A blank check

Trust is always dubious

Even among close friends

Let alone political allies

Who see you as a walking wallet

And do not mind picking out

A few extra dollars

If you’re too stupid to notice

Anyway,

That blank check meant

To pay old debts

Exaggerated and split

Between conspirators

So that in the end,

They all get paid what they

Think they earned,

A dishonest honest living,

A fringe life

They know lasts

Only as long as the sucker

Doesn’t catch on,

And in some cases,

That sucker keeps signing

Away his life,

Never knowing

That he can’t trust those

People he trusts most:

Einstein once described

Madness as someone

Doing the same thing

Over and over again

Yet expecting a different

Result each time,

Some suckers never learn

And so always sign

That blank check,

And always are surprised

When it comes back

Ten times worse

Than he thought it would be.

It’s the cost of doing business

With crooks,

No matter how

Respectable they

Claim to be.

Before the tides shift

You feel for it first in the dark – this and then than, before it all gets hard and you can’t stop what happens next.

The surge of blood through my head and I stop thinking about anything else, a reckless deep sea diver seeking the treasure buried in the deeps.

In the dark, eyes don’t help at all, and you must rely on your fingers to feel the place where it all erupts.

But it rarely starts there, always first with something more accessible, the soft touch of lips and then later, if I’m lucky hips.

It’s never about conquest with me the way it is with others.

I just like the feel of it, the lingering of lips and then the tips of tongues, that first intrusion into the unknown – I remember my first kiss and who it was with, though I didn’t get anywhere near the buried treasure.

Still even then, I felt every bit a pirate, stealing something to treasure then and later.

It’s always like that – especially in the dark where I have to let my fingers go where my eyes can’t, over the curved surface most easily mounted, and later, into the warm, moist world sunken so deep it takes more than a finger to get to it completely.

It’s not always possible to get more, and so later, I get to think about the touch of it, the moist feel of where the fingers went, and the taste of it, when I’m lucky to get that far.

In the dark, where the real treasures lie, sometimes I have to be a pirate, taking what I can get before the tides shift, and I’m washed back out to sea.

Never enough

The sunlight streaks

Across her face

From the edge of

The kitchen window

As if creating it

And her, carving

Every curve from

The curve beneath

The blouse

To the lip I bit

In that pre-dawn fit

It still dripping

As we sit and sip

Our coffee this early

Morning in July,

The curve tip hard

Against the sheer

Fabric she slipped into

Drawing my gaze now

Where my lips and tips

Of fingers went,

The hunger hardly abated

This lust for blood

Stirred in my veins and brain

This need for more

Always at the core of me

Pressing up out of me

Seeking to go deeper

Each time, knowing

In the end

It can never be enough.

Winter bloom

It is not the summer flowers

I lust for most when I stroll

These remote paths

But the winter blooms

That loom over me

Or over which I stumble

Pedals spread wide before

My upturned face

Where I might catch the

Lingering scent of once

Rich perfume,

And let the tip of my tongue

Linger in the thick nectar

My fingers gripping long stalks

At whose ends un-burst buds

Ooze still with fresh dew

This loneliness exposed

This naked truth

Stripped to the bone of me

So that I am expose

Inside and out

Leaving me here

With only heavy sighs

And the winter mists

For comfort

Coming up for air

If I had gills

I could do this better,

Breathing water

in which I refuse

to drown

fins that might

spin me up

to places

where I might

find something

less liquid to

breathe

or a tail to flip

so I might sip

real air

the haze of this life

wiping clear

the horizon I have

grown accustomed

to seeing

as thick as sea water

and as hard to breathe

when I rush so hard

to catch a breath

I can’t ever hope to catch,

Too deep in this

To ever come up

For air

Turnstile

This city in the palm of our hands like a wet metro card

Life and death depending on how far it can get us

And this damned machine won’t take it because it is flawed,

The remains of it taken up from the gutter, with trips

Still clinging to it, but beyond redemption or claim,

And the expiration date clicking off too fast to allow

This ticket to fortune to dry, we never actually knowing

If it contains anything of value or a trip to any place

At all, after a decade from that first time selling all

We have to sell, to this, no way to climb out so we

Cling to this thing we have found, stained with the sweat

Of others who earned this ride but somehow lost it

On their way for us to find, their sweat leaving us to sweat

Over whether or not we can redeem it when it has

Been so misused, this street, this city, this vulgar landscape

We must cross to get from where we were to where we are
going, uncertain just who it is that paid the fare, as long

As someone has, and doubtful, when we stick this card

In the turnstile whether we can get through to the other side at all.

