Me [poetry]

Inhabited between
wild things,
wonderful things,
Who Am I?
No longer a main priority,
no longer stapled to a better forever
determining worth and future.

I am the problems I’m not letting go of.

I am the energy and struggle to do better
in this Magical universe,
reincarnate like eggs in a nest.

My wonderful soul is witching on Cosmic music
sounding brighter than the sun to every Poet
driving everything fresh
alive;
caressing the Muse upon my brow.

The most clouded minds
find a way into the Beautiful.

Let’s dance that jive a bit confused
alone together.
Inhabited between
wild things,
wonderful things,
greatly used into a smile strangely grinning
through the garden door of life,
into a Beautiful high.

Rain [poetry]

Rain on the windows paints calligraphy on his walls—

He recites verses
to music playing
where pear flower stars burst forth
in the multicolored bowl on his kitchen table
where he once compared nature with artifice
and made love to the girl with ornamental hair

That’s what happens, she says to him now, when tradition
and art
are sacrificed
for the preservation of book pressed flowers

When I A Boy [poetry]

When I, a boy, when I could,
I voyaged out into your cool company—
the coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep
before walking that large solitude
of no cricket, no owl;
walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods
tossed among the taste of echoed blood
at such a time of the coyote,
invisible and dull by the snow.

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me to the warmth of your breath—
letting me dream my dreams of romance
written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers,
letting me feel again the enticing light
that secretly guided me like the slow slipper of moss
to the doorstep of your excited hands—
when I, a boy, when I could.

Death [poetry]

When you are dead,
no one invites you over for a drink

Birthday parties are no longer valid,
and holidays are past pictures,
cards,
and fading memories

When you are dead,
no one sees what you’re wearing

No one speaks to you as someone alive anymore

No one notices the dirt beneath your nails,
or the dust that fills your nose,
or the ghost that you’ve become

When you are dead,
even the stones shut their eyes

Madness [poetry]

Too many people stomping around—
fractured herds mucking the rivers,
the land,
killing the grass.
They think they know when they don’t.

They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost.
Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.

Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
highways,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—
Illusion.

Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
a tragedy as big as the smallest positive real number,
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.

When Dawn Came (Revisited) [poetry]

It was here one night,
among white blossoms and junipers,
that we lay and were touched
while the rest of the world snored
in their small beds.

We breathed frost words to breezes on branches,
breathing deeply in the deep woods
with no earthly destination,
hidden behind the pulse of dawn
throbbing on a trigger’s touch.

You were delicate incense I lit alone.

In silence,
my fingers found the sweep of stars on bare skin—
a house-warmth murmur of Christmas gold when you breathed.

You were a bird
whose only cry came in color in the company of starlight,
whistling up the violets
in a garden wilderness of morning delight,
flowering into streaming pink and gold,
and fleshed with last night’s rose petals when dawn came to us.

Poet [poetry]

The boy who lost his mother gnarled like a bear—
tough bear he.

But away from the bestial,
he had softness in his eyes—
they laughed even when he and his words were sharp
and sometimes ambiguous.

He showed the plumpness of his belly to his closest friends
and grunted like a pig and poet,
laughing behind his scars
with eagerness to taste color from afar.

He took from the sunglow like an artist hunched at his easel
and painted everyone—
even the ones who had no power to imagine.

He painted deaf-mutes with love that ran down his breast,
ripping chords from the constellations
and opening creation’s ingenious blindness
to music that volleyed beyond his art that transcended ages
and volleys still
in us all.

When Dawn Came To Us [poetry]

It was here one night among white blossoms
that we lay and were touched
while the rest of the world snored
in their small beds.

We breathed frost words on branches
breathing deeply in the deep woods
with no earthly destination,
hidden behind the pulse of dawn
throbbing upon a trigger’s touch.

You were delicate incense I lit alone.
In silence,
my fingers found the sweep of stars on bare skin,
house-warmth murmur like gold when you breathed.

You were a bird
whose only cry came in color in the company of starlight
that whistled up the violets
on a garden-full wilderness of new-day light,
the yellow flowering into streaming pinks
and fleshed with rose petals when dawn came to us.

Car Hysteria (Seduction Revisited) [poetry]

Earlier today,
shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with sleek,
fast,
brand-new cars
that rubbed and kissed their trousers
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness.

Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats
where stale memories surfaced and breathed new air,
striking deals in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee.

What she feared most,
kicked and scratched
and wanted to grow big enough to crawl
from the backseat of a yellow Pantera
and seduce her all over again,
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color.

She stayed away from the thing of her past—
Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit,
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting.

Dream Voyeur [poetry]

When I sleep
you hide paralyzed in the shadows of my bed
where your courage to live vanished long ago.

In your world of mocking corpses
you charge against me
in wingless dreams and knitted walls
and empty stares
that run from the drum of my heart.

You bleed broken knuckles
against your hidden door to empty stairs
that led you once to freedom.

You bring me fists of your dead flowers
and promise me a future of your past faded worlds.

You wear a million memories around your neck—
nooses of every man hanged by rejection
to bleed broken
among all the eggs of the future
dead.

But you live your death
in these halls of feeble footsteps
outside my room
where your twitching fingers bleed to open empty cameras
and nail me to the windows of your eyes.

Our Love [poetry]

We bedded with moss and leaf and sand
drenched in that evening’s rain;
a shimmering surf at our feet
where diamonds and poetry wept on ocean waves.

We stirred to passions rising in us,
caressing below an unwatched moon.

  • our
  • love
  • open
      no
      love
      closed
  • we
  • found
  • heaven
      in
      all
      disclosed

Your breath and sweat filled my senses
blossoming and mating with the heat;
like joyous roses in morning light,
they grew to swim in our ocean waves.

I consumed your fire and fed you mine—
even the trees shut their eyes.

Eleventh Hour Ebullience [poetry]

Late in the valley at a house with a ribbon on the door handle
She lies upstairs at the hall’s very end
Beating her pillow and lowing “you”

But it does not matter
He is more than her imagination
And she imagines the angels keep on him
Ride hard, cowgirl
Lead him with a dark all-over open-eye feature
Seen only in the moonlight of the mirror crying at the night

Aching
Eyes wide open
She knows well this feeling
Almost like dread
Anticipating the eleventh hour almost here

Sensations strengthen
Seconds crash like waves over her
Sweet surrender rocks her soul
Charging from its depth
Galloping over rivers unleashed

This tempestuous night sights him in her gaze
Trumpets sound
Around the bed
Unleashing her cries in the valley beyond the Sea