because you are an adventurer,
because you are a romantic,
because you are practical,
because you play to win,
because you are open, frank, and honest,
because you are sincere,
because you are incapable of meanness,
because you are a good friend,
because you might share your fudgey brownies with me,
because romance is for the young or foolish and i am very foolish,
because your kindness touches my soul,

i hope

60 seconds of heaven
60 minutes she loved me
60 hours on the run
60 days in the courtroom
60 years to life in pen
but it was almost worth it

sirens' songs lured
thousands to their
doom,
but i want to
meet the guy who
******
them
off.

i love myself: check
emotionally
available: check
financially
secure: most of time
have discovered who
i am: i'll have to
get back to you there

now bring on the poor
sucker

i'm going out with the guys.
i'll see you in a few days.
got some dinners in the fridge.
don't forget to feed the pets.
and, the plants need watering.
i love you, dear.  don't wait up

baby blue stroller
fire engine red wagon
chrome oxide green bike
yellow convertible
azurite blue van
sorrel colored wheelchair

bronze casket

“What is the most intimate thing
you've ever done?”  she asked,  as she
produced a small kit and withdrew
a syringe, holding it between
her long fingernails.  She turned
up the volume of the music
to intensify the moment.

“You think *** is intimacy?”
“*** is a body function!  I'm
talking about sharing myself
and becoming a part of you,
with the very essence of me
racing through your veins.  Are you scared?”
Metallica screamed in background.

What is the most intimate thing
I've ever done, I asked myself.
If it isn't ***, what is it?
Give flowers, candy, jewelry,
pen a song, write romantic verse?
Achelous's daughter enticed.

'Course I was thinking like a male.
A woman would think of sharing,
beautiful sunsets, long cruises,
romantic dinners, holding hands...
She prepared my entertainment,
like a sacral ritual, and
I imagined Japanese flutes.

Sharing isn't intimacy.
I could've shared by dropping my trou,
but it was doubtful, it would been
appreciated, but no less
than her sharing was to me then.
"It's making someone feel special."
Having said that I slammed the door.

lies: sweet
nothings, soft
soap, grease,
blarney,
bunkum,
wheedling,
praise,
beautiful
storytelling
pleas­e
tell me what
i want to hear

ok, so you're not a fake person
you're a deceptive, fraudulent,
cheating charlatan

you're a player, a phoney,
a counterfeiter,
a feigner, a pretender, a he-vamp,
telling me what i want to hear

you're tinsel and
i took that gleam in your
eye for something else

so, you're a real person
but that doesn't mean
you're not plastic

chasing white rabbits and
   knights in shiny
white armor
white dress
white nights
white hair
white houses with
white picket fences
white oaks
white roses and a
white dog beware
of
white lead
white flames
white wash and
white lies

a mole, odd-
shaped nose, bent
ears, dimples,
thick eyebrows,
with large eyes
much too close

i love your
unflawlessness

I only feel myself being pushed
            over several feet
        and then being spun around.
I see a bright flash of light,
   but I've lost my sense of direction.
My instinct tells me to stomp on the brakes,
   but it is too late.
What should I be doing?
It's too late for what?
As I slowly regain my senses,
The sound of metal scraping against metal
   plays continuously in my mind.
And, when I finally hear silence,
   I swear I hear the ****** of headlights
      falling to the ground.

Love is not a one-way street.

i still dream of morning's past,
which i'd hoped would always last.
though i no longer sense your skin
and rarely am i invited in,
for me, the greatest sin
it that you still hold my heart.

I'm an active volcano.
Sometimes, I slowly expel
My ash and steam; then again
I erupt to litter all
With my fiery core from hell.

Sometimes I poison the air.
Other times, I castigate
Those, who would subvert my goals.
I demand sacrifices
Of innocent and guiltless.

Bring me virgins, more virgins.


Maiden's Answer:

Dearest sovereign of this mountain land,
Your humble servant, accepts your hand.
To save ken, friends, and our countrywide,
I gladly consent to be your bride
For, in a sense, I'd become your wife.

I'm vestal, as the day I was born,
My integrity is not wayworn,
My righteousness is a source of pride,
But I shall promise to be your bride,
If you may grant my one small request.

Your strength, your wisdom, are beyond compare.
You have spent an eternity there.
So, I must ask a simple query,
Before I promise us to marry.
Might you be overcompensating?

a secret is a wild
   climbing vine,
      which consumes
         slender cracks
      and early mornings
   with scandent possibilities:
      first of familiarity,
   then affection,
then intimacy.

a secret needs
   very little
      to support it
   neither water
      nor food
and only
   a modicum of  truth.

i want to be the one
in whom you confide.

have another glass of wine
and spill your secrets.

