Down the rabbit hole May 30, 2015

  

It is difficult to imagine when enough is too much, or even enough at all, this need to penetrate as deep and hard as possible, those inner realms denied at other times and places, we being drawn along by our nose or some other part of our anatomy, willing, yet resistant, as if we believe we might be consumed in the process, might lose our heads (the way the grasshopper or praying mantis does) and unable to get back what is lost, forced to go along to wherever men go at times like these, lost in the woods, sorting through it, while seeking to find the rabbit hole to leap down into the way the rabbit with his top hat and watch did, knowing that if we descend we may never find out way out again or worse, may not want to.

 

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Hounds in the woods Aug. 27, 2014

 

I hear the howl of dogs baying in woods that are not woods, hunting for fox or cat or coyote, frustrated and their inability to catch, woods that are not woods, running along a ridge behind my house where foxes might come, cats certainly, and the always crafty coyotes I hear but never see. I live my life like a coyote, keeping still when the dogs are near, yet unable to resist calling out when they are afar, hiding in a hollowed log, or under a pile of stones, too crafty to be easily caught, yet scared to death I will be, hoping that the dogs that howl in the woods that are not woods will seek out the fox or cat, as more of their kind reside in this neck of the woods, less likely than I, perhaps too foolish to realize just how easily it is to get caught in the jaws of the hounds, who howl in woods that are woods, their sound echoing, when in fact these hounds are so much nearer than we might believe.

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time’s winged Chariot. aug 18, 2024

  (inspired by an earlier poem)

does she fear

 time’s winged Chariot now

 when she never did before,

having her whole life pulled all into a ball

when other play coy

 does one realize as days go past

how much she had had

 and won't have again

worms of a different sort

seeking not her virginity

 but bringing little of the Joy

she saw it in elder days did

how does she pass her long loves days these days

does she sit in peruse the Ganges

where she draws out rubies from its side

does she wish again for those days

 when she could reach her hand out

 and gather all the joy she wanted

 time pressing now with fewer rubies to find

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tempted again. aug. 16, 2024

  

even all these years later

 the temptation remains

 how to control it

to keep from doing something

 I know I'll regret

 holding back

 keeping myself

from tasting the forbidden fruit

or the illusion of it

drawn in by what I think is

for lack of a written invitation

we always defeat ourselves

pushing into something

because we want it

even when there's no proof it exists

I live my life as a phantom

images of my desire broadcast

on the horizon like a mirage

I am always thirsty

 especially for what I know

I should not have

 resisting the ever

 self imposed temptation

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Night after night May 12, 2015

 

 

I come to this holy place in my mind, wrapping it up in birthday paper I wanted back when she was more than just a memory, instead, solid flesh, still holding her breasts in the palms of my hands, a perfect gift I still feel all the way to the tips where the buttons tighten and I wrap my lips around them.

I come to this spread of legs, and the whole other holy ground I need to make fertile, to pow first, then see, the slow movement of my plow stirring up sacred soil, and then, down deep, to where the seed must penetrate.

I come to this holy place now because it is no longer possible to get there any other way, the need to feel it around me as I press close in, a sacred ceremony I imagine day after day, night after night

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Moved Dec. 30, 2025

 

I moved, but did not want to, that day into night when my best friend convinced me to see the ball drop, where we stood shoulder to shoulder, the multitude coming after the birth of Christ, yet hours before a new year gave birth, indistinct, helpless to control my limbs, in a place I came to make connections to some other part of a city that never sleeps, pausing at times to peruse shops selling electronic junk, x-ray glasses, spy cameras, tiny tape recorders, all I wanted but had no real purpose for, here now in a pointless wait for time to move on, the clock ticking like a time bomb, aging me without my consent, to witness the demise of the old year, and to celebrate a future we could never be certain about, only hopeful, as the massive crowd moved me, when this was not about love.

