The Last Saint

The past darkened pages of life
swiftly flicker past as our broken
spines and lowly minds loft dreams
we can not die.

The discovery of bended knees and
inelegant pleas comes on with a creep
and when we turn around,
the sheath of mist abounds.

Through this misty darkness,
All around you floats the darkness,
Lean In and you will see --

The last of the saints died
before you were born.

The candlelight creases aged wrinkles
as the thunderstorm passes
and a gray dawn smears forth.

This is becoming--
A glistening tulip
bobbing in the crisp rush
of cars along the highway.

This is becoming--
A frenetic scrabble
against oiled blacktop
in search of crumbs.

And then
That Which Is
will slash its veins
and pour meaning
into your soul.

After all,
you've opened your eyes.
You dream the joy of wind
whistling along the road.

The Vortex

This
This is
This is the vortex

Wolves hunger in the darkness
creeping sallow-eyed
through blackened shoots of grass
around our faded firelight.

Our house of storm wet soil
a thousand upturned graves
crumbles
under the weight of night.

We breath the flakes of bones
generations heavy
breached white and brittle,
bitter on the tongue.

And all around, the wolves snarl
gnawing on the darkness
blown glass eyes glow cold
in our dimming light.

I am overwhelmed
by flightless days
and countless ways
that Sundays and Saturdays
turn to dust.

The good news

On the road to Orlando
visiting the Magic Kingdom.
Tan leather riding,
backseat with the toys -
unscorched muscle men,
garbage pail kids and noise.

Broken homes? Cry me a river,
starving children dreaming strong.
But some of us
(the pathetic many)
are trapped forever aged thirteen,
while father walks.

But we'll soon have
episodes of Seinfeld,
Thursday night spaghetti and
loads of splintered love.
You're too old
to scuttle beneath the covers,
too old to remember
straw blond hair
and baseball bats.

Words fall, dead bark peels from trees
leaving faded pages and empty quills.

Saturday Evening

Winter was a time for creation.

Enigma

After a harrowing vacation,
our hero finds himself on the verge again:
The status quo, he knows,
is made to shatter.

My mind smells like
pee in my grandfather's underwear,
not that I would know.

Not that you would know:
Don't laugh at me, because
under this layer of skin
is a power --
don't you know who I am?

Broken toes by doors,
opened hastily. We never know
if it is worth the pain.

Like I said,
Like he said --
Go, where the man is pointing
(the man in the sky,
the ballerina of time),
follow his demands,
for in truth,
you will follow the rivulets
in the sand.

Follow this,
and the following will remain
silent: ---

renditions

a modicum of decency must emerge
in order to expect any
explosion of maturity.
trapped
inside a base mind
spirituality spreads like
cream cheese and custard
thin and plateaued,
underrepresented & repressed
(at least by organized
thought
provoking assumptions
underwritten and underscored
by ten thousand years of:
"You should"s and
"be ashamed"s).

an i before c
except after penetration:
I see is only good
when future sight
prevents
fretful redelights.

When Songs No Longer Suffice

Big shot screaming put your hands in the sky he says give it up boy give it up or you're gonna die. You'll get a bullet in the back of the neck in the back of the neck right between the eyes.

Straylight Run

Gucci Bag

Tell your mother I'm sorry
she had to mortgage the house
but that new Gucci purse
looks great with that blouse!

Death Comes Swift

Creation always begins in darkness
as drifting strings come together
in the abode of nothing
(where there is no midst
and no light).
Catching harmony on horsetails,
they spark -- blazing forth...

Catch eyes with the face
framed by darkness
in the window.

Feel the neon blue hum in the air
as creation trickles lightning bugs
and candle flickers
begin to wring nothing
out of existence.

I can feel it right now:
gathering speed as it gathers time --
on par with something great,
I can feel someone looking over my shoulder
(the world is on my shoulders,
so I am not alone),
I can feel him right now,
shattering my soul --
onyx shards of the old abyss
send blisters up my spine --
my back is on fire, creeping
towards my mind.

Throw the world of man at my feet,
or I'll bow to her --
and she'll stomp them all.
That's my princess paw,
my overwhelming three eyed
heartbox law.
We're one.

Remember: the creation spawned darkness --
or did darkness spawn creation?

The bound world rests motionless while
life blazes under the fire of damp night
(lion's paw
and in the air death comes swift --
caught, a momentary leap
turned eternity
in bitter defeat)
and a million worlds created and destroyed,
and darkness creeps along the seams.

As I Turn Away from the Numinous

An old man on the porch smoking half a cigar
and listening to the sounds of butterflies in the wind
looks at me with those arched eyebrows
that ask for nothing in return.
I grin as I shuffle by, rust in my eyes.
If I feel like glass, it is because I am transparent.

Life is less than lies and more than this:
let the mountains smash through the sky
and tear the clouds.
A thousand armies writhing beneath trees of death --
rain crushes mountains as time bleeds
and darkness like lava flows from heaven.

The old man's lips are crusted white
and a gnat is dying in his beard.

"Spread ghosts as you amble,"
I think
he says -- "spin a thousand tales
of incest and gamble
life's fruits on the shears of
universal truth,
or whisper. Ya dig?"

Of course, my insides are on sale,
so I agree --
And will you judge me?

Grass shifting in the breeze mutters
life's meaning before I listen,
chain link rattles and beware of dog in red
as I turn away. He was asking too much,
that vagabond. Pistol whipped twenty years
prior? I'd rather spend the night in jail
than spend my thoughts on him.

The salt that opens my wounds
is easy talk but the pain is not,
and he is from the sea.
I'll not spend my thoughts
(cracked lips, he burns in me),
rust coated eyes turn away --
I turn away.

Red Dress

Double bars and a bangin' piano,
subtle pregnant faces rest
heavy on barstools made of oak --
I am satisfied by recognition
when the red dress catches
the corner of my vision and I
spin a golden drink in her direction.
A little stammer in the lips
(I've succeeded in surprising her)
but those eyes are used to exploitation
and my upper hand is sure to fall --

Sawdust (always the best taste
kicked up by ten thousand marching
soldiers in a barroom just east
of the river Nile),
and a plate of oysters
act as catalysts on days
that spread out like lazy kittens
before the dim and itching
bite of dusk.

My upper hand is sure to fall
with her caress
and sunlight's set --
this bone temple won't collapse
but for the flicking spasm
of her electric fingers on my spine.

Red Dress Pt. 2 (silly)

And in the fog
of hazy morning light,
crisp linens and
blue sunflowers delight
my senses
before I come to them
and see my wallet missing
cuff links and a golden chain
evaporated in my kissing
of red dress.

