Her life written on the face of a clock aug 16, 2012

  

she says in her poem

 she once bought the farm

 meaning she got married back then

though I can't remember seeing

any farm in Las Vegas

 last time I went there

 this one small piece of a poem

that lays out her life like a road map

telling all the things she has done

to this point in her not so long life

why she needed to sum it all up now

 I can't say though I might need a calculator

to make sense of it or keep track

or figure out what exactly it all means

not a love poem as much as a confession

though just to whom she speaks I can figure out

 wiping her slate clean maybe

needing someone else to know all she has gone through

 to get here when it seems she might not be here for long

the history of her life written on the face of a clock

 ticking loudly full of innuendo

and to some degree sadness

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Gone but not forgotten (elegy for a Facebook page) july 26, 2024

  

when it's gone it's gone

like a mirror steamed

erasing the face I saw

but not mine

gone but not forgot

erased deliberately

a test of will perhaps

 a testament to what

 we can't have

when it is gone

 it is gone perhaps forever  this time

 a message in a bottle

floating away

irretrievable

uncertain if it will ever be read

ever to find a shore to land on

or a person to collect it

from the breaking sand

gone not forgotten lost

in the endless ways

all of which flow the wrong way

away as I stand on this shore

 looking out

remembering not to forget

when it's gone

 it's gone not

I could not forget

cannot forget

all of it flowing in my head

gone but never forgotten

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The same space June 29, 2012

 

 I talk to him with my back to her; 

he looks passed me as we speak,

 saying something only not to me I think

 before he flees back to the office

 that is only his office temporarily

 and I – still with my back to her – 

talk to another colleague

 until I hear the frustrated rustle of paper 

and the sudden stamp of her feet 

as she brushes passed me, 

pad and pen in hand, 

and into the office that is not his 

and slams shut the door,

 rage filling the air in her wake

 like a rare perfume that hurts to breathe in,

 silence a weapon more powerful than words 

and aimed at my back with her glares.

 This idea we can somehow

 share the same space, 

breathe the same air,

 speak with the same people, 

pure folly when all we can ever do 

is cling to our sanity

 and pray we can survive.

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gravity. July 23, 2024

 

the landscape here

 remains unchanged

 on the surface

 a painting of how life ought to be

never was

painted in points of color

that freeze time

and make it seem

as if she might walk out

from one side or the other

when all that ceased to exist

long ago

and All that remains is the memory

of it dashed by the feelings

we keep treasured even when

 they also ceased to be real

 this train passes places

she used to walk near

the ferry terminal where

I last saw her from a distance

 a ghost then more so now

tearing the frail fabric

of this thing we live through

 time and space bending

from the gravity of our lives

the weight of the world

 on our shoulders

the history that is no more

 

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An itch I can’t scratch Feb 1,2014

 

I won't pretend I don't miss it

that time in the dark

staring down into a tiny screen

for the icon telling me

you had texted me

this literary romance

this ache in my pants

this thing that itches like ants

and no way to scratch it

or ease it

no calamine lotion to soothe me

no drug I can take to make it go away

 I still feel it

still crave it

still wish I could go back

and do it all again differently

not the kisses or the touches

but rather the foolish things

that went through my head

 I will always want what I wanted then

 to feel your shape

against the palm of my hands

taste your taste when

 my tongue penetrates you

 to have your eyes swallow me whole

Jonah forever lost in the depths of you

feeling what it feels like

on the inside of you

 the press of flesh

the in and out

the hunger I can't satisfy

in any way with anyone

other than you

I won't pretend I don't miss it

I always do

 

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Refuge April 27, 2015

  

On more than one lonely night, I have taken refuge here, alone in an oval bar with an oval stage behind it, an oval stage upon which the dancer mounts, an inner sanctum, pasties strategically place at two points on her breast, and a triangle of cloth covering almost n nothing below, she shaved to the point where I need no imagination to see what this tries to hide.