She says complex, confusing, tough, involved, and hard to understand.
I say messed up.  Wrong thing to say.
She says arduous, intricate, perplexing, abstruse, and difficult.
I say fouled up. 
She begins again, but I interrupt and insist we get some sleep.  
I then watch her set the timer, so she can brush her teeth,
   for exactly two minutes.

a single leaf
attached by a thread
flutters with the wind

why does it not let go
and join its brothers and sisters
to blanket the ground

does it believe it will
recapture its vital force
with the return of spring

or does the tree hold on

my yet un-born baby daughter
dances **** in mother's waters
a wild child, she, who loves to play
while i must hold the world at bay

a winter moon shines palish white
above her sleeping head a night
and there she dreams of sweet delight
of better days to come

Chorus:
I know God...

Voice One:
I remember planting a
small bean seed.

Voice Two:
I recall the miracle of a
newborn's fingers.

Voice Three:
I recollect the
feeling from the
tug of a
windblown kite.

Voice One:
I marveled how
the bean sprout
struggled against the earth.

Voice Three:
How the kite rose
majestically
into the sky,
then darted back and forth,
as if to nod
its approval.

Voice One:
Finally, the sprout
opened its leaf
as if to say hello.

Chorus:
So, while I may not have conversed with God,
I most certainly have shook God's hand.

I recall dry summer days
And how dust could linger
   in the air.
I loved to watch the trail of dust
   of the pickup,
As it drove those old dirt roads.

I enjoyed opening a slamming
   the big chests
      in the attic.

And I was fascinated
   by the fog
      of dust
I could create
   in the chicken yard.

Dust seemed to rise
   in the summer heat
      and billow
         and slowly
      ever so slowly
   settle
to completion.

How sad it is to kiss and part.
The morning fog must know this.
It comes in the stillness of the night.
It settles, caressing its beloved,
And leaving with the break of day.

Curtains, blown by an evening's gale,
Applaud movements of the Coryphee,
That sentry for everything frail
And the things of beauty put away.

She dances to melodic chimes,
Which haunt the summer evening's air,
She leaps, turns, points, and spins in time,
Unmindful of her sentinel care.

She ignores forgotten keys, rings,
Bracelets, pins, a small glass hummingbird,
As well a wads of necklace strings,
She keeps on dancing, without a word.

Still ballerina dances,
Doing pirouettes to some refrain,
Ignoring her audiences,
Never seeking any other gain.

Yet, with time, every life must fade.
When this life, by key, has come to end,
She answers her death unafraid.
The chest is closed by a gust of wind.

My old trunk is filled with
Baby shoes,
   But no one knows to whom they belong,
Faded pictures,
Christmas ornaments,
Spectacles,
Watches that no longer work
Tarnished silver,
A tennis racket,
My mother's false teeth,
Embroidered napkins, I was saving for company,
And memories.

I clothe this trunk
   With vestments of spider webs
And warm it with white sheets,
   As one would cover furniture
      of one departed.
And eventually,
   The trunk is once again
      Forgotten.

Life is a carnival,
   Filled with amusement rides and comfort food.
      But, no matter how much fun I have today,
         There will only be an empty parking lot tomorrow.

That trunk is my lifeline to remember
   There was a carnival.

Feelings, warm, a summer breeze,
When you look at me.
Never thought I'd feel again,
Except for some cold despair.  
Til you came into my life  
And showed me that you care.

Feelings, cold, a winter blast,
Frightened, like the past.
It's knowing you're not near.
Certainly, I must confide.
I need touch, your summer waft,
To warm me  deep inside.

My red wagon, in my youth,
Kept things some thought quite uncouth,
Like fishing line, crawdad bait,
A model boat, old door plate,
Copper rupees from Nepal,
Ancient skull, an old softball,
And I still wish I had them all,
Those fine treasures of my youth.

Though years have past since that day,
I, again, still lug that dray,
But I often can recall,
All the stuff I used to haul.
Though no longer filled with junk;
I don't use it like a trunk.
This lesson I didn't flunk.
It's filled with my kids at play.

I want to rip off your packaging.  

I want to feast on you,
   gobble you up,
      pig out on you,
   and wolf you down.

I want your nourishment.  
   I want your refreshment.  
      Give me sustenance.  

I want to nibble on your appetizers
   and sip your wine.
      I want your snack.  
   I want to close my fingers around
      your strawberries and partake of you.  
I want to rummage your confections and
   lay waste to your delicatessen.  

This is not the time for delicate bites.
   This is not the time to diet.  
      I want handfuls of you.  
   I want to play with my food
      and lick the bowl
         for dessert.

I'm just one of the thousands
Of monkeys, who sit
At their keyboards,
Typing away,
   Typing away,
      Typing away,
Foregoing food, water,
   ***, and even love
      Typing away
         Typing away
Not to create some masterpiece
   Which will immortalize me
      Typing away
         Well, maybe that
But, it is my hope that in
   This typing away
      I could capture
         The most elusive of prizes:
             Truth

When I left,
I took your dreams,
Your laughter,
Your secrets,
Your memories,
Your love,
And left with only
Emptiness.