Prayer

Eat less
under the starving vanilla sky --
Beat back excess
like wafers clinging to coffee.
Thomas Merton mutters
holy scriptures
while in the playpen,
the devil blisters.
Death in the breeze --
chopstick clouds spread lacy fingers
cuddling vanilla wafers --
clinging rodents
gripping Solomon's trash,
while underaged prostitutes
spread sepulcheric wisdom
playing skin-flutes
(tanned little girl faces) --
Beat back excess,
praise be
the best
glory unto Him
Glory be the highest,
stutter --
words
shades of empty
form.

City Life

I rest sublime
on your rose petals
and bleed satisfaction
while sodium arc lights
and barbed wire parking lots
guard the night.

You Critic

foam dribbles and
my chest vice squeezes --
I am
unique
you can see
by my line breaks.

capital A difference --
nothing like this
mass of droolers,
I'll spit clichés
like grandpa gumming pork loin
until you cry.

let me submit
(my critique), then
soaring above
underwritten flames
i'll be...
alone

Time's Subtle Blizzard

Spread out my bones
like a local news exposé --
I am yours
under frozen lemon skies,
waiting for the universe
to revolve.

The moon drags clouds
through your hair
as frozen waterfalls shatter
and we turn to whisper
passion stained secrets
of life stealing death
behind ice drawn lines
melting
in the wind.

Nothing if not True

These are jumbled thoughts
like train cars derailed
or some bran filled cereal
spilled on formica.

Nothing you'll read here
resembles truth:
truth, in fact,
resembles moths
struggling
in a web of silk.

The devil invented words
and sent the best
to craft endless sonnets
(like building toothpick hearts)
and whittle at life
in the dark.

A pot of arrogance
and a pinch of whine
is all this poet can stir.
He's not a poet,
but just a guy,
sitting in a swivel chair.

Practice
and together
we'll invent something
and call it perfection.
That's all Alice is After.

Traps for Troubadours

A party downstairs --
up here, it's black
like liccorice or the soot
on the feet of street urchins.

"You haven't lived!",
you've lived a thousand lives
but none enough to trim the tide
of fleeting life lost at sea
or some vague immortality.

Sluts, the lot of them,
sucking time from days and
slithering through their
ugly frays with boyfriends and
pigtailed girlfriends with skirts
that flounce a bit too close
to that ol' V spot --

if you can't tell,
I'm a bit tired of the dream --
feel the vibrations in the air,
slurp down a viagra and mutter:
how many strings are missing
on life's guitar?

in this death

Let me for a moment
dance across this broken plain
and spit out words
to brick over the silence.

This guy is dead --
I am off, my mind is
latent and I feel nothing
but shattered heart sounds
and anger --

Paralyzed, the worst form
of inconsideration (but what
would you expect
from an artist living
piecemeal by the con?)

He died atop his candy apple
and as he tumbled to the floor
he grasped the fabric of our hearts
and yanked. What a bastard.

Fire and a feather
lodged in my chest
as I feel everything --
nothing at rest.

Words like Cysts

words like explosive zits
swell with the puss of mediocrity
this one is going to ooze:

inside my mind sits dr. kevari,
the sanest glass blower around --
he screeches blackboards and
knows just when to untie shoelaces,
cross eyes and glaze minds.

i can't seem to --
he'll pull it together
on the dock, a windy afternoon,
sky muddled dim gray, misting...
one hundred miles away,
a little god lashes the sea
with the force of ten thousand
nuclear bombs.

he rests his head
on wood and feels
emotional
as the universe sleeps.

in a moment of reflection,
the whirlpool shimmering type reflection,
we all feel alone --
on the surface of
an alien planet, with
no appointments to keep --
that kind of alone.

the middle of the night
is the best time
for breathing.

silence plays games in the dark.

discarding every fallacy,
dr. kevari is a made up character.

listless passion,
mildew and the dead
tail of lizard.
these words are vacant;
a recipe for no thing
at all.

of dubious use.
well, now that they've escaped --
fields a thousand miles long,
cocktails burning in the mist --
poetry of isolation
cares not a wit for cysts
bourn on shoulders
isaac newton we are not --
fair game, though,
if that's what you were thinking.

Souls intertwine, his arm rests
light on her shoulder --
itching to be closer,
she grasps his shirt and pulls --
but in this bliss,
there is no room for poetry.

For Pedro

Poison ivy mind, I'll bleed
best intentions in your direction
and maybe you'll recover --
I dream that you'll recover,
sweating illness out clogged pores,
streaked in the black ink of your deception:
I know your secrets.

Bald mind bears sweet fruits
but yours is a dense forest --
erudite and dead,
that's how they'll remember you.

When the watchtower bangs down from on high
and the news is tolled out across the land,
we will gather by and by
to feel the brush of your passing:
hands stroke friendship as they shimmer past,
drifting relentlessly towards that end you sought:
muttering retreats as they fade from vision,
slipping toward the gates of beyond --

And from that place I pray that you will turn,
look back upon us in some form of wonder
and laugh like you did when sitting
at those tables made of green,
sipping coffee and burning cigarettes
while your dawn was skating restlessly
towards this damp night.

A seasonal allergy, or is it
life before the dream --
spreading wings just to be shot,
golden hammers slamming down
on finger pilons and little children's
favorite songs.

The colored beagles come and go
but in my heart I know that
no rhythm will set me free:
I am bound inexorably
to temporal earth's hostility.

I am not sad that sand
runs time down back alleys
and spews flecked shells
in my eyes --
Joy, at the prospect of finding
a precious stone amongst the ash.

She can't see what's happening
to me but inside it's chipped away,
a thousand paper cuts on my soul
bleed best intentions,
and dirt --

Have you ever seen skid blackened highway
marks trailing off towards the wall?

RVs parked casually on the edge of cliffs
teetering while humanity blows bubbles
made of sour milk and whines
mercilessly about reality TV and

oh my God can you spread silence like
butter across the mind of man?

Carried into Love, or: Crossroads

And in the space between the seconds
a tingling begins to ebb and flow --
the dusky fog of hearts entwined
invades the itching of my soul.
My present dreams are quickly faded
and with a catlike flick
the curtain of Earth's unworldly veil
is swept thoughtlessly aside --
the beyond is momentarily glimpsed,
and in the space between
this sleepy dreamer's soul
and young lovers dancing passion
rests the meaning of divine.

Thunder in my ears as
this heart flows from my chest --
that certain crush
and I am struggling,
legs dripping, gasping --
my insides mesh with hers.