I come here, sip my beer, give the perfunctory wave tip I am expected to give, perfectly aware of how accessible the dancer can be for the right price, only this is not the person I want, or need or care about, and when I look up at the face I imagine seeing the face of the person I do want or need or care about, only to be disappointed when in a flash I realize it is not, wishing it was merely a matter of price, when it is much, much more complicated than that, and ultimately, I can’t afford the toll it would take to be with the one I want, need, and care about, even if she would have me, and wonder if it would do any good to take refuge in this woman’s arms, when she could never be the one I need.

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This could be the last time Dec 2013

  

I know I will always remember this moment

 she coming late to that school named

 after the US senator

 to find me there already

 press passes draped across my chest

 like a wreath of garlic

her upstairs looking down

 with me already busy snapping photos

and she with her camera dangling

 like a useless fruit

 somehow I know

this is the last time

 I will see her in the flesh

a point from which

our lives steer different directions

 not positive or negative

 perhaps a little of both

and ending the final chapter of a novel

 we have written for ourselves

and now must eventually finally conclude

in the parade of dignitaries

 songs sung

school kids cheering

as if all done just for us

 rather than a man

whose name is on the building 

 

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middle age Sept. 19, 2024

  

she keeps saying it

 week after week

like a chant

 a religious ceremony

 kicking her heels perhaps

 thinking there is no place like home

 though none can go back

the way Dorothy did

no wizard’s balloon

can fly her through time

and restore all

the black and white of it

 the Innocence lost and restored

after the tornado

 why does she say it

does she believe she can remain in Oz

 or does she believe

she is trapped there

nor good or even bad witches

 to whisk her away

 only the place where she's landed

and must accept

a good witch would tell her

this is not the end

only the beginning

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Finding salvation finally Aug. 8, 2014

  

This is not the way we expected it to end, a man of some distinction in a city that never sleeps, holding out his hand to her, to carry her off to some new career just when she assumed all options had failed, the drama of the past few years expiring with a grateful sign as she flies out to that world, leaving behind the residue of her old life, the Mata Hari  intrigue she only pretended to be good at, never able to make what she enjoys most in life to pay off even with the help of those few scoundrels who envisioned her as an opportunity, for them, not her, leaving her behind when she became inconvenient, an albatross that keep them from begetting what they wanted, when what they wanted was never really hear, this story concluding on a momentary sour note, only to rise up and sound sweet again once she abandoned the wolves who would devour her otherwise.

I never expected the old story to conclude like this, and I will miss the old her, even if that old her caused me so much pain, but joy as well as if there is always pleasure in pain when it comes to her.

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Filling the space of this lonely night May 21, 2025

  

In the late night, alone, before sleep, I make fire, rubbing sweet memories together until – as back then – they spark, the need not to keep warm this time of year, at least, not warmth in the way I could in the depths of winter, I rub hard to inspire fire out of what seems like long dead coals, folding and unfolding photographs of you, as inspiration, desperate to fill the dark spaces of this lonely night with a least a bit of light, an illusion, inspiration I would lack without having had you in my life, if not now, then then when it all seemed to matter not, slowly, one long stroke after the next, until I feel the surge and wait for the eruption, only thinking of you can bring.

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The cries in the night April 25, 2015

When I hear the cry in the night, it takes a moment for me to realize it is my cry I hear, not here, though I wonder at what games she might play in the invisibility  of her private world, and if these different from those I imagine she might play, she once posting on an online dating site she’d be open to a lot, even documenting it on video, and now, I wonder if she ever did, and what her cries sound like in the privacy of her personal dungeon or are these the cries of her latest lover, tied down and used, o the other way around, this sense of trust needed to find the intense pleasure, the cry that lays claim he or she has hit the right place, the most vulnerable, full of potential for pleasure and at the same time pain, the cry in the night I hear and wish it hers, always wishing for more than is permitted me.

 

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Drowning in her brightness Aug. 18, 2025

 

Even when I close my eyes I still see it, the after impression left from staring too long as something far too bright, blinding by its brilliance until I see nothing else, the residue of something seen or felt I can’t, separated from, and do not wish to, needing to cling to it the way a drowning man clings to a life preserver, knowing to let go means doom, even if it is only a memory.

I close my eyes and it is still there, her eyes staring back as if unreality, frowning at me, her mouth caught in a subtle smirk, as if to confess she knows the effect her brightness has on me, and how those of us on the brink of drowning know exactly has we cannot escape, this undertow, this bright light, this drowning, this blindness.