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Dream Believer 2014

what does she dream about

when she dreams before

the ghosts wake her

 before Dawn

with worry and guilt

what does she see as she skates

 over that uncertain landscape

the shapes of her unconscious desires

coming to life before her

 some pleasant some comfortable

 some beastie, scaring her

her Ruby slippers can’t protect her

 not from flying monkeys

nor The Witch on her broom

 these shapes of her own creation

 that keep her back from what she needs

does She dream of salvation

or a knight on a horse

of any color

or does she see herself as

a Joan of Arc

strong on her own

fighting against the waking world

 

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Going deep May 11, 2015

 

I enter you as if a church, sprinkling holy water before I come, seeking the blessing of a Virgin mother, who is not a virgin.

I enter with eyes closed, feeling your walls close around me, aware I might not be able to get out again, this blessing, this holy motion we need to embrace to make it all come real, to relieve the torture we carry inside us, this time bomb, this volcano, this urge to release.

I enter you, diving into the deep end of a swimming pool when I am uncertain I can swim, feeling all of you pressed against me with every thrust, this need to get as deep as possible, over my head.

I enter you and know very well, I might drown 

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No gift but silence Dec. 24, 2012

  

I have no gift to offer that you don’t already possess, this end of season, the up and down of it, when in the end we crave not the paper hats, or streamers, the garland nor the tinsel, or even the pretty packages seated in ribbon, we instead crave the silence of night, the peace, precious moments we otherwise lack, we sit back contemplate who we are, and will be, not what we were.

I have no gift to offer except my since, my distance, a present wrapped in solitude where you can find solace, and I – still wounded – can heal.

This present I give to you without your consent, no card in your mailbox, no candy in your stockings, a gift you may not even know I am giving, all the better for it, peace on earth, and while I may still feel the pangs of regret, I expect you not to, expect you to accept this gift without comment, or commitment, only silence on this holiest of nights, when even the mice refuse to stir.

 

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Which ever way you want 2015

  

I'll put it wherever you want me to

front door back door uptown or down

I want it all in any and every way possible

to get to know what every part

 of you feels like inside or out

I'll taste whatever you want me to taste

 to ease my tongue in wherever you say

this space up front that space behind

to press in and touch your tongue with mine

I want it all whichever way you say

to get down as deep into you

 as possible

 to know all that I can ever know

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The heat + June 25, 2025

 

Three days of 100 degree heat and I’m just about burned out, the ice melting in my lemonade before I can sip it, though what I thirst for is not a cool drink and wish for a better reason to sweat than simply walking out into sunlight, this need still with me, so is the face I see when I shut my eyes, even not having seen her in the flesh for so long. I almost forget what she looked like, and confuse what I recall with what really was, and have replaced that face with one that inspires the heat I feel in my dreams, paarched for it, searching the bleak horizon of my reality for the oasis IO crave, a sip would do much to satisfy this need, even in the midst of this heat.

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Body count May 10, 2015

 

 

I torture myself with her imagined body count, and ach to have been in the front of the line rather than the guy she comes back to after other men have come to her, all the details locked up in my head like the reels of a repeated porno flick, enduring it like a husband whose wife goes out one day a week with her girlfriends, only she isn’t just with the girls when she goes;

I torture myself, filling in the gritty details of what I would with somebody else’s wife if I had traded places, the back seat of the car, the grim by the hour motels, thee bod count pounded out by the marks the bed posts make on the wall

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Stranded in a dream June 16, 2025

 

 

Stranded again with a car that won’t star when I need it most, this dependance on people and machines, too acute, and I still linger on the edge of dreams that always have the same landscape I cannot possibly reach with machine, and force myself back each night when I close my eyes, seeing faces I have not seen in reality in a decade, yet still ache for, as I did when I did, sometimes, stranded in that dream world as well, unable to start up or get there or hold on once I’ve managed to reach there, no dead battery keeping me from that placed, but something lese, more acute, something that binds me and makes me ache for release.