A more perfect union
than the stars and heaven.

In the Afternoon

Inside of me the tempest spins
gleefully tearing my breath
from rotting lungs,
spilling life into a frozen soul,
leaving no room for rememberance.

On Saturday,
sauntering down soot black roads,
drifting across the double yellow --
this is the place where I can't be old,
where two thousand voices
scream in my mind to let it all go.

Before, I would have told you:

Tender is the night,
or so he wrote --
Once, I dreamed a lifetime of Amory Blaine
and awoke red and screaming
in an ambulance of fear.
Metal scrapes the pavement and
the yellow fog (of sodium arc lights)
veils the stars.

Sweet, like raisins in peccadillo
or the soundtrack of Garden State --
sweating lilacs and listening to Nick Drake,
you know she's spinning in my mind.

Struck by her tickling hair
and razor lips (her voice is
feathers falling in my ears) --
Lightning is supposed to kill a man.

I'm standing on the moon
dancing with the earth.

Flux between a soul and nonsense --
reprise, because another musician wrote this poem.
They'll say (in life),
he wasn't a pretty boy --

We're in business now --
there's no doubt
a shaved head and two testicles
are all we need
to cross the desert.

If only these needles would leave my bed
I'd dream again and that'd be nice and
I'd be happy.

Happy like a beaver building dams in some
eternal forest filled with sunlight
and dust mites floating between trees --
you've seen the pictures.
Happy like that kid Tyson, when his father
hurled him into the pool
instead of bringing out the belt.

I'll build passion from a matchstick flare
and fling imaginary rings of smoke --
catch, or something.

A ghost is haunting this website,
slipping into the continental universe
and sputtering on about life --
don't you know you're dead, ghost?

I think I already told you:
I'm going to shave my head
and set out on this quest --
I'll pierce the evening's skin and bellow,
no, trumpet, my intent
to tear your daughter from your clutches --
fasten a streamer made of life
to her homely dress
and send her skipping into the breeze.

Foundation shudders, an uneasy truce
when all is fair in love and war --

"Shape without form" is the new square --
try and find a peg that fits, buddy.
Tired of the coats and little hair,
talk of track and splitting fair
the proceeds of 'who gives
a shit', last night's gambling
and the weekends gains.
Tired of the frost that fits so neatly
inside a dull man's mind,
tired of being frosted
myself.
Crackle.

The Factory of Lights

In fall, Rome burns colored
lights and dares not turn
its sights on the collective soul --
that which is
is streaming down the gutter,
fallen paper airplanes
litter classroom floors as
teachers spew brand name formulas
while steepled fingers tear
rough edges and
distinction limps
to the pinnacle of mental illness --

Inspiration birthed in
Ashlee Simpson's underpants,
this nation-state exists
to please pointy eyed men
of glass who lick the fat
off raw bones and belch
worms struggling to escape
the rotting flesh.

Pay me to decloth
and I will shimmer gracefully
on midnight computer screens
while a dapper citizenry strokes
fancied dreams that lead to
shriveled glories --
all that is
is bittersweet as praise to God
delights the feet but minds protest
and are dethroned from majesty
to little gnomes
inside the factory of lights
that gives Rome its majestic
delightful hallowed flare,
its racing bikes and burlesque
flights of weathered denizens
shivering on late season nights
aware of nothing but the fall.

Hero

So afraid of stepping on toes --
but then again,
who doesn't like anal sex?
He'll dodge this bullet
using ballerina moves
he learned watching movies
(watching movies
is like being alive).

See her
coated in a fine sheen
of sarcasm and light
brown hair --

Painted lips
and the faintest smile
rim crest teeth
with vampire edges.

Smack on the palm and
in the cold air it stings,
drowning in a spoonful of fire --
beat back excess
maintain less
that's his philosophy
give him a nod.

Unkempt hair and a spirit born broken --
exactly what she wanted in a boy.

Thoughts are poured concrete
as I go about my day:
she leaves careless footprints
in drying pavement --
I have it all --
I am rich, sitting in a palace
made of the finest driftwood,
spoiled in my soul
because God gave me
a second glance.

I won't touch her
with my mind.
I hate the way
her gaze lingers
in another man's eye --

As the sludge flows like blood
down streets packed with narrow time
I'll look over my shoulder
and croak at last:
I never knew
what it was to want,
so I filled buckets
overflowing
and whispered secrets
in foreign tongues.
I never was able to surface.
Please --
clutch my hair
and demand to hear
that you feel the truth howling
from behind my eyes.
But you will only smile,
(as she always does)
and remind me
drowned words
are never heard.

My eyes spewing judgement
and he catches the spittle,
points at me
with his crooked nose --
I'll tell you
who's got the resentment.

As the night grinds on,
sitting at idle outside her house
and his Volvo appears:
"is this something
I shouldn't see?"

The stars are dream seeds,
drifting in unisync, the night-
time breeze leaves me
with a taste of saltwater,
like blood or
trickling anger.

Some kind of age

Shadow found youth flickers
souls across portrait memories --
you know what I mean, stranger?
It's the inside,
underneath the monster
where all that is
is mist --
come and yawn sleepy dreamer,
catch a cold and bring a warm
heart. Stagger down
rustic halls through
silence left over from
last night's dinner,
that's when you'll see
ghosts flicking tongues and
nuns shaking fists through
frosted windows,
angry that yesterday stole
and tomorrow isn't bringing
any presents.

The cold blows through these
holes in my jeans and
licks its wind frosted
tongue across my knees.

That smile is
not real. I can see
eyes underwater and
sleepy with drugs and cum.

Watch it happen --
she thrusts herself against the couch
and begs you to stay,
salting your shirt with her tears.
You can't help but caress her hair --
she turns her face upwards,
cheeks ablaze,
and asks again:
"Why?"

We bustled around the
burning Christmas trees
as dawn coaxed the stars to sleep.
There was no climax:
we ran out of fire
in the middle of the passion.
A young girl grabbed me
by the hand
and took me dancing
as the sun raised its bleary eye
and peered impassively at life
again.

First Date

Over brie and talk of sex
eyes like dead little walnuts
I see half her face is too large,
and a scar runs down her cheek.
Our waitress is a flirt
with almond hair
and a runny nose.

A Typical Evening

Speaking from behind a cloud
of memories and all that crap,
a bottle of Evian dulls
the taste of blood.
Their eyes say:
We've heard it all before --
go home and pray some more.

