I could've just laid down if
I wanted to

ignoring the bells that echoes
inside my head

Let the earth swallow me
among withered leaves that decay
beside me

Let the world dry out
as if all lamented things
belong to me

I could act as if
my heart is an icy winter water,
never to beat, never to warm at all

Granite skies would drift above me,
haunting me in my night and
summer days

But in the thunder that frightens me
A swift lightning would pass me by,
a crack of gold in my darkest night

The flood crashing through doors,
through all the breathe that I've lost
I would learn to hold every air that I touch

All the celestial mass throbbing in my chest
The distant rumble of supernovas
that tears me apart,
and black sunshine that shines on my face

Even if midnight splatters beneath my eyes,
with all the stars that glimmer
that badly wants to fall

Even if half of my shadow is blown to nether
I would suffer everyday, and in my pain
I knew I could feel

I would die everyday, with all lamented things
and in all my deaths

I have learned to live

perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~i~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

"where love is the petal of a rose"

i wondered where death took life and
life took death. life threw itself into  
the daylight forgot the petticoats of the day
and her ambers burnt to the greys of the sun.  
i couldn't melt before her or she before me
but she ran and i loved to run with her.
death was life without the ghosts of sorrow
and life was death in its impenetrable dreams,
i was swallowed up by the arrival of summer and
i died at her feet, i died
and i lived, i fell and i stood up and life was a
thirst to survive and death was the blue ghost
and the oblivious rose. death was something
i would know tomorrow and life something i
could feel today, not sorry and not sad,
not empty or harnessed, free in its freedoms
open hearted, rain-scented. i opened my eyes
to the stars and fell at their feet,
i opened my eyes and the poetry flew
away like a sky-hungry bird.

above the autumn lake
two black eared kites dive

and climb
and call to each other

three loons launch
across the lake

the heron
powder blue

stands stone still
on the sandy shore

we are all wild music
we are all songs vanishing

"what was the Maltese Falcon?" the boy asks.

his father replies, "The stuff that dreams are made of."


the world is loud:
sirens,
headlines,
grief, love, fear,
heartbreak and flames.

life is a rat race
and the rats are winning

so throw confetti at the funeral.

we name our ghosts
and call them love.
we chase the falcon
of black painted lead,
light candles in an empty room
and call it faith.

where do we go from here?

walk against the parade
through costumes,
floats and marching bands?

the night runs through us all
while the world politely burns.

we call it sanity...this quiet compliance.

but clarity assumes rebellion.
take the straight line
through the storm.

throw confetti at our funeral.
(sadness wears confetti, well.)


every moment the soul screams
we tread closer to the razor's edge.

Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "Put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."

I was already having a terrible day.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.

I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry.

I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now
embedded in her golden
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.

Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

This little light of mine.
The one darkness cannot bind.
Guides me through the wilderness of shadow.

This little light of mine.
Oh, heavenly little shrine.
Little candle of inextinguishable flame.

This little light of mine.
The beacon to the skyline.
Call down my angel.

the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.

Changing gear,
     my mind is on cruise,
becoming clear,
     as I start to muse,
about love and lust, *** and sinning,
     I'm starting to grin
          and I'm settling in
for a show that is just beginning.

Changing gear,
     her dress on the floor,
becoming clear,
     her skin shows more,
of lust and love, sinning and ***,
     She starts to smile,
          and looking a while
at the poet who is lustfully hexed.

Stacked green crates by the futon,
records quiet as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.

I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.

She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.

I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.

She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause, pressing record,
stitching songs into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when he had
somewhere to send it.

She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.

I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still floating.

I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.