 

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An unexpected gift Oct. 28, 2025

 

I never dared ask for it, to see this face renewed, making afresh the face I knew , still potent, still possessed, even when I know it is not in the flesh, a face I can update in my brain from faces past, and know I still feel about this fresh face lasts, a gift I did not expect to get, yet gratefully accept, and will not give back, not daunted or lessened by time, as vivid as it had been, a face I keep in my heard and heat as if in a locket, amazing how much the same I feel as I did in elder days, this treasure I thought I’d never find, will keep inside, even if unrequited, as wonderous as a wild flower be, even if I am mistaken in believe she put it there for me.

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It should have worked Nov 15, 2012

 

 

Had it all worked out as planned you'd still be here as opposed to where you are, and where you will eventually end up, it should have worked, since you had to hit it all so perfectly, even as what great poet said “avoiding the Monopoly of perfection,” leaving a specific flaw so it all seem so real when engaged, your smile as perfect as a firm handshake, and the rest the pieces of the plot so orderly and specifically planned I'm still puzzled as to why it failed,

Had I been an objective observer, I might have admired it all from afar, how you managed to pull all the pieces together to get what you thought you deserved, and then in the end did not, and I wonder is this a life lesson from which you will find redemption, a way to leave the path you have walked out too many times, to have it always come out at the same place you never intended, and from what you eventually needed to escape?

How do you move on ahead from where you are now when it is clear going back is impossible?

 

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Venus fly trap April 24, 2015

 

She holds open the gate with both hands, one on each side, pinching apart the fabric as If flower petals , exposing the pink center where the bees plunge in for nectar.

This, I dream about every night, what it might feel like to be a bee, to dip my wings into that smooth wax, unable to easily extract myself, the push and pull of it, part of that everlasting struggle, the in and out of it, how tight it feels around me when she releases the gate and I must push and pull to get in and out, moisture swelling over me, not making my task any easier, though it does make it all feel good.

Is this how a fly feels inside a Venus fly trap?

Is this really what a fly wants, willingly trapped as the game closes down on its head?

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The blue blue sea Aug 4, 2014

 

This is the pier, broken off at the end, that stretches out like a finger into the blue blue sea, a pier with a doll that we call Captain Jac,  that keeps guard on the broken Pier to keep people like me from stumbling off the broken pieces and into the blue blue sea, and down the street from the broken Pier with the doll of a pirate is a golden trimmed hotel with windows that look out onto the blue blue sea, and the pier broken at the end where the pirate keeps guard to keep fools like me from falling in, and this is the hotel room of the gold trimmed hotel, where she makes love to someone, this side of the window that looks out to the broken pier and the pirate and the blue blue sea, in which I already think I am drowning, wishing I am the man inside that room, in that bed, with a window looks out the broken Pier, the pirate that keeps guard near the blue blue sea, and I feel the waves as we move back and forth, on this bed, near the window that looks out onto the broken pier, and the pirate that keeps guard, near where the waves wash over me from the blue blue sea

 

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Splinter in my heart May 22, 2025

  

I feel it as strongly as I did when it happened, like a splinter in my finger I can't take out, not always as painful as back then, that night in the dark bar when I got up and left her there to fend for herself

I feel it as strongly as ever, when I turn the wrong way, the prick of it going deeper into the flesh, an anniversary of something I still regret, I still feel it because it will always be there, pricking at me the way rose thorns but far less a symbol of love.

It no longer bleeds as it once did, it is dug too deep, yet inching in on my soul and maybe even my heart, a pain I’ll never be free of, made worse this time of year, an anniversary I do not celebrate, just haunts me, and in the end I must live with its sting

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Another fig? (2012)

  

I don’t eat the fig,

I lick it,

And ache for it to last,

Feeling each ridge

With the tip of my tongue,

Tasting the juice that drips out

Into my mouth,

Sweet, yet not so sweet

That I would get weary of it,

I always ache for more,

I lick those places

Where the ridges meet,

And that pin prick

That makes the whole fruit quiver

If I lick just right,

My tongue easing

Into the deepest part of it,

Where the fruit opens up

Like butterfly wings,

Spilling its essence into me.

