Star struck June 27, 2024

 

 

She has become

The Madonna,

I once thought

She was,

A new image

Posed for public

Consumption,

A darker yet

Still angelic look

That strikes me

The way images of her

Did in the past,

Straighter hair

Framing her face,

The intensity of her

Dark eyes,

Waking the urges

The way her gaze

Always did, her mouth,

Always an invitation

For a kiss,

Not quite smiling,

Yet not at all sad,

Her face the face

That set so many

Ships to sail,

More mature,

Yet not old,

If anything

More resolved

Perhaps even

Filled with a sense of peace,

This face the face

I come back to again

And again, if only

In dreams,

Still as potent as

When we were still

Both younger,

When we were both

Still naïve,

An image that leaps

Out at me the minute

I see it,

Almost a stranger,

Certainly different,

Even though it is

The same face,

And I still stare,

Star struck.

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Cherry Blossoms Aug. 31, 2014

  

I recall the pictures of cherry blossoms (or were they apple blossoms, I’m never sure) she took during her trip to Newark, back when she still believed she could make her way in the world with her camera, pink everywhere, and I was in awe, her world laid out before me like an open oyster, making me ache for a taste, and now, this side of summer, we wait for the trees to change, leaves bleeding and falling, autumn coming yet not quite yes, as if we wait for the end of the world, tempting fate, and ache for an embrace, we can’t hasten, or invite, scared to death of the consequence, the harsh reality of our last fateful attempt. What do we do when none of the dreams of cherry blossoms come real, and we live to watch the leaves change, summer into fall, fall into winter, and then the cherry blossoms again, as I cling to old photos, imagining her with her camera, snapping pictures of a dream that won’t ever come true.

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Birthday wishes from afar July 18, 2024

 

 

we are 10 days away

 from her 45th birthday

 already deep into that silliness

 people called middle age

 and I wonder how different she feels

 now than back when I interrupted

her birthday party at age 33

 how did I feel when we all thought

 nobody would trust us because

we had survive passed our 30th birthday

and later turning 45 in the mid 1990s

having traded my career

as a baker, salesman, truck driver

for a career as a scribe

while she went from scribe

to something more prestigious

 still able to take pride

in her ability to save the world

While I at 33 fell in and out of love

But always stand ins for my one true love

while she, perhaps, is finding and losing love too

 then embracing aging as an accomplishment

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Inside and out June 20, 2015

 

I want to be on the inside and outside at the same time, to feel what you feel as I feel it, tender, then rough, to move and feel my movement inside you, stirring something to life inside both of us.

I want to hear what you hear, what my voice sounds like in your ears, not just the sweet talk, but the real talk we both need to hear.

I want to see what you see, through your eyes, not just when you look at me, but at the world, what visions come to me at this time of day or that.

I want to taste what you taste, the sip of wine, the kiss, the oyster you take into your mouth whole.

I ache to be you, your mouth full of things I need, I need to feel, see, hear, taste all you do, so, I might know you fully from the inside out, the only way I’ll ever know who you really are.

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Variations of Antony and Cleopatra (2014)

  

In my salad days, I was green in judgement, perhaps cold in blood, knowing that the stroke death is  as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired, and her music, moody food for us, who trade love, and I come to understand that she makes the most hungry where she most satisfies, and I need use my lips to gently pry her open, to lie beside her, with her, within her, knowing that when she leaves this world so much vanishes with her going.

I have Immortal longings in me:  The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: I am fire and air; my other elements. I give to baser life.  Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. While I continue to wrestle with you in my strength of love.

In time we hate that which we often fear. We are ignorant of ourselves, begging for what harms us most, and our inner wiser nature denies us these things for our own good, and so it is profitable for us to lose this voice, those prayers, and for what good turn: “For the best turn of the bed.”

And when I kiss her, the first and last of many, I taste her orient pearl, desperate to think that desolation does begin to make a better life, and for her, now, seeing her true love vanish. Let him forever go.

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Forbidden zone Sept. 2, 2014

 

This is when I miss Jerry Lewis most, seeing him exhausted, the haze from the cigarette dangling from his mouth, reminding me of my life at home with my uncles and the haze of cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

I walk beside the river and look over at the skyline and that cluster of skyscrapers among which was one where the telethon took place, recalling my Labor Day trips there, and my standing outside on the sidewalk waiting for my group’s turn to go inside.

