POUR wine and dance if manhood still have pride,
Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom;
The cataract smokes upon the mountain side,
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet
That there be no foot silent in the room
Nor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet;
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
In vain, in pain; the cataract still cries;
The everlasting taper lights the gloom;
All wisdom shut into his onyx eyes,
Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.

Bottled, bound in a brume blue-green,
a mist of Listerine again descends.
And slick, with what’s like shower’s
sweat, there's wipes of writing
on the wall. One thought, on
an endless loop of overcast,
warm marks on rippled sobbing glass:
o             u             t.

Seated, seeping. The mute little girl
fallen down the town well.  
We are half-aware of  the consequence
of these dreams of outside air. Clarity.
It kills me, but I suspect that now
a good deal of this vial’s moisture is mine.  

Chewing cautionary label gum,
(Do Not Swallow!)
We churn the potential
over and over in our mouth--
it taunts a minty tingle.
A curved black mark.
A chasm shadowed.
A welling up of a desire to gulp.

Desire for just one breath, one vision past
this germicidal upturned glass.
To live unlost, unwet, unmasked
a lifetime halled with gorgeous mirrors,
mirrors free from fog.

1
   effectless
                      hampering
                                           tongue is in the chattering molecule
of my dapper skull.
i hammer verbal clumsy spit into post nasal void
just likely
                  the stately emblem of young thoughts
and i'm new blood
     unwet tranquility
like the rain
       like the sun
           like the dry crevice
of clean filthy electricity
ramming carefully between my arms
the slight perfecting bodice of your
soft vehicle
and i placate it succinctly
by pink rinds
      slipperying on the wailing
cotton
             of you
most erratic brevity

By these slips of watery pieces,
fit against a waste of boulders--
this shoreline mirrors my
companion charms.
In the rub of spirit ventured,
the sea as flung ripples its
net in kind.
A play of seams to set boundaries--
though these words remain unwet,
their eyes are now a sea.
One continual flow in a surrender
of motion, like unto like--a common
drift coming by, and come by...
in an arrest of peace.
Nothing need move, or not move--
yet both bypassed.
All that's walled welled up, as if
passed over to capable hands that
feel for depths and shallows alike.

A cascade in crimson.
It’s a waterfall of petals.
They fall on you,
They fall on them.
I’m standing right there,
Beside you, and beside them,
I’m not wet.
I’m not wet.

Another infinity,
A different reality,
It passes unnoticed,
I pass unidentified.
Unwet, unsoaking,
In heaven’s greatest delights.
Some truths, mostly scars,
They keep me engulfed.
They keep me dry.
They keep me dry.

Some things,
They’re not for me.
Most things,
They walk away from me.
It’s like I live a half life,
A half smile,
A half lie.
There exists these walls,
These demarcations,
They surround me,
They eat me up.
I’m not allowed to proceed,
Or make a recovery,
Only stand and sink,
Into questions unanswered…
Into ‘’God loves thee’’---
And ‘’God loves thee nots.’’
I don’t know why!
And yet they stand,
They separate me,
Me from you.
Me from them.
Me from heaven’s forbidden delights,
Me from the crimson rain.

an Alaskan bed

sprawls out its

mattress--stuffed

with drifting crystals.

unwet by watery ratio--

though made of.

powered dry.

a bed & breakfast phone

rings...(rotary-rude).

after dialing two yrs.

without a pristine snow.