Where are the gifts?

“It’s warm in here,” they say and sigh

And tumble into chairs that slide

There is dust here, too, rising from thick arms

Of the thick-armed arm chairs,

“Tell me,” they say, “why you bear no gifts,”

On this of all days when gifts must be given

They stair under the tree at all the angel hair

And shake their heads and ask what’s fair.

“I keep my gift until night,” I say,

“When all good kids are tucked away.

“You know all that clap trap about

“Santa and his merry route.”

“No,” they say staring at my lack of sleigh

And where stocking at the mantel sway,

And wonder if they’d been good

And if I bear coal under my hood

“And those?” they ask, “are from Santa, too?”

As they wonder what it is they’ll do,

When they can’t get gifts they fought to find,

Will Christmas then seem a waste of time?

Out in the cold for slow long my toes

Are as numb as is my nose

And I watch their thick arms rise to go

Shaking the world I used to know

And yet so desperate to get their gold

They lug along their sacks of coal

Port Authority

The owls of the city bleat

This late night leading to dawn

Wide eyes wider than mine

As I walk down this lonely road,

Like stop lights going on

And off, full of yellows

And greens, saying caution

Then go, only to blink

Caution again as I wait

For the red to come

And the old passion to race

In my head and heart

Time cannot erase completely

Like the old lessons on the nun’s

Blackboard blurred and written

Over but always there,

and I am a complete confusion

as to which I should read

the new or old,

pausing to sit on a park bench

in this dark of night,

in this city of lights

on this dark street behind

the blinding street

where the buses huff and puff

and wait to return through the

tunnel I must always pass through,

my thoughts not of the painted

ladies the prowl this dark sidewalk

but of the hundreds of times

maybe thousands I have passed

through this place on my way

to find some place else,

and that one time, when I could

not find any trace of you,

and sat down on the curb

to stare the owl-like lights

that blinked inside and outside

of me, telling me to go, but not go,

to hurry, but slow down,

to find that one bus that will

take me to where I need to go

but do not know where it is,

unable to buy the right ticket

unable to rush ahead between

the blinks of lights

and how in those days I wandered

the echoing halls of this place

to find the right gate to the right place

and the ticket that might lead

me to paradise, and how

after all these years,

I still end up here, sitting on this curb,

Staring at the blinking lights

Telling me to go, but not go.

Wet leaves

Wet leaves

Clutch the ground

Like desperate hands

Fingers clutching

The rain-soaked earth

As I step among them,

This walk through

The chill air

Driven by the same

Urgency that they

Must feel on the edge

Of something

They do not understand,

This end of life cycle

We all share

Aching to know

If there will be a new green

After the heavy snows go

And will what we love

And lost in this life

Linger into the next

For our fingers to grasp again

To draw up to our heart

To feel its beating against

The beating that still beats

Inside of us,

Each step I take this autumn

Always filled with the hope

That it will all start again

And all I need do is wait

For the cold to pass,

And in this, I let the rain

Dribble down over and inside of me

Cleansing me

When the rain comes

When the rain comes

My bone hurt for want of wet

The ache for the change

The want of wet

After such a time of draught

The changing leaves

Strewn across every step I take

Stuck to the ground to leave

Their imprint when I pull

Up one by its stem

When the rain comes

I feel it drip inside me

Even as it wets my brow

Not tears of sorrow

But tears of joy

As this season eases

Into the next and this

A baptism for a new age

With me traveling

Through time

Each changing season

Leaving its ring inside me

The way it always does

The trees from which

The leaves fall

Fallen leaves

The old bank

Reeks of money

And greed

Swirling with the

Overhead ceiling fans,

The imaginary masses

Of the past filling

The downstairs where

The tellers used to sit

Cashing industry pay checks

for blue collared

The ache for cash now

Mingling with perfume

And petty schemes

Stamped out on faces

Rather than the backs

Of paychecks

Always looking for the

Easy way, when the right

Way is always too hard

And always thinking

This is “earning” a keep

When it’s just a cheat

While out the windows

Sunny skies defies

The season as if

Part of the scheme

With me, curled up inside

Waiting for it all

To unravel

Like it always must

The best laid plans

Ruined by the inept

Who keep picking

Losers to ride

While abandoned

Dreams flutter along

The sidewalks

Like fallen leaves

The end

I keeping hearing the old Door’s song

In my head about “this is the end..”