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Imagined connections May 9, 2015

 

I like to think there is more to connect us than what is between your legs, though in the dark of night, when I most often think of you, I stroke up the fire that makes you come alive in my mind, and imagine again how if feels to plunge so deep as to make you moan, this fantasy that arrives just before my eyes close, and I descended into sleep where it all becomes that much more intense, and no amount of stroking can contain it; I like to think there is more to it than this, and yet, this is what I miss, this game of tag with that button I know will make you react, each time I get deep enough to push on it, this think we do (I imagine) that connects us again and again

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Inside this bubble Aug. 19, 2014

 

 

I write these poems in a mirror and think I am looking at out, even though I know you are somewhere in the mirror, too, a face that moves me, changes me, recreates me into something other than what I might otherwise have been.

When I think of you, I see my face change in the mirror, pained over what no longer exists, deluded into thinking it might still be, when I know what I feel is self-contained, like being in a bubble floated in the air, seemingly carefree, always aware the bubble might burst an any moment; I cling to you because that is all there is, this frail fabric, the thin veneer of love, I pray, will still exist long after it all crashes down. I write these people in a mirror, seeing the impact you have on me,  how much less I would be if I did not have you in my life, even when you are not, and can never been again, this reflection of feelings keeping this bubble afloat, an illusion I need to maintain in order to survive, a mirror of me, reflected in you, and without out, I case, and so, I cling to the interior of this bubble, waiting for the moment when it will burst.

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Destined to crash Nov. 21, 2012

 

Each time I come to this place, this side of the river, I realize what’s been lost, even when I cannot see it floating on the surface; it is always out of reach, so, I stand and stare, thinking it will never come back, never be again part of my life, and I am helpless to do anything about it – she having already severed whatever connection I might have hoped for; I am like a kid with a kite that has fallen into the middle of the river, and sank, with only the strings still attached to my fingers; it won’t ever fly again, even though I can almost see if, rippling under the surface until it eventually disappears. The tides won’t bring it back, nor wishing for it, and as hard as I tug on the strings, I come up empty, no way to know how she feels about it all, whether she blames me – did I pull to hard to get the kite to fly? Did I try to fly too high? Did I expect too much from it, for it to do more than it’s capable of, or as there a flaw in the design, making it destined to crash?

I come to the edge of this river to find out why.

 

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Out of our hands Dec. 24, 2025

 

My ex called in a panic, telling me her favorite cat is dying; won’t eat –at least very little, cold to the bone, shivering even crawled up against in the bed at night. With her car in the shop, she doesn’t have the case she needs to seek out a vet, who always wants to test and test until they test the pet to death, This being Christmas Eve, when not vet will be available to see her pet. She doesn’t want to put the cat down, though we both know she will have to, she calling me because I’ve done all this before, making me recall those favorite cats I held until the needle did it bit and the purr turned to silence, Tiny Tug (my absolute favorite) passing away in my hands with no amount of love or caring or cash to keep it with me, and now, she – my ex—brings it all back in time for Christmas, as if I’ve lived a bad life and gets this lump of coal I must accept on this Holy Night, on this night when there is no room in the inn, not even for a dying cat

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The box aug 29, 2024

  

it never really goes away

you just put it all in a box

and put the box in the drawer

somewhere in the back of your head

 and try to forget it

only you never do

can't because bits of it

always seep out the cracks

in the box where the duct tape peels

and out the drawer and into your head

 and then you think about it again

 the memories of it how good or bad it all felt

 how much you would like to go back

and do it all over again only

 this time doing it right

sometimes at times like these

 you feel the longing again

 the ache you forgot about

how potent it is

was and always will be

and you try to stuff it back into the box

 only you find it no longer fits

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Where Burr shot Hamilton sept. 9, 2024

 

I go back each week

 to the place where Burr shot Hamilton

and feel the vacancy

 passed the building where

she perched to smoke from her window

 on to that stretch of road

where I can see the New York skyline

 spread out like a feast

 a road I took on a bus as a kid

for this view even though

that bus took way longer to reach New York

than other buses did

the view worth the delay

then and even now

though her absence fills my head

 when I come when I look

 out at the River from the park

 the world before me like an oyster

 she used to eat

I can't come here now and not miss her

even though her time was a painful one

 and always will be

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Milk and cookies Dec. 23, 2012