Then, in the parking lot
waiting for dreams to pop
one of the few
who are so many
quitting something on a Friday night,
(Deus and candlelight)
tells us she can't attend.

So, it's
night in the theater,
and her hand's caress
protects against static
on the movie screen --
She's not my type
but tonight I'll hold her.

Of course in there somewhere
hidden deep inside my chest
the thudding starts
and in that moment of divine regress
I understand that souls connect
for what it's worth.

Sleep coaxes me from the window
as I smother the candles.
Her tap is light on the panes,
her clothes flutter in the night breeze.
Six billion dreams tonight.

the body

the smile iced across thin dead lips
but all i can see is one
jutting elbow, milk gallon white
under the full moon

embers shimmer heat but
the water is pins of cold
on my open toes
i feel the way with my eyes

smear of mud and tufted hair
that's my second sight,
curled awkward around
a jagged rock

a gift of the tide
as christmas fades,
marriages dissolve like
butter on hot toast
or ice in the fire.

this gnawing sensation
of a soul crackling through
my skin demands
recognition and
devours complacency

all i want to do
is sit on a couch
and eat doritos

but fingers reach out
of my mind and cup
my face, tear at my
lips and force
me to speak

interlude

not once, twice --
two times I found
the answer, buried
in my hair and
brushed perfect like
dominoes falling on
spanish tile or the day
breaking ocean over
tomorrow.

jewelry
two bands and the
sparkle in the sun,
flicking wrists and a
finger stroke and
then the jitters and
the stutters as
inside it grows
a bit.

watching pinero
fisting his life
dreaming, in the midst
of the plunge,
new adidas and
a taste of fame,
a search for bodies
haunts the
haunts
hunt for life.

lust and bacon
chewy overdone experience
yesterday's bones ache
tonight she can't come.
don't interject I
into life,
leave the sight,
rest in it,
be --
strange, remember the
dancing and chopsticks
cutting across the
rocking floor,
stumbling
past.

I Am Eliot

On tomorrow's eve I stand and see:
dead night air and crystal skylines,
waiting for the breakers;
A box of Marlboros
(thank you for 50 years
of good times),
sits empty on the dresser.
Poker chips and faded chairs,
a memory, drifting through,
(the smell of coffee in the winter)
sifts through mottled thoughts
and shuffles in with dust,
the smoke, and the ashes.

Her hiss a whisper past my ears,
that faint calling -- recollect --
Nostalgia and bitter rum,
a cocktail full of voices
littered on the walls,
bleeding tarmac in the evening,
calling vagrants near and far --
The words she says:

"Walk through stale streets sipping
painted wine in search of
slowly burning time,
pavement blurs and smells of tar
and roadkill this evening everywhere,
dripping painted blood,
never burning in vain again."

Innuendo

They meet
(not for the first time, of course)
over cigarettes and a sunrise.
"I'm not in love with her,"
whispers the girl --
they embrace, while
embers like shooting stars
under the veil of dawn
fall to the ground.

In bed
they grope desperately for love
and find instead a unicorn --
lust wafts across damp skin,
the beast raises its head
and in a moments time
they find a thousand reasons
to begin everything again.

She wakens
in pain.

Sorrow
and a life of misery,
shackled housewife and petty thief,
unconscious drifter muttering
in the blue haze that settles
heavily around the room.

We,
the free spirit
of the unbeholden,
who dream in stereo
and rush headlong into lightning,
live merrily in darkness.

At dusk
she weeps.

Sphinx and mother,
zephyr of lies,
creator of life --
do not bleed alone.

Hurricane Bethlehem,
Slouch...
Probate court and we're
tired of the customary,
She swears she's a lesbian.

Alive. Passive.
Palm sweat and she's tearing
at his belt, fire trapped
pants flowing,
the floor catches
socks and her thong;
tomorrow they'll remember
the smell --

Spiritus Mundi

Cold breath frosts my cheeks
as a voice shimmers from the void --

I hear this time
he has arrived.

Myopic computers smash
a thousand dreams and crumpled
dollars flutter through
canyons of ruined concrete.

Dust collects on glass,
the man churns out the daily toll --
steel laws grind life to pulp,
and blood simmers on the stove.

They say this time
he has arrived.

And in the snow there rests
the doll with no eyes,
speared through the forehead
by the reflection of the moon.

Dull echoes shutter muted laughter
as he scratches away
at victory.

Cabbage patch kids have come and gone,
whispered souls skipping lightly by --
the towers are lost,
and all
remains
the same.

I fear the time
has arrived.

Insert Life Here

The passion in living is gone, and all she gives is her touch. Words no longer work; I am lost, beyond my wildest dreams on the outside looking in and I've got nothing left to give. She is gone, I am gone, I feed off her and words are worthless now. Nothing lives in me. I am done. I am gone, I am dust and there is nothing unique left to say; it has all been done, been done already; I've seen it all and now my time is up. I go fleeting, fearful of awaking you: There is nothing I do to disturb. I am a child of the universe, afraid and unaware; unable to say just what I mean and stranded on this island I call my life. I am 250 feet above the ground, floating over an empty Babylon where no one knows my soul. I never even asked her what her name was.

The poem, the Clarissa in Two Parts -- it was true, you know. She took her place in my collection. That's not what I intended, not at all, but it has happened; gone and done. She has drifted off into the collective and I stand here, alone and still, breathing and praying for a glimpse of tomorrow -- and my heart is on fire. That is the truth, you know. I have no soul. I have eyes that look beyond the world, but there is nothing behind my eyes; just a computer that ticks away the moments, that measures out my life with grains of sand. Rushing towards an overwhelming future, one that has no bearing and no substance, one that is adrift in a future universe, and I am here, dragging my feet along, avoiding my life.

There is power in death, but more in life. In short, I am asleep.

Picture this place reeking of sawdust
and over the counter hunks of dewy meat
and diet coke in big sweaty red cups
and aprons laced with grease fingerprints

And picture this girl, taking photos
her ponytail askew and hair light and
gently brushing across her ears and
the tickle of breath and the little stain

by her left breast. It doesn't matter
when she says her name is Claudia,
from Ohio, because this name, this
word for the moment is lost between the two.

And it doesn't matter when her keds
slip across the stardust and it
doesn't matter when she touches
a shoulder in passing to get a better view.

Turning and the soul is brought like
fireworks to light and she is the one
and the sawdust shimmers about her feet
and she takes a step towards the end of time

And hearts slam to a halt across the room
and jealous wives stammer and accept all
in that moment and the words are still lost,
finding their way from mouth to ear,

trapped in the damp heat of this place,
coated ribs and chicken sandwiches,
dreaming turgid dreams tonight and the stomach
squeezes against the belt and she is here,

And no one is prepared to answer her so
she says again: "Is this seat taken?", swinging
her camera lightly over her back and
eyes trapped between desert sands and skin.

