I am still waiting for her to call me
but her cell phone is dead
and I have it
and it once flashed like a beacon
from the pigeon hole of my desk
her house keys are still in my bag
I’ve been carrying them ever since
and If I wanted to
I could imagine that her spirit is locked
in that vacant cluttered mess
or under the phone’s locked keys
instead I hold, look and dread
and when not doing that
I evade

under the glint
of a  hook
of a pale moon

from a black
pane
in a white room

the place
the pace
and the pierce

that welcomed
honor and
cherished allure

the cold
thought and night
like a mirror

Sculpted by the wind-
bent back and
black,
sprouted high
planted on a curving road.
Sea on the shoulder
beat back with
conifer on the left
twisted and gnarled,
I’ve seen it sculpted in
faces.

There are people
sculpted by the wind.
Who drive slow-
who harbor a sorrow
in a blonde slick back
stream of high ravine-
like a maze
I’d give my life to be
lost in,
practicing refrain-
walking a practiced
gait-
because oh the intensity!
of being
sculpted by the wind.

the poet is
the divine translator

the soothsayer

and momma bird of the
world- of culture

chewing the tough
parts

and feeding the
chicks

the world on her
tongue, demystified

the job has to be
selfless

the work an
honest gift

otherwise those lines
are only doggerel

and sour
to the ears

Back from tide,
Bride of leagues
Wound in a polished ring
Salt and brine in which I am bound
For eternity- for eternity!

I wanted to possess the valley
Contain the wave
The towering volcano
And the forest saved
Pressed in my book, never to change

With people I’ve seen
Gathered and known
All of them a storm has grown
They’re fragile as those sand dollars too-
Tiny hole, pale, consumed

To not possess is
To be free from loss
I can let the
Coral reaper take who it wants
The tide is mine- for eternity- for eternity.

one fist fits all
so
puke like a pro
you look like my friend
and my friend, she’s dead

and I like the idea
of the world being
born
with a sound

sentiments aside
you can’t hold me
my *****-  jet powered
my body- torpedo
the no hold of
nets can’t close
you’re the pretty one
let me touch the pretty one
again

I’m too loud to be creepy
I’m just sneaky
with
small questions
bare thighs
and nasty noises

a Black Flight of
swollen tonsil
busy convincin’
the demon to leave
the throat
failing of the
Black Halo
corrupt

the world of hot neon lines
pickin’ up
Discardin’ the ones I don’t
need
weaving a poem with Black Hands
a nest
someone has opened The Black Sail
and spilled the dye
The sky a closed mouth
Black Damp

lungs heavy to hang
found sorrow in short hand
some sad Morse code
bury the Black Book and the Black Box
place all my words
down with me in the final Black Room

an itch that’s made
it’s home so deep
a fungal sternum cut and a
cough, a metronome
shrinking from the SHOUT of the Black Sail
started on the rim of madness
Open
Like third kingdom’s gills
sail Flight and Halo
All Black as shadow laid
To defeat
Two days at White Sea
Let my words
Let ‘em shine