But it never is, like old horror movies

The monster keeps on keeping on

More energizer bunny than scary

Just a pathetic collection of crap

That some make up artist has

Assembled to resemble something

Fierce, all smoke and mirrors

Wire and paper Mache,

Designed to fool for a moment

Until the camera turns away

And this thing, this ugly contraption,

This Halloween scheme

Collapses in of its own weight,

Such as all things do

In the end

Heat

The seeds do not fall far

From the tree in my front yard

Leaving seedlings to spring up

Among the dead leaves and roots

The early chill filling the air

With a last gasps before the
plunge into the deep freeze;

We squeeze out these last days

Along this long river before

The cold falls and we must

Cling to places where

We can generate heat

For ourselves.

This ghostly thing

It swirls around us like a ghost

Howling with the change of moon,

stirred up over lips of grave stones

time has cracked like hearts

Past, present, future

Swirl into the same spirited mist

Until all seems indistinct

A haunting presents that lingers

At the edge of dreams

But won’t expose itself

Except in tea leaves

Nobody can read

I want in the rain and wonder

Where to turn to next

Feeling the drip of it

On my brow, dribbling

Down my cheeks

As if I am crying

And maybe I am

Over what I can’t fully

Define, or find in this

Swirling around my knees

As I stumble over

These grave stones

Watching the spirits

Rise up and take flight

Not even waiting for night

Passing through me

And my clutching fingers

This ghost of a thing

I can’t grab onto

But desperately need.

Temple

We are all gods and goddesses,

Feeling the warm space left

As rising in the midst of night,

Unable to tell which is dream

Or not, and lost in the trawl of

Talk that stirs the heart

And makes it beat, and keeps

It beating long after the

Talk has stopped,

The bell ringing in my ears

Not from any church steeple

Or anything outside this

Temple of flesh I live inside

A throbbing, trembling

Temple on whose alter

I am the sacrifice

Every bit of me

Exposed, unnerved

And vulnerable

Cool fingers in the night

The rain came

And went in the dead

Of night

Without my notice

Except for the cool

Fingers that swept

Up from my thighs

To chest stirring

Up in me

A storm

Dreams could not

Sequester

My head fogged

With visions

Unrealized

When I woke

To find

The world

Hovering over me

A hard world

Aching for soft

Places

And the chill touch

Beyond

Mere

dreams

Breakfast of champions

I ease open the melon

With both my thumbs

Letting seed and juice

Ooze out the gap

Then press the flesh

To my open mouth

To lap it up

With the tip

Of my tongue

Feeling deep inside

The soft interior

Where the sweetest

Part of the fruit

Shutters and spills

Even more

Into me, this truly

Is the breakfast

Of champions

And all I could

Ever wish for

Boiling point

  

In moon light

Everything changes

The boiling point

Of blood

Rising tides

Can not extinguish,

Because the fire

Is on the inside

Like a volcanic

Reaction building up

With moon light

The flame under it

Making it boil

A heat not from

Any global warming

But from some

More primitive instinct

As fundamental an element

As found in the cave

And we either learn

To released it

Or become consumed by it,

Waiting out the cycle

Of the moon

Until we can breathe

Easy again

The sea inside and out

 I seek the sea

That flows

Inside and outside

 Of me,

Aching to dip

My oars

In that dark depth

I know lies

Beneath me

Slow water

Vibrating

Against my keel,

Rubbing my

Skin raw

As I grow

Full

And seek

To come to it

Again, and again

Always

Wanting

For more.