Now everything seems empty, someone else’s face where the famous comedian’s once was, and I wonder at how we keep losing things we love, how important pieces of our lives vanish, not appreciating them when they still were here, love being the most terrible loss of all.

I stroll along the riverfront walkway at the bottom of the cliffs, seeking out in this landscape for what was most recently lost, the massive bulk of history hanging over me, the while house that leads to her street, a forbidden zone I must avoid or come too close to, lost but not forgotten, most acute at this end of season when all things begin to fade.

 

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A blind man feeling his way April 2012

 

 I was never this giddy even at 16

when I fell in lust with my science teacher

 who was dating the head coach of the football team,

 all I could do then was stare,

,now I post silly things on her Facebook page

 she tells me I should take down

since her whole family

 and her most trusted friends

will see it and know what going on

(if anything really is).

What the hell am I thinking?

Why can't I stop?

This is not natural,

 the way puberty was back then,

 the normal progression of a boy

 entering into his teens rather

re-defining for me what people

mean when they say second childhood,

 this need to feel out my way in a fog

 of my own creation,

 to know if what I see is real,

 to touch it, to know if it is soft or hard,

 hot or cold,

 there or not there,

 like a blind man gauging reality by touch.

 

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Heart and brain Dec. 10, 2012

  

How do I tell my heart to forget her, something my brain can’t even do, unforgiven, unmasked, left without her at last?

How do I forget what I thought she might possess, the warmth in the chill of night?

How do forget her light, alas at last she is rid of me?

How much darker the night becomes without her light?

How do I keep on when all is done, she is gone, when she is shed of me already?

How do I convince my hear all is over, when my brain tells me it is not so, when it is clear she must go, has gone, won’t return, my heart still beating too many beats at the thought of her, my eyes still see her place where she sat, my brain convinced she is no longe there, but my heart does not buy it, defies it, beats madly as if she still is?

How do I convince this miscreant heart to accept it, to forget it, even when my brain already has, brain telling heart to get over it, when my heart sees what it wishes to see and always will.

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Dolphins are angels July 2, 2024

  

The gods ride the waves

On the backs of dolphin,

As I spy them from shore

Coming to me when I

Most need them,

Back then as well as now,

The same thoughts always

Running through my head

As I step into a dream scape

Each time I reach the sea,

The ghosts of the past

Lingering on the sand,

The way foam lingers

With the receding waves,

And I search the choppy

Surface of the sea

For signs from the all mighty.

Looking to distinguish

The rough surface from

The dark shapes,

Gods coming to me on their backs

When ever I plead for relief,

In good times or bad.

Coming up out of the depths

As if just for me.

 

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Chaste and unchaste June 21, 2015

 

Does it always have to come this, chaste or unchaste, rubbing raw this phony sense of holiness, when all we want to do is be wanton, and for no real good reason except that it feels so good?

Can we use our tongues for more than talk, to explore those holes we know are rarely holy, front, back, top, bottom, inside out, words getting us through the door, though it takes much more to convince you to undress, to let me come inside where it always feels the best, this unchaste moment we knew had to come, even when we claimed we would avoid it all, our brains painting it all out, planning it like a military campaign, finding some way to get you to surrender, to give in, to let me find those parts kept most secret, to make unchaste what we might keep chaste if we foolishly kept to the promise we would not go there, knowing the whole time, this is where was always wanted to go

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Silent night Dec. 2013)

  

I keep hearing her sing

Silent night,

Even when I don’t hear it

On the internet,

A song I used to sing

But don’t have the range

Now that I’ve grown old.

I hear the song when

I stroll through the town

I cover,

Or down the streets

Of the town I will

Cover soon,

Twinkle of lights flashing

As I pass bars

And restaurants

And see images in some

I think might be her,

But are not,

The coal rattles in

My stockings as I

Make my way for yet

Another change of year,

And know all of what was

Now fades,

Even if I vaguely remember it,

And she is already moving on

From her role as Santa’s helper,

So, she can get back to

Helping herself.

I stroll the streets

Of Hometown, too,

Where her memory

Is most vivid

And therefore

Most painful,

I am living with

The ghost of Christmas past,

But none of Christmas future,

I hear her singing Silent Night

It is all that I have left.

