a man's need for space
is ironic given the
symbol of a
woman

The clouds at night are known
only by missing stars.

Give me a word and I will play this game with you.
We're in it together
and your guess is as good as mine
so we might as well get along.
Four hands in the dark
might be more than two,
and what we find under them
can be shared.

Any word will do.
There are no tethers
to tie
nor knots to loose.
No time to lose,
so construe all you will,
and still,
here we are
in the dark.

If there's a God
waiting to be found
here
I have a feeling
our hands won't get there first.

However,
I think I can hear
someone laughing

far away.

well-worn
objects in space

stop trying to see them!
it's dark.
and you're not here.
and you have no face.
or hands.

still you know their smoothness,
their shining sides
and rough patches,
set as they are,
constellations,
pegs in the night
with which mind is looming identity thru
to weave the hammock
that holds you

like waking from
sleep, sweet
and dripping with
dreams
you find those things
so specifically placed
and memory serves
a scented something you lost
in the fog

are these my hands?
is this my face?

who said that?

pulling the weeds
the layman, cursing
the heat

~

the monk, wiping
his brow
says a prayer

~

the master
pulling the weeds

~

together
in a field
under the sun

~

piece of paper
written on, crumpled up
poems in my shoe

~

sun in the soil
reflective face
quartz in the bank

~

shaking hands
church-goers
step into the street

~

Philadelphia
birds on a stoop
brothers

~

in the library
every sound echoing

~

low orange clouds
city at night

~

noticing my mind
tripping off the curb

~

stale taste
spliff
gone from where I left it

~

my Grandfather's friends
explaining absinthe
as I drink it

~

broken tea cup
how I love to look at it!

"why do you write?"
he stooped and grinned
and one could see his sickness

"I write to find you
because maybe i need to **** the snake before
the poison goes
or maybe
i don't know
maybe there's nothing left to do
and maybe the people watching us
will throw
pixel bits
or love-left-over
through space
and some of it might rain on us like dust
when we are sleeping
and that would give us a purpose
when we woke"

"Oh,
are you sure you're not trying
to get ******?"

and I wasn't

off to bed

a hollow vessel

silent dreams

the body temple

moments made of moments

made of tread in a string

string in a seam

seam in a weave

wrapped in a reality

follow maps of a mentality

and then

sentiment sediment

settling fights with your head again

still alone? met a friend?

bone flesh skin

red against cold glass thin

being led gets old fast

holding on

hope the hold lasts in

my dreams

begin

In my hometown there is a road named
East Bennett.
Tonight, after work, under trees and streetlights,
I wondered if my whole life
that sign has been influencing me
subliminally;
as a wide-eyed child
and even now
driving by on the highway.

I'm leaving for Philly in December,
and Alan Watts
and the Tao Te Ching
are all I can ever seem to read.

I followed
sound waves
and found the time to find
gems in my mind cave when
I listened
then
in the dark I heard it glisten
heart-beat starts weak
echolocation
what's missing?

it's all coming back to me now
the walls around are closing in
walk long halls, tracking it down
another call
another heart

Folding makes things
smaller, closer together, and more discrete.
Enveloped.

Self as symbols
on the letter i'm sending to you,
and our own folding,
inward and out,
defining what it is
that is us.

No spoken word, no token bird,
no crane, no dove, nor sparrow,
can soothe the fire, smooth my smile
or remove this Eros arrow.

In my meticulous counting of
escape routes
am I undoubtedly bound.

It's ridiculous this shouting
and fake mouth
can spout such powerful sounds.

If we are made round
by this playground ride,
if we remain found
(pressure applied on every side)
I might drown or die
or more likely hide away,
fly, explore, and stay,
get gone
get lost
and pray
till dawn and day
when frost and spray
on the lawn displayed make waves in grey,
break the dew-sparks and make way for
sunrise hues
(no dark, light blues)
for you
to run right through.
All bright, brand new.
Right on cue, as if you knew.

You know,
I've heard that birds go
over the rainbow,

I can too.

You know?
You knew.
It's not just one shot you got,
not one flow to go with,

you can choose.

We're no longer circular,
shining like a herkimer,
opening my heart
and finding what it's worth to her.

Undefined by size,
by shape, by time.
I am more than mind,
motion and lines.
I am the ocean and brine,
the fruit and the rind.
I leave nothing behind.

I see but I have no eyes,
I grasp but my hands are tied,
and still I try
because that's the name of the game,
whether it's love
or money
or fame,
we're not above change,
we're not beside staying the same.