Muttering retreats and selfish glances and
everywhere the fingers drum on empty cups
and the hearts no longer pump their blood
and everywhere the girls have left their seats

and arrows flinging between lines of darkness
and cars crashing through the night and
magic whips the sawdust across the floor,
dusting empty plates and vacant chairs.

The Moment of Undoing

The world is on sale again --
his chest is a tire, undergoing
manditory inflation. We can't bring
ourselves to shut the door;
God, wherever he is sleeping,
has had a bad dream.

Weep again and she'll understand,
but hatred won't burn her eyes;
only fire, late at night, will do.
Smoke drifting Southward before winter,
Smoke lifting curtains and a tiger,
unchained, sprints into the field.

The scales fall to form their judgement
and, judgement made, passing regret,
we arrive once again
at the moment of Undoing. Where
shall he begin? She couldn't
begin to say, but underneath it all
was the scent of whiskey.

And in that first breath -- words
wishing to be unspoken -- he forces
a damp tongue out over his lips
and mutters his regards, turns,
and walks into the field.
It's in times like these, my boy,
that we need ourselves a guide.

The Dying Sun

There are men who have heard this speech before,
listened to the windchimes clanking in the storm,
And when the voice is mortal,
they listen and they laugh.

But when the voice is from beyond,
intoning from the sea,
to laugh is to hide the fact
that they resist the urge to flee.

When the songs come from the west,
across the mountains made of man,
the blazing fire that gives us life
engulfs the world at evening time,
and disappears the life of living --
the blinking stutter that was man
is gone again,
is dust again,
Walt Whitman was not wrong:
to feel the death beneath my knees,
to quiver in the evening heat,
to feel the sweat and thunder of the jets:
The age of man, and
dawn proceeds the dusk.

Doomsday makes its inevitable, crushing progress,
grinding ever closer to the real.

It is then that I can sing with glee;
it is then that I can dance in the street;
it is when I find that life is gone,
I see my shadow outlined in the red
stretched out across the land;
that is when I find myself,
and then I cease to be.

The little boy laughs as I fall to the ground,
and I can stare, unblinking, into the dying sun.

Golden Droppings

My heart is made of flesh --
of this I'm certain.
A man, a man named Socrates,
sits inside my mind,
and mutters golden droppings
of the utterly divine.
I haven't found my heaven,
but I'm certain I'm not in hell:
this life is for my living,
and in it I'll not dwell.
Remember her?
These faces paint a lifetime,
but the memories are mine.

Clarissa in Two Parts

I

Darling Clarissa went down before the fall
(to sympathize with madness)
to visit me in Florida.
She loved the turning of the leaves,
Autumn's trees and fits of color.
I cared not a wit for this
or that, or any of the others--
I was in it purely for the money,
and that moment of sexual attraction.

She hadn't had enough of me;
I could see it in her lips as she ate the chocolate.
I was full of silence and of froth--
The perfect man for every moment.
Pack your bags and fly away,
Or, upon seeing my reflection,
Stay until I've eaten you astray--
Driven you across the plains of itching madness--
Through the shivering gates of fading twilight--
Past the Arch Watchman,
And into tabletop dust,
Where you shall take your place in my collection.

II

To the north, Clarissa found herself drawn;
She yearned to return to seasons,
And the crisp air of winter.
In mid-July she cleared off the bedside table,
Strolled outside and faded off in the bustle of the Eastern Seaboard.

I kept two pints of her blood,
And one of her fingers--
She had insisted.

Imagine her on streets stroked by soot
And seething throngs, drifting
Disordered across broken blacktop,
Screaming songs distorted by ambulances and car horns.
Taxi drivers billowing smokey curses
Out of cracked windows,
Three legged dogs digging through dumpsters,
One eyed guppies swimming circles in gutters,
Thieving time gulping down men of lost business,
As day by day the pendulum's ball crushes trashed eyes
And paralyzes dreams.

Today, I stole a heart or two. I didn't mean to - it's just, well,
the way I look. I am incredible. Can you see my reflection
in that window? Of course, beauty is not the only requirement for
heart thievery. There's charm, but that's only on the surface:
What really counts is spirit. I am spirit incarnate; I am the sand
in the sea, I am life living, the lips of a snail on a leaf,
The grape on a runners tongue.

The first girl was nothing. "I am floored" was all it took - a brief
glance, and my words meant exactly what she wanted to hear. She
shivered from the inside out, I saw the hairs prickling on her arm.
She has dark hair on her arm. I meant to do exactly that, but
intent is hidden behind my eyes, which spout dazzling, distracting
glitters. She was thrown off, thrown to her knees, gazing referential,
In Exactly The State I Expect.

And then... need I say more?

My blood has more soul than your entire existence. The purpose
in my every footstep, you could not comprehend. I know the universe
Inside out. Can you see it in my quivering chin? My tears
are streams of glory, dropping praise on my creator, Who Is
Greater Than Yours.

Just kidding, of course.

unfinished undone

In the Temple Dome the undersized men
each faintly glitter and grasp
for an eye's accidental brush,
Just one glance
to tell a soul, or maybe two.
What's the point, you mutter
with a twist of bitter lemon--
Where are you taking us?

Twist your head from side to side
and witness what we try to hide,
A glistening landscape of weary men
Undersized men, trudging toward the
Dream of America.
Dream a thousand dreams, America,
A dream for every heartbeat, a soul
In every worm writhing on the pavement.
Stomping feet to warm the toes,
Frozen lives bleed frozen goals
thrust upon suburban trolls--
The groundskeeper is on vacation.

A message for the masses: I
am the masses,
Living in my icecream cone
Chocolate lining and sprinkled flair,
Hollow and full of melting declarations,
speeches and provocations--
The throng a patch of foam upon the sea.