I forget to breathe

I forget to breathe

Each time I come

This close,

This pain that is

Not a pain

But steals everything

Out of my head

Which I do not miss

Except for the breath

I need to breathe

If only later in relief

When all I have is that

This whisper of memory

This lingering scent

This soft touch

Against my palm,

My mouth, my thighs,

I forget to breathe

When I need it most

And yet

I hardly miss it.

On the inside

The rain

Drips down my cheeks

As if I am crying

The summer heat

Gone now

To a chill that

Makes my bones ache

So maybe

These tears are real

On the inside

Heart

It beats

Even when I

Don’t want it to

That savage

In my chest

That spreads me

Open to reveal

All that I

Am about,

Beating hard

When I need

To breathe deep,

When I feel

On the brink

And can’t think,

Every bit of

Who I am

There for

Anyone

To see

One beat

At a time.

Flush (with video)

(content slightly changes from the original notebook stuff and video)

The blood rushes through me

To my face, and I cannot

Breathe or think but blush

And gush out in hushed

Sounds words even I can

Not comprehend – so much

Huffing and puffing

I can’t stuff the stuffing

Back inside so that I am

A stuffed doll unstuffed

As my insides come out

All sides at every seam

Dreams bleed out of

My eyes as I start at

Or around or avoid all

That I want or need

To look at most I

Flushed out like

Old leaves from

A rain gutter – utterly exposed.

Lost in space

I circle it like an astronaut

Searching for a soft place to land

It’s curved surface intimidating

Yet provocative

Sloped sides leading to a hard peak

I need to mount

My mouth watering in anticipation

Of what I might find there

Or below where my spaceship

Might plunge

Deep into the moist valley.

I am lost in space

And always will be

The earthquake inside

I grip the arms of

My chair because I’m

Scared I’ll fall

Off, whole city blocks

Shifting under me

Inside of me

In my mind, and I

Eye the walls as if

They will crumbled in

On me while the

Real disruption is

Inside of me, not out

A siege of something

I can only hold on

To survive, steam

Fogging up my eye sight

So I can’t even see

If and when the

Quake stops and I

Can let loose

Of this chair

Squeezing hard

(inspired from reading a book Passionate Hearts)

I squeeze hard

Until something comes

Out that I can lick

And then I lick it,

Wrapping my lips around

The tip I just squeezed,

So that I can taste it

With the tip of my tongue

My fingers wrapped

Around the base

Pressing to make it

Come, needs to feel

It come out, needing to

Feel in all inside of me

So that you can taste me,

Too, from the inside out.

The simplest thing

April 17, 1989

How can it be that the grass comes again, springing up out of the holes of worms, grass blades with joyous faces climbing towards the heat of the sun after months of death, and winter's crush?

How can it be the leaves return, as if crawling up the bark of trees from which they have fallen, shedding the brilliantly colored death robes they adorned in fall for the pale yellow green of this cold season, their graves unable to resist their urge or cease the ever gnawing roots that feed them?

How can it be that fish swim again after living in ice caked waters, stirring back to life after the frosts of winter fade, digging themselves out of the mud, their faces still stained from the graveling hardships of devouring bits of stuff from the dirty river bottom?

How can it be that planets and stars blew out from their single cosmic egg, reaching, ever reaching, only to contract again, to return to the soul of the egg, only to erupt once more, in a cosmic love-making that creates new realms, new heavens, new life?

How can we think ourselves different – that we along in this huge universe live and die forever, lacking something in our soul and intelligence that is not denied the simplest blade of grass, the weariest fish, the small speck in the sky?

How is it we dare think we, too, do not come again?

Morning coffee

Morning coffee

I brew coffee each morning

Though on mornings like this

I drink it cold to

Wash down the remnants

Of sleep I carry behind

My eyes, the playful

Remembrances of some

Sweet scene, the

Touch of warmth so

Scalding my tongue dare

Not sip hot coffee

Or get scaled again,

Tip I burned in

My dreams, the tart

Taste of the previous

Day’s brew teaching me

Life’s fundamental

Lesson that

Sweet and tart

Come back to back

And though I sleep

With one

I wake up with the other

Regretfully.

Flat tire

The air hisses out of the

Tire with the sound of a

Snake I once encountered

In the desert but did

Not get bit.

