Wednesday, April 30, 2014


April 30, 2014

The chill rain covers my face like a cold sweat
As I struggle to make my way through the park
Named after the man who made the city of my birth,
Limbs just alive with buds ready to burst
Sagging overhead, the tip of each dripping
Bits of clear liquid and reflect some deep
Drip going on inside of me
This is always the best and worst of the year
For me, a time when change intrudes
And forces itself on me, consuming me
Making me ache inside and out,
Pressing itself against me, chest to chest
So that I breathe in what it breathes out
And so that we linger in a perpetual dance
Neither of us can escape, nor want to,
Regardless of how we penetrate each other,
My breath steaming by the time I reach
The gap at the other end, and my hips
Aching from the effort, leaving me
As if I have been stung by bees
That have yet not emerged for the season
With the stinger still deep inside

Of me – oozing.

Friday, April 25, 2014


I squeeze the bottom first
Before I push it in,
Forefinger and thumb
Feeling it go hard between
Something inside me screams
This thing, we touch,
We thought of as too much,
This tender, bulbous button
We feel grow moist.
And the more we push
The more yielding

It becomes.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

A taste so sweet

April 13, 2014

It tastes sweet and warm
When I take it into my mouth
The tip of it like
A long lost memory
I never had,
The ache as deep in me
As my bones,
But a soft taste against
The tip of my tongue
And the ooze of it
As I squeeze
With both hands
Wrapped around each
As I move from one
To the other,
Greedy to take it all in,
Thinking one side
By taste different
Than the other side
When both taste
Just as sweet.

Friday, April 11, 2014

I’m no boy scout

April 10, 2014

This lip against that lip
This hip against that,
I’m like the boy scout
Who can’t stop rubbing
Things together
Hoping to make fire
This lip against that lip,
This hip against yours,
Drawing more from this
Pot of coal than I
Ever deserve,
This lip thick with
The taste of your
The hip dipped deep
Bound to strike flame
Or at least oil
This lip against that lip
This hip against that.

I’m building you a house

July 10, 1977

You want you want a house on the hill
With green, green grass and a field of dill
With dreams of past where children grow
And the day will last and the sky will show

I’m building you a house with a porch
And swing, and a hearth where a fire
Can burn until spring; I’m building you a dream
Until the sun goes down

Got no hammer in my hand
Got no reason to give in
Got these eyes that always stare
Like nails they piece the warm dry air
Making me want to give in

I’m building you a house
With a window on every side
Where the wind blow even
And the clouds collide
Where the sun won’t set
Upon the world outside
I’m building you a dream
Until the sun goes down

You way you want to live
In a hole in the ground
Where the stone is cold
And the steps lead down
With dreams of the past
Locked deep in the earth
And days that will last
For what it is worth,
But I’m building you house
Made of more than dirt
I’m building a dream
That is as big as the earth.


June 20, 1982

Chrome and steel
Shine in the sun
Bright pages
Of the photo album’s
Tender spots

I stand
The heat passing
Through me
The camera is my eye

This is a picture
For some future
Day when we
As elders
Infused with memory

Lines squiggle
Baby on the lawn
Black & white
Always lines

The pattern
Of this existence
Is beyond all words
I paint it
With camera
Letting the baby
Make the strokes

The sun hotter
As I crawl inside
This black box
And press myself
Upon the film

Shaping the liens
Like a sculptor
Easting away
The darkness
With light and illusion

There is no baby now
No Portland
Just this image
Which imagines me

The shutter swished
Like a guillotine
Slicing away reality
Like a slice of bread

In elder years
The illusion is strange
We forget the journey
The nail scrapings
On the walls of this box
The way out

We wee
The lines
That linger
On the reprint

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Call Martin -- actor doing one of my monologues

Actors from time to time use some of my monologues. This one did a demo using one of them and sent me the link

Call Martin: Demo

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Flowers and other pickable weeds

April 4, 1980

I am not the man I should be
I am not the song that echoes in the morning
With the rising sun, the settling dew
And crisp unfolding of pedaled flowers
Reaching for you
I am instead a weed, pickable on
This weary earth, but not especially grant
I am for you, if you’ll have me
I’m for me, when you’re gone
Yes, the Sunday chimes ring out
Preaching their own sad song
But mine is different
I am not the man I could be
I am only a heart beating, two eyes
Blinking, and a smile,
Simple and fine
Rising like a weed

For you