 

I would leave cooked and milk for Santa; I would rather leave these for you, if you do not hold it against me, this dietary diarrhea we must endure, how not to get fatter or older or maybe somehow remain wise, this time of year always haunting me, for fear I’ll end up with coal in my stocking when I hope for so much more; perhaps don’t deserve, like the bicycle I wanted for my birthday, or love I need yet cannot find. I would leave a gift for you on your doorstep, yet know you’d hate me if I did, no happy times text message, no Christmas card mailed from some remote and unrecognizable location; You would always know who sent it, even if I’ve refrained from using my name, mile and cookies left on a table near the tree, not for the fat man, but yet a sign of love I can never get enough of, even if you give me coal, even if you hate me for wishing you peace. I would leave milk and cookies if only I could.

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The day after the day with the longest night Dec. 22, 2025

  

It is the day after the day when winter came, thought the cold arrived earlier, a stranger in the night after having lived through a mostly mild Fall, this day after the day with the longest night, and I wonder at the dreams I have, if I got less from this day than what I dreamed the day before, waking erected, having imagined something that never happened when I sincerely wish it had, what we embrace in dreams eludes our conscious minds, feeling the need, drawn to it like a desperately thirsty man to a well, where we drink until we drown and this does nothing to make us less thirsty or less erect, we still wake craving.

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Out in the cold Dec. 2, 2012

  

I fear I will not hear that voice again, even in harsh refrain, a silence so astounding it deafens me, this plant I once saw as a rose (with all this thorns), now seems a weed I dare not pluck, having no other to take its place; even if its scent is sour rather than sweet, I know thee are still fair, most of all in my thoughts, and so the fault need be with me, a faulty gender who has turned perfection into something spoiled, how much service I would render thee if I could, if then would let me, to rejoin what once was, happiness, though I know this is not possible and so what joy I take from thee is all in my mind and dreams, what satisfaction I must generation for myself, even tough it is you that will always inspire it. I know a warm heart beats within thee, inside thy breast, only it does not beat for me, and that from thee I might generation a million unspoiled pleasures, should chance allows it while in reality I am out in the more desolate, desperate and cold, as if in a winter rain that withers all it touches rather than makes things grow.

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The last leaves Dec. 10, 2025

 

The last leaves from the trees in the yard are gone from limbs, strewn flat on the ground in need to be raked, when the forecast already predicts a deep chill, though not yet below freezing, the cold seeping deep into my bones, retained until spring thaw, mother nature’s holy ritual as the calendar winds down to the official first day of winter, and then three bitter months of bitter cold we must endure before we feel warmth again, before we see the first buds promising the return of leaves to the trees, promising a sense of hope, the way we hope love will embrace us, each day marked off as if a prison sentence, locked in this frigid embrace until we are recalled to live, love resurrected as with the leaves.

 

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What connects us May 9, 2015

 

I like to think there is more to connect us than what lies between those legs of yours, though in the dark of night, when I move, I often think of you, I stroke up the fires that makes you come alive in my mind, and imagine again how it feels to plunge in deeply and hear you moan, this fantasy that arrives just before my eyes close and I descend deep into dream where it all become that much more intense, and no number of strokes can contain it.

I like to think there is more to it than this, and yet, this is what I miss, the game of tag, touching that button I know will make you react, each time I get deep enough to push it, this thing we do (I imagine) that connects us again and again.

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Stranded again June 18, 2025

 

Stranded again, with a car that won’t start when I most need it, this dependance on people and machine, too acute, and I still linger on the edge of dreams that always have the same landscape, which I can’t possibly reach with or without machines, forcing myself back to each dream each night when I closed my eyes, seeing faces I have not seen in reality for a decade, yet still ache for. as I did when I did back then for real, sometimes, stranded in that dream world as well, unable to start up or get there or hold on – once I’ve managed to reach there, no dead battery keeping me from that place, but something else, more acute, something that binds me and makes me ache to never leave..

 

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