A brand new pen

I think I’ll buy myself a new pen

One with new words in it so I

Won’t have to use the old words when

I’m crying on my pillow or cry-

ing when I’m down; I know it’s bad

When I can’t rise and face the day

That same old loneliness I had

When I was alone and used to pray

That someone somewhere could come

Along and save this dying soul

Of mine, and no one came, no one

And I dug myself another hole

And lay there in myself made shame

And moaned there in my peppered pain

More than empty ambition

People tell me I’m more powerful than I know,

Saying that it doesn’t go to my head

So I’m almost never drunk on it.

I get the same message everywhere I go

Friends patting me on the back

To keep back the people with knives

My life full of dark plots

I’m constantly resisting,

I’m always falling over clues

To puzzles I never intended to solve

Frustrating my enemies

Making enemies I don’t mean to frustrate

“Trust yourself,” my fortune cookie

Tells me with tonight’s take out,

“You know more than you think,”

and it knows more about me than I do,

knowing that the next steps I take

will be towards something other

than empty ambition or

pointless wealth,

“Your dream life is rich,”

My other fortune cookie says,

“Listen to your dreams.”

and deep down in my heart

I know this is right.

In search of prefection

I keep expecting Spock

To step into my life

The narrative squeaking

Out of a television speaker

Life as hippie, hermit, writer

Listed in the order of their occurrence

The flaws of character

Made obvious by the screen

The craze of million of witnesses

To the demise of a man,

The embarrassment of wasted talent,

Years and years

Of looking for the key

That fits only me,

Flaws waiting as in California

For the proper seismographic catastrophe

To see me free

From this need of importance

To live life without identity,

Or worth

Or perfection.

After the storm

When the lines fell during the storm

There was still hope

The cold wind blowing rain over the roof

Like fingers prying into our lives

Tapping at the windows

Doors and cracks of floor

Seeking to steal fire back for the gods

Huddled up into the corners, poor

Impoverish Prometheus waiting for the claws

Stepping from house the morning after

To dangling power lines

the swaying carcasses

of fallen witches from Kansas

Blackmail

They tell her what to do

And she does it

Biting back the bile

In the back of her throat,

Knowing that they might do

What they said they would do

If she doesn’t do what she’s told,

Panicking each time

Something in the plan goes wrong

Hating the man who always manages

To get in her way

Thinking he will make them do what

What they said they would do

If she can’t do it to him first,

Whole lives put at risk

Because of one stubborn fool

Who has yet to learn

That this is the way

the game is played

And that people like him

Have no business

Getting into the game

If he doesn’t know the rules

Or for that matter

The consequences

Impressions

You always were persistent,

your sure step shiftless in the sand,

inches behind mine,

refusing to fade the way mine do,

the wavering water washing up,

sinking in at the toes,

the deep impression of your life,

always remarked upon,

leaving that satisfied taste of completeness behind,

while I, in constant struggle within myself,

looking for ways to make my name,

a Wall Street broker, a notorious book peddler,

a hustling, rustling bandit of the street,

almost ready to wash your feet

or windshield for your secret,

me, the invisible foot on the sand,

my suit, tie and shimmering shoes

meaningless here among the pixies

and gypsies of your imagination,

like a gull's bloated body

in the low hung clouds,

grey upon grey,

while you, stark,

a white gull with black head laughing,

even at the waves that crush you....

Sea shore letter at six

I wrote to her from the sea shore

that short weekend vacation

when I was six,

a bragging man of inch-high printed letters,

who licked the stamp certain

she would be impressed,

the sea and gulls still aching in me,

the indelible impression of youth

marked upon my soul,

crashing waves and salty air

and broken ship on the reef—

old fishing boat filled with souring fish corpses,

which reeked for weeks,

though to me,

there might have been pirates to battle

or women to save,

swords clashing in frantic glee

before the inevitable Davey Jones,

and for the long ride home,

I imagined her, receiving me like Errol Flynn,

her long five-year-old hair gleaming

like gold from the porch,

small hands grasping my letter on the stairs,

shaking with expectation—

though when I arrived,

there was no one home,

just my letter, stuffed in the mail box marked:

address unknown.

How?

How is it the goose

Lifts up from the pone

Or a child to walk

On own two feet

Or a bird to take

First flight of wing?

No one knows

How is it

We trust these wings

These bones and feathers

With each lifting

Of our heads

To rise from bed

To open eyes

To know

The sun will rise?

No one knows.

How can we trust

This world of ours

To keep its flowers

Or bring its green’

Spring coming after

Every winter

Without fair?

No one knows.

How is it

I meet you

This bundle of words

Sent to no one

For no reason

A bottles sailing

With secret message

To land

On your shores?

No one knows.

Faith is not a word

A goose would use

But feels it none the less

To know bones

Will hold wings together

For the thousand miles

Of flight

To come or go

From no one knows where

How can you doubt

The years ahead

When the world has

Done so much

To bring us together?

Why waste those

Secret energies

If it all must end

Tomorrow?

Why expend spirits

On such matters,

As if fate thought

Us trivial?

No one knows.

But when I life

My wings to fly

Or arms to hold you

I know it is forever,

It is for that time

Beyond winter

And the time before

The first flake falls

To all those times

All those buds to bloom,

This life, that life

The life that comes

Tomorrow – and all

The tomorrows after that.

Buying the farm

Spring spreads green

With quiet qualms

Quilting the cold crusted winter

You come

Settle

Dress

Waiting the ceremonious hours

Before the ceremony

Bursting with the bubbling

Burning boils of love

Time ticks on too tenderly
moodily and wrong

Painfully aware of you

Telling you in your settled world:

“This is the moment.”

Out your window the gulls return

The geese squander their inheritance

In the church yard

Wasted the wet winter thaw

Somehow the house ahead

Seem haunting

The ghost of marriage

A little strange

The indomitable isolation

Of independence

Gone

With a ring and a chant

How many rings does Saturn have?

Or Jove?

Jolly and round

Violating his own rude rules

The ring rolls around your finger

The vow, in your head,

The quiet question

The preacher proposes

Whispers in the room

“What was that?”

You want to ask,

But don’t,

Can’t,

Caught in the aura of austerity,

This IS the moment.

Then,

You are one,

Holy in a whole world’s whispers

The music starts,

And stops,

And starts again

You turn,

Two to one

Standing at the alter

Standing with your hands

Bound piously

People pouring rice

Over you

Like water

Man and woman

Husband and wife

Terms that worm through life

And settle you

In these spots forever

For eternity,

I

Now

Take

This

Soul’s sacrifice of self for you

You love.

You and love

You and the eternity of love

To hover

Over like a glorious spirit

This is the moment.

The darkest hour

Hope blossoms

Even in the darkest hour

For those who retain faith

Walking the walk

The righteous walk

Not talk

Deeds done for decent purpose

The flick of switch

Never matters

Only an illusion of illumination

Easily put on or taken off

Always a slight of hand

Wool pulled down

To leave us blind

When real illumination

Even illuminates

In this our darkest hour

When the world would blind us

Bind us and abandon us

We are not abandoned

We who see through this darkness

To what is always true