And in the Temple rests the limping priest,
His cane a bone of reliability,
His spitting lisp, a touch of polio as a boy
left him born again--
a servant of American dream.

intellectual steambath

take a seat where no one's wanted
those were the first words i heard
she looked at me
an i know what you're thinking kind of look
swallow

am i thinking this tonight
or is it really happening?

stories told round the table
lies for truth and eyes for night
the center of my rote and written universe
intellectual steambaths, spiraled prayers
overblown pontification, the feelings pirate

to me, to me, to me,
to me this isn't a joke

masturbation
that'll get their attention,
wicked gleam in his eye and she squirms
remember
i alone am i

sitting at this table,
me, i cover my ears

putter out my smoke
there goes my soul
a sinus headache tackles my eyes
i will not shed
my will for this

it's just the cigarettes
i say i say i say again

talk of family life and useless wants
i know they're turning inside out
i can't let the outside in
i can't let the outside in

i can't

let me in and blow the hatches
my days are gone, the hours reign
trickling summer sweat
blond hair cut short this rant
it's done.

eliminate worthwhile drivel

hold on to your mind
introductions always lie
precious ways of discontent
nibbling, form my scars

she looks away
when my gaze falls to her chest
it was an accident,
fidgeting screams deny every intent

shake my hand, i am important.
he thinks i'm gay
what if i am
what if im not

so what
she whispers across the coffee
steam embraces her words
the fogged truth of every joke

i am too short for this discussion
bend over so i may steal your eyes
i want them for my collection

he knows my soul
and i know nothing of him!
what if he tells my mother?
the story is as enticing
as last night's dream

she dances on the tip of tongues,
i follow, anticipate her every move,
riding with the blisters
on the heel of life.
we all steal stroking glances
laced with rapt attention.

Acceptance

A tongue wagging in that dark hole
slapping me about with great zeal.
My ears clogged with talk and drivel,
spittle and echos of my resentment.

Are you God tonight, talking to me
through yourself? Or are you only him,
another flanked and desperate child
muttering prayers in your tiny damp heart?

Sweat burns me, dripping from your plastic forhead.
Don't do that anymore.
Redemption, redemption, redemption,
Sing to me when I'm awake; your tears are lost
behind your eyes. Smoke another cigarette.

Going nowhere, shoeless balerina.
Toss innocence aside, grasp the feigned wit of another.
I know you.
You're behind my mind.

Perfume and your eyes are gone, left
to right, right to left, following the sway. Do you see
my smile? Do you see this pain? Follow my heartbeat,
won't you? I know nothing of the soul, hidden
behind my glasses. Look, ma! I can't sing.

Speak again of your agains, rote and written.
Your novel wasn't very good the first time around.
My grin shaped lips tell only lies, I am not
interested tonight. Tell me more.

"Acceptance is the answer
to all of our problems today."

"Can I write a requiem for you when you're dead?"

Think about events in life that are friends!
Don't worry about the missing corkscrew,
the frantic search for underwear
(as you leap out of bed, wondering only
where you are)...

Time to sing?

Oh shit...

Well, if I remain passive and just want to cuddle
Then we should be ok, And we won't get into Trouble
Cause we're seeing other people
At least that's what we say we are doing...

Marijuana Green (not the leaf, either), I miss you.

Time to start talking!

Too much history, shit, how should I begin;
we don't really understand one another, do we?
I mean, who am I? You don't really know, do you?
You know there's something missing, but what is it? I mean, it's certainly not me -- I'm missing it too. Shit, who understands this anyway? You're not reading this. Goodnight.

Visiting a Common Place

Visiting a common place,
we find things mostly the same -
Men bragging of accomplishments
(most not yet achieved),
Women working hard to prove
their reality.

Introduced to one of them,
they say, "Pleasure," and go on with their day
as if nothing were interrupting them,
as if nothing were screaming,
"Where is the pleasure in this day?"

Introduced to one of them,
they smile and nod, winking blindly
and knowing that you, the interlocutor,
will soon be gone. A depressing thought,
but nevertheless, perhaps one worth
consideration - at least as much as
he who is introduced to you
considers You.

Dark habits they hide in silent holes,
Blushing at simple reminders, like
toilet paper or light fixtures.
A life bespeckled but brought to life
is simply a life under a microscope.

Distance from habits, out of those holes!
Rabbits, all of you, for believing in such
fairy tales! You have a disease,
So there is a cure: AntiDepressants will
Purify your mind, and then you will be free.

To operate within the bounds and limits
of Society.

Part II

she saw him in
the corner as i pointed with my eyes.
she always knew
when to look,
she was born with it.

he wore a golden visor
his teeth with silver braces,
she looked at me, i said,
look at me, she smiled grits
her teeth, thats him, i asked.

shrugged, corner eyes again.
looking at me
tapping my fingers.
why him?
hes who i wanted,
i thought i was who,
dont. as long as to you i am
and honest too.
i love, you
were good to me.

Life As a Parable

Life is a Parable
destined for myth
an ancienct manuscript,
inside of which
rests only brevity of wit.

Life is a parable
brought on by hopeless majesty
pointing her scepter at us:

A wave of sleep descends,
in a trance, burried as we learn
the name for colors.

Rude voices wash over us,
we remember what we never knew
and learn, as well, to tie a shoe[,]
a noose for the unicorn we sometimes saw.

Take comfort in this Parable--
rest your eyes upon this page
close, gently to the poem,
with the realization it unfolds.

Birth

She opened her eyes first,
Saw only what was there:
Gauze; a haze of shadows,
A blur only she could make real.

Watch him form out of the mist,
Come to her (with good intent),
She resolves him; he holds close to her,
In the end it comes to dust.

She grows: tomorrow she will be old,
Tonight she begins her trip--
Packing light, she squelches the candle,
And invites his lips to hers.

So the story goes; so the virgins
Grow old, and so death does again
Walk towards each woman and man:
The end is in the beginning.

Drunken, I Suspect

I am
life's murderer,
come to revenge
life upon you.
You deserve
to die
By this hand (I know you not),
I know all of you,
There is a tic
above your eye.

I have come
to show you redemption--
My hands
are steeped in blood
(of salvation).
You have lost
your way.
I am here
to show you;
You're far away.

I am
your lover,
come to climax
my body
inside yours.
Mindless, You deserve...
better, I know
you will concede.

I have
brought
a game,
I wish to teach you
to play.
I love you
Not as a lover should,
But as a lover does.

You see
when you look away,
I show you
what you have lost
and what
might you gain
if only you can forget
that Tomorrow is
Yet another day.

Still. You are
a dog, dying in a ditch,
mangled by a car,
forgotten suffering
understanding,
At last
wimpering sweet bliss.

I take
all you posses
You are rich,
and so you will remain.
There will be a day,
when you
and I
will die,
and together,
We will have all--
The nothingness
we desire.

I am
broken (tomorrow, already)
you are
Alive
tonight, yet, tonight
You sleep.
You are not,
yourself
But I,
inside myself see
who are you not,
and who might I be?