The man at the gas station

Had warned me not to

Over inflate the nearly

Bald tire or it might blow

Out – and it did.

Who knew you could

Get so deflated from

Too much of a good thing

After so many miles of

Not having enough,

Life seems to be a

Delegate balance between

Too little and too much

And trying not to get

Stranded on the road

Side from either

Extreme.

Consumed

I don’t taste anything

At first

When the tip of my

Tongue eases in –

It’s the moist

Softness enveloping

Me as if to take

The whole of me

Inside,

My roughness

Oozing over

This smooth

Deception

I can no longer

Resist,

Aching to be

Consumed at

Any cost,

Aching to keep

Feeling what I feel,

Aching for one more taste

That I know

Will never

Be enough.

Entwined

The sheets blow in the
wind like angel limbs

Growing tangled, then

Untangled in a dance

To which no one knows

The steps, the ache

Of contact, the

Tender touch tuned

Violent with a gush

That yanks limbs

Apart, only to plunge

Them together again,

A kiss, a slap

A wrap around

Each for the slow

Release, every bit

Choreographed by fate

Or whim or gods,

An every lingering kiss,

Twisting and untwisting

Until we are undone

Forbidden

(This is one of series of poems inspired by recent reading s from The Book of Eros)

It is not the apple

That drips of sweat but

My fingers as they curve

Around it, my warmth

Contrasted against its

Cool as I imagine another

Shape that fits as well,

But feels warmer in

my palm, my flesh

needing that flesh

if not to feel

whole, then at

least to feel real, and

so I pretend as I

take that apple to my

mouth and let my

teeth sink through its

red skin that my tongue

tastes another fruit

much more forbidden.

Turn here

Yeah, I know – we all do.

Turn left here.

A leaf deserted by summer, fall,

Welcomed by winter wilds,

Yeah, I can see the need to decide

Whether to fly

Rustling in cool desperation

Pushed and pulled

Or stay, to bury deep in the

Crisp, fragile, smoky ice,

All gets distorted by the ever

Widening circles of falling rain,

Frozen tears

Turning red from rubbing

The mud – like blood.

I feel my heart beating hard,

Cracked open, spilling my life

Onto this dismal gray,

As the slow read rises out from

The horizon

I am a leaf locked in winter’s

Embrace, unable to flee or fly

Waiting for sunrise to thaw the

Ice and set me free,

But these days never get warm

Enough. I get tinged with hope

Before all goes grows cold again and

Then I can feel my fingers move

Or my toes, but they do not

Move for long before I am

Frozen again,

And when it gets warm I

Still do not fly

Nowhere to go, no one to

See, nothing before for me than

The endless cycles of ice and thaw

And the endless flow of the river at

My feet, a river that will at some

Point rise high enough to bear me

Away to somewhere I do not know.

This mess called life

God help me if life ever punished me for all the mistakes I’ve ever made,

That pile of crap that I pack in the back of the closet where nobody can see,

You’re not supposed to get crucified every little wrong turn, twisted thought

Erratic or erotic act, life is supposed to be a journey from which we learn,

A kind of adventure game where we guess the riddle and move on,

Unscathed by any permanent injury or injustice or sense of shame,

Just a matter of finding out who we are in this crazy mixed up world

Where nobody knows who they are and we bump into each other

Always asking: do I know you? Do you know who I am?

Can you ever guess what my purpose is and if so, can you help me get there?

I guess we’re all in the same boat, each with a tea spoon to keep it from sinking,

Each of us needing all the other tea spoons to bail us out of this mess called life.

Same time next year?

  

Oct. 21, 2012

Changing leaves,

Ringing bells from schools

This time of year so sad

Dragging me back

To the most desperate questions

Who am I?

What am I good for?

Feeling bad enough

In the cool wisp of wind

Without eating crow,

Hearing them as I walk

These leaf stream paths,

Wondering if my feet

Will lead me here

Again, year after year

September 29, 2012

And here

I am

Again

email to Al Sullivan

Blessing

The minister needed no holy water to make the flock know he loved them, he just stood there and held his hands in the air, and they knew, their eyes looking up with hope, not of salvation so much as understanding, he glowing a little in his white and gold vestment, while I stood to one side taking in whatever rays bounced off those others. Sometimes, we deserve no more, but certainly, we deserve no less, blessed by something beyond our comprehension, knowing that in the end all will turn out right, despite all we do to the contrary, and that’s all any of us can hope for.