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Waiting for Groundhog day June. 19, 2026

 

 

I count the days until the groundhog comes, even though I do not believe we will get a reprieve from winter, seeing his shadow or not, we repeating everything over and over until we make things perfect when we could not do so during our first round. We must endure the torture winter inflicts, helpless to make it stop. We have no information to give, northing the inquisition wished to get from us, our lives dictated by fate, not fortune, waiting for when the cold leaves so we can breathe again,, this need for love so acute at times like this when all we have to cling to his a memory of what once was, and even then, an unreliable recollection as we repeat what we did, and can’t stop.

 

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still doing it. 2014

  

do I still do it

when I think of you

 the way I did it back then

with each daily dose of you

 you sent via text?

 Do I still dream the same dream

long after it is impossible

for any such dream to come true

no matter how many times

I click my heels or wish to be back in Kansas?

Of course, I do

 can't keep from doing it

lost in the same fog now

as back then huddled in the basement

waiting for the text I know

will never come

and I must rely on what was

 rather than what is

 the archive of memory and photos

the imaginary flight I take after dark

 which one is not ever you

 looking always wishing for the dream to come true

 

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Reflections in the window November 11, 2012

  

I stand on the cure and look up at the windows I used to imagine seeing her face behind, an illusion back then, when she had better things to do, more so now that she has gone – not too far, yet far enough, mingling with other people after having abandoned the old crowd here, these windows look out on a crowded city, on the skyline of a sleepless city, and I wonder what it is she really sees when she looks out, not just from this window but also from the window above the church year where she perches often like a bird, smoke billowing from her lips. What vision does she have, if not religious, then something equally profound, a sense of fate, the anticipation of greatness, she could not achieve here, behind this window, despite the reflection of the skyline in the glass.

I stand on the curb where I feel the emptiness flow over me as if a breeze, sweet scent of the river lost with the approach of winter, and I wonder, will I need to wait for spring to smell such sweetness again.

 

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The beast inside June 16, 2015

 

It stirs inside me like a tiger trapped in a cage, banging its head against my ribs, and my crotch, aching for release, worst at night in the dark, alone, hearing its growl, feeling its vibration until I’m nearly crazy, no whip and chair can keep it contained, yet let it loose, it has no where to go without you.

It paces back and forth inside me, using up all the available space in my brain, each step a painful thought I cannot easily resolve. I am stiff with it, all over, the pangs like hunger that is not hunger for food, back and forth, up and down, in and out, this beast inside of me desperate to feed, to get its pound of flesh, to feed on you, night into day, into night again.

 

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To the core Dec. 3, 2012

  

I felt it when it all began, something more than I could stand, yet I could to all proclaim, I so completely was to blame, hiding this thing of beauty like a jewel, too bright, too brilliant, some completely true, a gleam glowing in my eyes if not in yours, alas I admit I still adore,

Wishing it real with every breath, daring not to put it to test, to utter it too much aloud would make it vanish like a cloud, I stiffened to your impassioned touch, a fire I now know burned too much, and I wish I could forever keep hold, this jewel of which seemed so bold, I love you now as I always did, but I’m just brave enough to admit, how warm I felt when this close to you, now a chill I cannot undo, distance making the heart yearn more,

For the person I still adore, a loss I feel down to my core, and a voice in my head saying never more, and I know it is not the same, and know down deep I’m to blame.

 

 

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How far is too far June 18, 2015

 

How far can I go before I cannot go any further, back and forth, then back again, letting my tongue run along the rim of each ripple before reaching deep, here, there and everywhere, how far can I go, to make you shudder, to make you convulse, circling each place until you tighten up with anticipation, asking for more than just where my tongue can go. How far is too far or not far enough, this romance, this dance, you looking down at me as  kneel before you, spreading it all open so as to leave all options on the bed, circling it all, front and back, then front again, feeling you stiffen with, you can’t hold back, making our want more than just where my face reaches, making you want to accept me, wholly. How far can we go, when it is too late to turn back

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A stone ground into sand May 3, 2012

 

I've clearly lost it.

I'm not the man I was when I was a boy,

 when I was able to convince all the girls

in the theater where I worked

 to spend some time in the balcony with me,

 needing no stiff drink to keep me firm,

only the feel of a breast I snuck with early caress,

 some telling me I was going too far

even as they let me,

age having worn me down like

water dripping on a stone,

shaping me into a shadow of

who I was and what I am capable of.