This Time

sift through sandboxes
time to dig out the past,
we missed it once, didn't we?
perhaps it's buried here,
stepped on by the many feet
of laughing children.

opiate gardens

sweat flowing rhythm blowing
mind knowing what's coming next,
i move with her music she
dances she copulates she
dreams in my state i couldn't
stop her, dance, sun in
my eyes i squinted sweated
her heart pounded against
my emotions a wall erected
quickly inside of us, we
beat to the music as snakes
moving charmed we opened
gates swam in opiate gardens
lived with gods and fell
away.

i bleed

i bleed as she spears me
with her flowing eyes.
my insides cracked outside
by the whips of her hair
as it whispers across my face.

sweat collects on my forhead
as i push my mind to speak
in eloquence, in the presence
of a dream.

beauty

walk through stale streets sipping
painted wine in search of
slowly burning time,
pavement blurs and smells of tar
and roadkill this evening everywhere,
dripping painted blood,
never burning in vain again.

only once in a while born again
so take it
easy, do not blaze through flowerbeds
and football games,
waste only desire.

and then i saw
the beauty fleeing from my eyes.

it happens in silence

the state turned me out
they said, none of your blood type here
i turned off my pants
and the lights,
before i jumped into the pool
of insanity.

the beer was full of bottles
and the table was in the cave,
but we drank to our health,
anyways. in the dark
it was easier to see
the silence
in the winter trees.

the clouds didn't shine tonight
because we whispered
too loudly to be heard,
and a man came before us
and cursed our every word.

we drank to a piece (of the pie),
but the police turned us down
in spite of our suits and our ties.
they threw away our travellers checks,
screening for plutonians
arriving late, without a visa.

hated it, i told them so, we didn't
enjoy being held in the trauma ward,
but we were contageous,
and there wasn't a doctor to put in
a good word.

then, they laughed (again), because
we had been there before,
or so they said. it might have been true
but my hand showed no stamp,
even after a careful examination.

when i turned on the light
i missed the curve
in the road
that would have told me
where to go.

even my blood was opened.

Drinking

Cold charm radiates from his face
As he escorts me to the liquor cabinet.
'Take your drink, make it strong',
He smiles robustly.

I pour a glass of Whiskey,
My drink of choice, of course,
And look in his direction.
But he is gone, no trace found--
Only a footprint on the carpet
Where I had most recently been standing.

the boss

what visage stares upon us
from above the clouds?
what mad pilot rules this world?

Man, Today

A boy bleeds
as I step on his glasses.
I do not mean to, and he will not
need them. But still he cries.

A girl sits
Inside a hut. I drag her out,
And shoot her in the gut.
I am angry, because of the boy.

I burn the hut,
I think it's broken -- inside,
Rats scurry through flames.
I do not think they feel pain.

Away, I see a man. He stares again,
And again, I nod, he nods back.
"This, it must be done", I call,
And he calls back.

Outside the villiage,
There is no fire. I am scared again,
But I am angry. The boy,
his blood is still on my boot.

What beast has churned his bowels
And deposited me in these bloody shoes?
This man called death, he's lost again,
And I am here to do his job.

The Patriarchy

Not all have gone
On break. Some, the seething type,
they've come to whisper in our skin
and snivel, beg to be let in.

No chickens here! Let's remember,
We're in the city; what's that
got to do with it all? The rasping
voice lives in the grates,
the whispering steams our skin at every turn:
Not all have gone
On break. Some, the seething type,
They've come, and behind our eyes
they chatter quietly, and wait.

Grown?

Mother, cries,
Silence in a shameful voice.
Tears of dust, entombed;
Mother, turns, an urn,
Empty and grey inside, sits
As the sun drags long the floor.

And whispers spinning,
Waving out of thought.
Mother, where is this place?
What have we become?

The alabaster erodes,
As church bells tole: an angel,
born in time, drags along the floor.
Ghosts of friends cricle,
Drinking sickness, drinking whiskey.

Dusty voices shimmering in air-
An urn atop a mantle, rasping:
'Here lies the fairytale,
and in this fairytale all do lie.'

Cry, mother. Search for tears

What is happening here this eve?
Such a spell have I never seen--
Showers of golden flowers, lovers
Stroll as birds float songs across the air.

Tidings these, they may be good,
But in my soul an organ grinds,
A tapping climbs into my throat
As I watch the sky in fear.

There have been days before, when
As night closes the door of day
A mind I feel in mine head,
A pounding such as Atlas knew not.

But this twilight feels to me
To be something extraordinary;
See, the setting of the sun
The flowing of bloody shadows
Down wine paved roads.

The time, the time has come
And gone, and empty is the throne:
Look to see yourself, look
But see the end has come;
No time, no rule, where
has god left us? Where
has God got us tonight,
As shades close and each
Child and man go to sleep,
Apart and alone, when,
has it always been so?

drunk and no title

From you I beg a blindfold,
Some way to froget this
This passing feeling, this passing love.
I can not tell you,
Her hair, the way it falls,
Wet and dry,
Makes me search, makes me
Stare at the sky and beg
For beauty comporable. For beauty.

Consumed

I seek the will to age an hour
In a second's breath, escape from life
In blinking death. Look
Above the overarching eye and seek within
Or perhaps without, hope and mercy
Cast their spells
About pity I know naught
but what I have learned
In grade school. Her name
Is Shadow, in a whisper,
Duck beneath her tattered cape
And snicker
Absent from direct consumption,
Believe you are emotion, escaped.

ecstatic will

And as I fall into her eyes,
again trapped, shivers upon my spine;
I sing with glee!
And metered pain as from her I am cleaved
(yet, were we ever paired).
That undiscovered beauty rests within her soul,
does shine forth and gives me clues
at what within and in repose does
glimmer and in ecstatic will, pose.
But to her graces I have no route,
nor merit which would endear me.
I lack, I lack, grace is hers and mine is gone.

imagine minds meshed,
bodies distant,
walking side by side
down deserted paths
a crowd of ghosts and
dreams, memories unlived,
unfelt fireworks.

tender feelings in reciprocation,
nightmares unrequited as evenings
pass on and midnight
claims our sight.
grasp, forbidden,
hair, yearned to touch.
the fire is
too far away.

he thinks, if he throws up his flag,
his hand and arms, white and fearful,
that he will make a difference,
change will come across the land:
it will have been his arm
which lead the stand.

ignorance protects us in our dying
as blindness protects us in birth
let us be calm and in breathing strong,
forget that we have so little left to do.

ode to twenty-one

oh fear, oh righteous one and twenty
that keeps my spirits full and plenty;
to you i doth prescribe these words
as a remedy to unseemly turds.

