadow of the Twig up above
. . . and so flows the circle of the cycle of the rhythm of Nature’s Love . . .

Time is but a moment that passes you by;
a stream of cold tears that others must cry.
Twigs glare darkly at other streams;
Life’s much bigger . . . and smaller . . . than it seems.

I love you terribly, and because of it
I am become completely impotent.
And I love you impotently,
And that is a terrible thing to behold.
I love you patiently
Because the root of me is a grave impatience,
And I love you impatiently
Lest the present root begin to die in earnest.
My flesh loves the scarlet sin in all of you;
Being that itself is made entirely of ruby-blooded flesh.
And my spirit loves the resounding hollowness
Of your souls thin, empty rails.

My love is an imperturbable being
That is too soon ground beneath your wheel, like an acorn;
And it is an impenetrable wheel
Which pulls me under, on it's return travel around.
This love is a decomposing hand
That's rising up fist-like, out of a newly closed grave
To grab my ankle as I run past, trying to scream out your name,
Through some shadowed cemetery, at some ungodly hour
In a world that looks suspiciously like this one.

And this love is a panting hound,
Trying to rebury its last remaining bone scrap of hope
With two lame legs impeding;
While this love, a one-eyed crow
Sits taciturn in a tree, just above a tiny, dead sparrow-
And fluffs its jet feathers, unconcernedly.

Men **** each other outside
while we regret their reasons
but we are like them,
we are fated to **** too...
so, we won't be alive at dawn.

and the words are dangerous,
and the screams don't belong to us,
and the souls just evaporates.

Oh kid, you will change this world
but I won't help you
because I don't believe in us...
I just have no faith in us,
I am just fated to get used.

and our hearts are stones,
and our eyes don't cry,
and our mouths are tombs.

Sometimes we are afraid of living
because of those open wounds,
but when you hold my hand
and smile unconcernedly,
I know it was worth to grow up.

and it's worth to live to die,
and it's worth to plan some future,
and it's worth to be a child.

I once heard a scream
from inside me.
So I opened my heart to the world,
in order to silence it,
but the world wasn't enough.

It sounds like celestial
but it's just natural.

I once missed places
where I have never been.
So I closed my eyes,
in order to forget them,
but forgetting wasn't enough.

It sounds like an anthem
but that’s not what I imagine.

I once got bored
with all the city’s noises.
So I ran into the woods,
in order to find satisfaction,
but isolation wasn’t enough.

It sounds like the sea
but it travels slowly.

I once heard the birds
and I decided to follow them.
So I chose to love unconcernedly,
in order to retrieve my humanity,
but not even love was enough.

It sounds like peace
*but that’s not what it brings.

.....)
I will oscillate without rhyme
purpose pattern
or reason
between jagged velvet nihilism
and hedonism soft toothed
until I eventually maybe
improbably possibly
discover something worth living for or drown in numbful lustness
unconcernedly disturbed
disturbedly unconcerned
that I never found it
(.....