Train ride to Manhattan

The train pops out of the subway tunnel with a gush of air, flooding me with the warm, stale scent it has collected over its plunge through the dark, stirring up abandoned newsprint like soiled bed sheets, the siege of sudden light making me blind, making me feel for the doorway when finally it all comes to a stop, and I take my place inside for yet another plunge, another ride, another blinding explosion I ache to feel.

The dirtiest part

Frank Zappa was right

When he asked about

The dirtiest part,

My mind reeling

With visions

That make me ache

And scrub as much

Or as tough as I must

I can’t make it clean,

A man can drown

In a tea spoon,

And here I am

Over my head

Breathing deep

Seeped in tea

I can’t stop dipping

Myself into,

Feeding not the soul

Solely, but also

That dirty part

For both always

Feed from that same troth

And drown in it

Together.

Shaken

 It is soft
It is hard
It is what you make it
When you shake it
The quake
Inside that
Explodes out of me
And into you
Neither knows
What to do
This thing so hot
Yet sooooo cool
A dip of fingers
In this molten pool
Stirring it never enough
It must be shaken up
Bringing it
All to a boil
To explode like
Newly discovered oil
A gusher
A rush
A blush so deep
In stains
The soul
 

Rubbed Raw

How do I do this,

Touching this or that

Without exposing my self,

Rubbing myself raw

Against something I can

Barely imagine,

Aching to ache in that way,

To sweat and sweat until

It all comes out of me

In one great, wondrous gush,

How do I do this,

Waiting, and rubbing,

Making myself raw

For something I can

Only imagine

Will ease my pain?

Midnight

The cool air

Presses against my chest

With both hands

Sharp fingers

Making me pulsate

With their touch,

Breath gushing

Out of me

Until I am

Expired,

The darkness

Illuminated by my

Own need

To see

And I see

By feeling

The cool touch

That grows hot

With each

Closing

finger

Alter Boy

I only wanted to become one

Because of the wine

And the pretty girls in white

Who always sat in the front pews

So pure they made me ache

To watch, kneeing beside

The priest, my eyes unable

To remain down even when

The host rose before all,

the stench of alcohol

hidden only by the raised

chalice and the muttered words

in Latin, I could not memorize

or remember their meaning

and so made up meanings

of my own, always too dirty

to ever repeat aloud

in such a holy place as that,

always aimed in the direction

of those girls, who could not

keep their eyes down either,

or later, after services

prevent my fingers

from going where

they might go

as long as I never

went too far.

The real you

I am always walking through mists even sunlight,

But in this world where you and I are, sunlight

Doesn’t exist, and we spend our lives protecting

Ourselves by staying hidden, keeping our real

Selves out of view so no one can hurt who we

Really are, painting phony images so that when

The blows come; we can pretend it isn’t the real

Us that gets wounded, but some façade of some

Phony person we know isn’t real,

But sometimes, in the midst of all this, the mist

Sunlight cannot clear, I see the real you,

And hope, you see the real me, and I realize

How very important the real you is to the real me.

Inspiration

In the dream

I always come back

To the same place

The throb of it

Deep inside the root

Like a tooth ache

No ointment

Or potion can cure

Beyond reach

Of science

To understand

what makes it work

or not work,

unlike the tick of a clock

that operates on gears

or springs,

this thing springs

from the seams

not as a functional

rational or logical

being, poised to go

wrong or right

of its own volition

unpredictable

except at the core

where it will rise up

like fire

reborn each time

sometimes

with very little

inspiration

First impression

I lied when I said

What I said

Way back when

Ashamed to think

What I thought

Was not what was

Wanted of me

The first thing

I think

When on the brink

Is not swim or sink

Or even what you’d think

But like a jerk

How it works

What makes a clock to tick

And how would I fit

In between its hands

Or of any elaborate plans

Just what makes it go

And my need to know

If I can go as fast or slow

If I can learn just how to grow

And if so

How then to make is so,

You know?