Ah, passion -
   That stay awake,
      Go-without-eating mania.
   What other feeling can
Make a person feel so alive?

Then, there is longing -
   That helpless sense of incompleteness.

Give me comfortable love -
   That gentle expression of companionship.
      Give me safe love,
         Free of juvenile fears and
   Exaggerated
Expectations.

But...
   Give me contentment
      Some other moment.

In that fleeting moment of meeting,
I ask myself if I could ever love you.

Certainly, I want eternity,
   But I could be content,
      If, in that fleeting moment,

I could brush souls with you.

In the bleakest part of winter.
When earth is covered with snow,
A sentry of masculine gender
Stands without a sign of woe.

How is it snow men always smile?
The scenery isn't great.
Though they most often dress with style,
They are always overweight.

Magic silk hats hide their bald heads.
Their carrot noses aren't cute.
Beady eyes seem pixilated.
They don't even own a suit.

So, why do these guards always smile?
What can they all smile about?
To contrast, scarecrows are most vile,
With a look that's all worn out.

Scarecrows got the cerebral part,
But it wasn't an even trade.
For what snowmen got was a heart,
In the love with which they're made.

The fox is not an evil kind.
She's just mostly misunderstood.
She's not a dangerous canine
And at times she can be quite good.

You've heard she raids the chicken coop.
That's certainly baneful indeed,
But that's so much water soup,
'Cause feathers make her sneeze!

You've heard that she's conniving,
But she tells me it's not true,
She is just a fun-loving thing,
Who has a heart that is true blue.

She loves the wind's feel on her face.
She's really a country girl.
Her favorite pastime is chase,
Though she's quite elegant in pearls.

But she also likes to snuggle.
That's one subject we both agree.
I'm glad she chose me to nuzzle,
When you're a hound dog, such as me.

I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.

each time
you are a new lover,
i go back and kiss stars
the way i thought i could
and lost
the last time

each time
you are a new lover,
spoken words become lies -
not expressing feelings
i had
as before

each time
you are a new lover,
and i forget your touch,
your breath against my skin,
your smell
you once had

each time
you are a new lover

i am a leaf,
   caught in passion's wind.
      i can only feel myself
         being tossed into the air,
      cast from current to current,
   from elation to remorse,
      jealousy to disappointment,
        concern to misgivings,
     anxiety to grief to ardor.

                         i'm lifted into the air
                            and then
banged to the ground.

   she is dangerous.

      she moves too easily into my being.

i am a leaf.

   i have no will.

When I was a kid,
My favorite place in the world
Was a park bench.

I used to sit at the end of the bench,
   Dangling my feet,
      Pretending to drive mother-with-child and
         Man-with-newspaper to their appointed destinations.

There, my friends and I spent hours
Playing forts,
   And robber-in-jail,
      And church.

And, though my friends never complained,
I'm sure they never appreciated that wonder
Spot, as much as I did.

Often, I would do my homework on a park bench.
At other times, I would lay down and
Look up through the trees
Talking with Johnny Mac about life and girls.

So, it shouldn't surprise you that I asked my sweetheart
To marry me on a park bench,
Like the one I grew up with,
Or that I should go THERE, when my wife died.

Today, I tease pigeons with popcorn
And swap stories heard a hundred times before.

I'm happy.

I'm glad to have had such memories.
And I'm glad to have had the feeling
Of a park bench.

I remember when my mother
Would get angry with me
And I would escape to a tall pecan tree.

I always imagined my mother screaming,
"Where is my dear boy?
He has left and I never got a chance to tell
Him how much I love him."

My mother never did.

So, I stayed up there, watching man-next-door
Mow the lawn or the postman make his rounds.

And eventually,
   I would sink into the strong, loving arms of that tree.
The tree never told me I was bad.
   It never made demands on me.
      It was always nurturing and caring -
         Ever gently rocking.

When I think of the greatest gift
   My child has given me
      It's the moments that she crawls into my lap
         And rests her head against me.

I've become a tree.

A voice travels
   On summer's stillness,
      Clamoring
         Against injustice
            Echoing
               Across the valley,
         But every
      One is so guilty
   Of something,
So, no one listens.

He is joined
   In his bemoanings,
      By lone wolf
    Atop a nearby ridge,
But no one listens.

The test for innocence is happiness.

The test for truth is whether it exists outside pedantries.

The test for a fool is how much how much he must hold on to his ego.

The test for love is silence.

I could tell you the test for happiness, but it would make you less human.

Those who search after truth will be cursed with a loss of station
Those who would love will be cursed with reality
Those who would be humble or courteous will be cursed with pride
Those who would be reverent have a curse in the past
Those who would be self-denying will be cursed three times by others
Those who would praise God will be cursed with fear
Cleanliness is a curse in itself

Those that fear will be blessed in their ignorance
Those that hate will be blessed in their compassion
Those that lie will be blessed in their humanity
Those that envy will be blessed in their possessions