This not for lack of desire,

perhaps made worse for the intensity of it,

feeling as if i don't deserve that which i ache for,

 and so cannot live up to it,

when the whole thing falls into my lap,

needing  t, aching for it,

 only to disappoint myself at that critical juncture

when I can't give her all that she deserves,

 a stone ground down into sand.

 

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On those cold nights alone Jan. 16, 2026

 

The cold makes my fingers sting, even when I push my hands deep into my pockets, this season’s grip firmly on me as I count off the days until I can again be free.

I’m farther out in the wilderness than I recall from before, with nothing to spark life back into my aching limbs except by my own invention, the illusion of romance lingering as I drift off to sleep at night, and still clings to me when I wake in the morning, sunset, sunrise, neither able to do for me when I wish it could be otherwise, someone to hold my hand in the cold, someone to keep me warm sleeping beside me, thinking of her most during those chill nights when I need her warmth, need her to rekindle me, and make it possible to get through the night.

 

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That look on her face June 15, 2015

 

You can tell it from the slight flush of her face and slightly crumpled lips, like an admission of guilt, and her refusal to look anyone in the eyes, pleased, yet maybe just a bit ashamed, maybe thinking someone might blame her, trying desperately no to look at pleased as she really feels; she’s like this every morning after, and clearly wishes every morning could be like this; Just who she was with the night before, who can say, though it might just be someone different each time, though not every morning does she look this way – though on those mornings she does, you can tell it right off, the flushed cheeks, and maybe a bit difficulty in walking (suggesting she did more the night before than she could handle, and yet would not stop, won’t stop next time either.)

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Making a dead rose bloom again Jan. 20, 2013

 

The rose no longer blooms as it ought to, dropping when sunlight should make it glow. I prick my fingers on its thorns, and feed it with drips of my bleeding, this need swelling up in me, unsatisfied, and I am reduced to a beggar, so pathetically desperate to see the rose glow again, stirred deep in the night to seek out what is no longer there. Even the scent has gone sour, and yet, I hold it up to my face, aching to catch a whiff of what I once embraced.

How does one revive a dying rose, restore its beauty and its glow, make it again what it once was, or perhaps it can never be again, once cut from the bush that brings it life, and makes it flourish. One can find no joy clutching a dead rose, or squeeze from it a scent it no longer possesses. This sad thing I hold, still makes my hands bleed, but no matter how tight I hold it, I get no pleasure

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Breadcrumbs Jan. 14, 2026

 

She leaves no breadcrumbs as she once did, nothing for me to follow, leaving me to fend for myself, no clues as to what life is like for her now, in the wilderness where she resides,

no evidence to suggest she does well or not, nor great plans she might have devised for the remainder of her life, choosing perhaps to adopt to a much more laid back lifestyle, free of badges of distinction, nor the glory she seemed to need so desperately in the past, as if she’s thrown all that baggage off the train she travels on, needing none of it in the new life she’s chosen for herself, true or not true, who can say, I just stare down at the tracks here, looking for breadcrumbs that do not exist, as she fades in the distance.

 

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Oh that black dress Sept. 1, 2014

 

 

She sings like an angel, but oh, that black dress, just enough at the top to keep my attention, even as she sings about Metropole, bobbing up and down on stage like a cork, the band playing on behind her, beside her, more than just eye candy, and I think maybe she did not tell the whole truth about the role she played, giving the band leader a peck on the cheek before slipping into another song, Papa won’t you dance with me, he playing the role of papa as he takes her into his arms, but oh, that black dress, as vibrant as a rare jewel, all this years before I knew her, although I watch over and over, hearing her voice in my head long after the film clip expires, seeing her in that black dress deep into my dreams.

 

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a joker May 29, 2012

 

 

I know I am doing wrong 

the moment I snap the picture 

of the sign hanging over the sidewalk

 along that part of Tinker Street, 

and I tell myself I will 

never post it anywhere 

she can see it,

 but I do, I am a tease, 

an imp, a practical joker 

whose humor causes grief

 I do not intend.

I always think other people

 will get the joke. 

They never do, 

and perhaps it isn’t a joke at all,

 that sign symbolic of a past

 that is not my own,

even though I have 

passed beneath long before 

I ever heard word of her, 

an unnoticed bit of history

 she alone might get 

and would get angry over, 

the way people get upset 

when someone walks 

on the graves of loved one,

 I plant no flowers here,

 I merely pass on 

captured bits of things I see 

and with the vague idea 

I can see what these things mean.

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