who, but a villian, thief and fool,
would upon you shit? a tool,
no less, no more would be he,
to take you away from me.

oh, i am too drunk for woe
come, that we will merrily go,
flow into the sea, run into the sky
high into the mountains below...

who's go the cat? for the cat
has me; into its fat i am destined to be,
one with its lard and two with its soul;
and you cant take that away from me.

meander with this story now
as we come and bring it around,
towards horse and hither, bent and hay,
little johnny had a slither of cay.

what is this nonsense that he doth write?
is it intelligible, is it for smite?
why is he writing, what is his cause?
one more question, i'll punch you without pause.

oh dear, he's drunk and randy, see,
he likes to get aggrivated at me.
well who doesn't think your a bloody nitwit,
out to get hit with a banana split.

tease these three words inside your mind,
let them role over and be one of a kind:
do you know what happens when a drunk man lusts,
all over your daughter, his penis dost thrust.

the cat, by the way, is short in many ways:
toxic and cated, intricate days
are these which threaten to moan and please
just like your daughter down on her knees.

To: Forget

Summer evening, silver in the trees
Green leaves, not yet autumn, turn to gold;
Rays streak between branches, dust
Glitters between my heart and yours.

My dear, tear yourself away from it all,
Come and lay with me, visit silence, easy
Freedom and rebirth; look out upon the sea:
Waves crashed before you, before me.

Let go, let me carry you aboard,
Forget your clean clothes, forget, fall
Asleep in my arms, as I stand in your
Shadow, baby, love me like I love you.

The Life and Death of Richard L. Hadowinsky

And as we plummet to the earth,
I will not be the first, by any means
To laugh with mirth
At the screaming cries of children trapped
In tiny lives, as they spiral
Along with me towards our unalterable
Destiny. For, you see, I find this funny
That they, not I, are given prayers;
Yet they, not I, know the sorrows of this world
Not at all, in any fashion.

Many before have come and gone,
Many again will travel this path
Of life to death without a plan,
And to them I must turn my soul
And mock and cry and scream in anger;
They are not the people whom I wish upon this earth,
Nay, it is only they who are bound by birth
To witness that which witnessed I once,
The loss of life and loss of such
Ambitions, as prove men of their worth.

And worthy are they for what?
To reap and sow the souls of others,
To feast upon the sorrows of the damned?
These questions plague me,
They are a pain unvanquished in my heart,
Which twists and turns and jumps in fear
At every rock overturned in haste,
And every child born to waste.
And so I must laugh and smile, grin
Perhaps and giggle, as they, and them
See this as a tragedy of children and not of men.

On The Wine of Human Suffering

Born ye to a world of foes
Unvanquishable by pain and woe;
They thrive on such emotions as we have,
And hate, and hate only what they lack.

Yes, they lack and find in themselves
Nothing but an empty void, a nothing that
In itself is but a fist snapped against a rock,
It is to them a loosing battle, life.

Lose of innocence occurs at birth,
Perhaps before; as we in our cushioned homes
Grin with mirth and hope again to have another,
So that we might devirginize his brother.

What, speaketh I, of such disorganized
Life spiraling to meaning, missing the mark
Because of bad aim, laughing and...
I speak this to Richard alone: the rest, depart.

Crying at pain and sorrow, lonely devices
Helping to reach tomorrow, bouncing and dying thus:
Speaketh I of work and such, know thou not
That life is futile, the end is near, and you are servile?

"Can I get some OJ?", the biggest question of the day;
Perhaps because the boss is watching, perhaps because
The girl is cute, alone and only working in her way,
My God man, we're going down!

Cries the Captain, God and Buddha,
The last they see is earth, crashing towards
The window of their lives; these men,
From whom inspiration derives.

From whence did such angst derive,
What evil chemical within the mind does perpetuate
This hatred; not irate, but searing anger?
From neutered angels, envious to thrive

On the wine of human suffering?

sweet,
times they were
when i was selfish, ashen,
hated loved, swimming in the ocean,
turtles, lost besides me.

and what did I do
to find myself, to find
silence and solace?
i met the bottle,
cheers and tears together
mingled flowing into my glass
as i became one with
blackness.

that blackness shall step out

and introduce itself,
shaking hands all around.
and inside i will weep
for him, that man
who i once saw
as myself.

remember the hills?
remember, along with the swimming pool,
there were the pills;
the children, cheering gleefully,
self-conscious men and women,
photographs and pot-bellies
and strong liqueres.

she recovered roundly,
pinned up her smile along with her hair,
(i remember when we danced
in the sea, and she came home
with chopsticks)
write me poetry,
she said.

here is your poem:

"when you gonna make up your mind?"
she asks, through him,
her blonde hair swept back
in such a way that when i see her
my soul cracks,
my heart bleeds,
and i offer her anything.

"you're so selfish",
tonight she proclaims, probing
her finger in my chest,
watching my heart burst,

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!!!!
hahaha... duhmabs? are you there?

come float with me
in my world of empty promise
i beg that you forgive me for
my transgresions in your mind

if you would only understand
that all I have i give to you

I Am

Birth being spit out into a world of death,
Beginning only the start of the count:
The count, which ends at the bang,
And what follows is bound to come to close.

Clothes are chosen with worry and with haste,
Each man must wear what fits his waste.
A coating of his outsides, a second tie
Is behind necessary for each man to hide.

And let a woman not make the mistake
Of calling into question that which she can not forsake:
You, too, are born in uniform
Only wedded harshly that to which from you as torn.

The only thing to keep me up at nights
Is a hint of spirits.

I am come from beneath
To show you the sky above,
I am come from below
To bring you that which is beyond.

Eating miserably in your tiny skin of flesh
I find you, larve, suckling fresh.
For you I have a cure, the remedy of time,
As you, with your own gold, begin to dine.

oh dear

kuster screamed yesterday
when he awoke with a
pearl
of wisdom?
(he later said)
in his mouth,
it having cracked his tooth
in some extraordinary way
during the night.

he awoke spitting
blood and tooth perhaps
and enjoyed the
enjoyed everything,
the attentiont he received
from his parents
no less!

what did he mean?

we can never pick up all the pieces
and tell you.

Aging

Last week, a year yet again,
She's old, and her doctor
Says she weighs too much.
Thank you! For, bitter wine
Will send time backwards, flowing
And she remembers before.
And all, it is as it should be.

She sits upon a wooden chair
Whilst a Golden Sunbeam
Catches only dust and memories,
As it misses her hair, and all
And all is as it should be.