Pursual
The diamond glitters
Stars in the object’s eyes
She sways as she sighs
A glass to her lips imprinted with lipstick
You see her across the room
As a savior and a dream
She walks on water when you sleep
A bounty of roses, yours to keep
If only the correct words like jazz tunes
Might sharpen your tongue
Cool waters to quelch
The burn and the yearning
Patience
Rising beneath a frame
A calm motion swept up
Like so many cobwebs
Their threads shine clear
The notes eyes carry
When horror films roll there
Caught in screams
Rotating dreams give way
To a fabulous display of coats
Hung dry on racks
A memory bleeds the colors
Collected in a pool
Try to swim there
The water caresses
Rest, be cleansed
In the pools of reverence
Never Meeting
I lay on the shore as storm clouds gripped my head
With all the words I never said to someone I never met
His lover sighed imagined dream
His fingers cobwebs
Silver echoes projected just so
Increasing gently as the tide’s incoming flow
That swept the feelings dealt in beds
Of other gents who came and went
I dreamt I lay in a field of sunflowers
I drink it up
A tossed butt could light a fire
In this tumbleweed desert
Like the tortures of feeling your skin
Paper-coarse, sanding mine in the winter
I dreamt I lay in a field of sunflowers
No roads, the bees sucking pollen for dinner
And in the morning the yellow sea cascading in me
The Moon
Wrapped in her shaw
she turns the knob,
says she’ll be back in five minutes--
and whether she means a toe
for a moment, or fifteen days,
I know she’s good for it--
if only all others
were the same--
if I could hitch a ride
and be back in good time,
I know I’d find
Neptune again--
and roll an eye
at Venus along the way--
she’s always late.
But the Moon--five minutes.
Tunnels
The act
of an inhale
yellow lines inside
the mountain
and a dim sense
that one should breathe
the ghosts aren’t here today
the act
of an exhale
kicks up dust
is it really like that
?
what they’ve all said
are we going
nuts -- listening --
suddenly remember
the act
of an inhale
The Struggle Because we love
we felled the head
to sink our teeth
within each other--
not that we chopped
ourselves up-- no no--
that we must
recognize ourselves
as entities intertwined
yet drawn to the sound
of differing currents,
or ways of
seeing that rebel
from childhood
to be held
in your voice
that hears me.
The Process
I seem to be
losing the rat race
while corporate shills
pay their bills
with my blood and tears—
How the hell did we get here?
So sure we’re temporarily
Embarrassed millionaires—
Getting up, going to work—
Bombarded with messaging,
white noise,
and filth—
Where does the meat fall
From bone? Why is it
we’re so separated, discarded,
& alone?
Only to turn around
And see it’s
a recipe for revolution-
Untitled
every minute that goes by
is from a million years ago
my hearts lost in my
ribcage
i think its gonna go off
on the next soul who steps
into the thunder dome
and who am i to tell you
what to do
thats the magick you
can fly right by me
i have the time Ill
explode in the stars
when i die
Entropy
Like a skirt
mended
black in the moonlight
as fingers wither
and needlework
full with pinpricks--
so the universe
expands--
reaching over towards
the end, and we small
creatures create
comfort
well-worn embrace--
perhaps irrevocably
entwined
at the base
of a tree
that dies as sweet
as we
into the star
that spills like
a glass of
water.
Marlago
It’s true that reptiles
need a lot of sun to survive—
and particular breeds of
carrot top access to swampland
where they can crawl
on their bellies,
open their toothless jowls
to consume muddy fish,
drifting stupidly
upon lily pads
that can hardly contain
their weight—a sagging
sloppy creature
that would sink ever lower but
never drain its swamp.
Baseball
Strut and swing
on that timeless diamond
for creeping hours,
with bated breath
and sweaty mitt
held for offering—
spit sunflower seeds
so they may plant
under boot, under
dirty joke
scrawled on baseball
cards
signed
and perpetuating
in little league pockets
hoping just one day
they may
step up to the plate
and say their prayers.
Typewriters
Like trains,
old cameras,
stacks of vinyl—
they don’t compete
or carry their weight,
prove a thing
just wait
in sunny attics,
deep basements
for a lover
to open their case,
touch the keys,
anticipate
time composing
lists of smells,
sights, bells
moving starry nights –
they sit solid
aging not by skin
but in the imagination
of old folks
remembering
beginnings
like bicycles
and homemade bread
a time that was hardly simple
it just had
a few less wrinkles
. . . .
Oh, the typewriter—
use has returned
to old bones—
let them fall apart happy,
spent, unforgotten.