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Loving her April 20, 2012

 

They love her,

I don't know why.

 It's in their eyes even here,

 as the student leads us to the library,

even as we enter the room,

 gazes turn in her direction,

as if she is a movie star,

 holding luncheons in her honor,

 letting her up on stage to perform,

this small town reporter,

 here like no other I've seen before,

 what magic does she possess

 that makes people adore her,

 like this invite to \ teach here on career day,

 no best selling author,

 no famous actress,

yet, they love her.

I see it in their eyes,

 in the way they react,

in the way they talk,

 none noticing me in the least,

 just her shadow for a day.

 What makes them feel this way,

what power does she have over all of them,

 over me, too,

as I take my place

in the line of her admirers.

 

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The same pickle july 27, 2012

 

we are all in the same pickle

we just don't all know it

slipping and sliding on

an ice covered pond

(this written in The heat of July)

 with nothing to hold on to

 to keep from falling

 all of us all arms and legs flailing

 as we try to keep upright

 and try not to cast aspirations

on each other

 if we could only put one

 if not both feet on solid ground

 we might be okay

 if we could hold on to each other

we might be as well

only we all insist

 we can survive this on our own

even as our gazes get fixed

on the shore each

finding some measure of salvation in the hands

held out

 but fate can save only one of us

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In the midst of madness June 18, 2012

 

 My friend calls it fatal attraction.

I don’t think it is,

 but it clearly is an addiction

 I need to escape,

 so I can get on with my life, 

not love so much as need, I think,

 or maybe a bit of both 

that make up a bitter brew

 of my own making, 

wanting what I can’t have, 

should not have, 

and will never have, 

fearful she might end my existence 

with a snap of her fingers,

while more than a little disappointed 

when I show up where we both work 

and she’s not there, 

still aching for a glimpse of her 

in this pool of madness,

the way mere mortals did 

of ancient gods, 

knowing that to look too directly 

in their direction is to invite madness.

Is it any wonder Oedipus

 put out his own eyes,

 through even in blindness 

he still saw the thing that horrified him most,

 and that which he desired most, 

since both are the same.

 

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Dusty roads sept 11, 2024

  

this is not what it was

nor will ever be again

 the dust of the past

clings to our heels

yet does not bring us

back in time

the long road we walk

 from youth to old age

is a one-way journey

 from which we must learn

 how to keep moving forward

 not linger too long

not to get lost

detoured

 into some dead end

from which we need

to constantly backtrack

what remains constant

 then now and always

is what we feel

 the stuff we

sometimes mistake as baggage

 when in fact

 it is the stuff life is made of

 we either carry it with us

 or lose entirely

love being the most precious

commodity we Carry

if we leave it on the roadside

there is no point to go on

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This life we build Aug. 20, 2025

 

We need to define it because we have nothing else, this life we choose to lead, we cannot easily abandon, so we erect walls around it, choosing to defend it, rather than risk the risk of change, not an issue or mortality, but of frailty or fate, what we got stuck with, must live with, with or without shame, painting the inner walls of this citadel as to make it feel less like a prison, when that’s all it ever is, one we made for ourselves, one we decorate with excused and fake causes.

We need to feel righteous about it all, for fear if we do not build support for this, the whole things will fall down on us, a “house of cards” in a game wen cannot actually wind, only pretend we can.

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Lost at sea Nov. 14, 2012

 

No end in sight, just the endless seat, leaving her to choose which way to go now that she has ended up nowhere.

In calmer seas and other times, she always spied a destination of some wort, a bit of sand in that vast expanse, a safe harbor to drop anchor in, in order for her to swim ashore, maybe thinking each island will have a buried treasure for her to find.

Now, any direction is better than none, though it is always difficult to decide. She always aching for immortality when as the poet she loved in college said, the only real immortality is death, none of us, friend or foe, want that fore her, even when we can’t see what she wants for herself, this endless horizon, this vast space upon which there seems to no place to go.

But she is a determined sailor, and once she gets over this setback, she will sail on, sails unfurled, finding some place else to go, something to steer for, another big of sand, another buried treasure to dig up.

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