2

Please excuse my eyes,

They stare,

It’s a mechanical thing,

like one of those

carnival games

where the levers

stick,

always going to the wrong place

when you mean

to look at something else

a rick, tick, tick

in my head

Rusted from little use,

When what I think

Is not what it seems at all,

The first impression

Covered in newsprint ink

So it is not what it seems

At all

3

Soft fingers on my arm

Makes the most sense to me,

A pause, a laugh,

A sense of truth exposed,

I play chess in my head

With bedposts I don’t always

Want to lay down next to,

Sometimes because the chase

Feels better to me than the catch,

And sometimes the best moments

Are those spaces in-between

When there is no chase,

When people lean against each other

Just to catch their breath,

The rest is an illusion,

The rest is all we need,

A breath and a sigh

Before the game begins again

And we rush about in anguish

Over nothing worth having

In the first place

4

The car lot lights are lit

Even in sunlight,

Towering, defiant gods

Who illuminate nothing

On this chill morning,

A damp I still need

To shake off to wakeup

Like a wet dog does

wet fur,

the illusions of a luxurious

Saturday, clinging to me

Like the remnants of a dream,

One from which I only

Reluctantly wake,

Feeling better sometimes

When cloaked by shadow

Feeling exposed when

The clouds shred

Sometimes it is better to believe

Than to know,

To dream over and ponder on

Things that seem impossible

At first impression

Which are, after all,

The only ones that 

last

Twisting love until it hurts (notebook sketches)

1

I don’t always want all of you

 just your mouth

Or whereabouts,

But the mouth out of which

Your words flow

Telling me things I ought

To know,

Blistering, beautiful

Words that wind around me

Like high winds

Leaving me spun

Inside the eye

So I can’t see

Only hear the screeching

Deafening wail of words

All I want is the mouth

Out of which those words come

And I’m undone

2

It scorches like acid

But I can’t stop it

My lips blistered

From each kiss

The tip of tongue

As piercing as

A saber,

Cutting me

With each

In and out,

A perpetual

Hari kari

That splits me

In two but always

Leaves me

Aching for more,

Never getting enough,

Always begging

To continue

Rather than mercy

Making me dip myself

Into that fire

Until I am

Totally

Consumed,

Whole

And forever

3

In you let me touch it

I can’t promise

It won’t hurt,

Locked into

That soft embrace

With all of me inside

Eyes closed tight

To let me feel it all,

My hurt your hurt,

Both burning together,

To get so hot

We melt together

As one,

Needing to lubricate

Only those parts

That need to move,

To keep us moving,

My fingers spread

Around both uprises,

My tongue plunging

Into where your tongue hides.

We easing in and out,

Up and down,

Eyes closed tight,

Burning  both ends

Of this insane candle

Until we both

Turn to wax.

4

I feel your warm breath

On my neck and I wither

Still stiff and unable to resist

A complete surrender
to something overtly superior

Bushwhacked by my own need,

Shackled by my desires,

Lost before any shot is fired,

Or expired, drawn in until

Totally spent,

That one breath,

One little breath,

All I need to survive

5

I spread you like a blanket

Soft side up,

My fingers weaving through

Each entangled strand

Until I am entangled, too

Struggling to rub that fabric raw

Until the shreds spread translucent

So I can see straight through

Warm not from the covering

But the uncovering.

6

So smooth it makes me ooze

Like a used up tube of tooth paste,

I can’t even stop when you

Have squeezed me dry,

I keep pumping all the more,

Quaking at the need to fill you up,

So I won’t feel empty,

All of me inside of you,

All of you around me,

So smooth I would choose,

To let you use me up,

Always coming back for more,

For you to squeeze dry

To make me ooze,

Used up and still wanting more

The fire inside

 We set it on fire

Then don’t know what to do

We thought the world

Would expire

With still greater fire

Nuclear holocaust

That would leave

No one to witness it,

Instead we got

The world’s end

In bits and pieces,

Crumbling steel and glass

And then a gush of dust

All of us would carry

Deep inside ourselves

Long after we washed

It from our hair,

A piece of eternity

To carry with us

Our former world’s ending

While “the real” world

Continued on

With some fools

Fanning the war flames

To some new fire

We know will come

Again, and

We are helpless

To stop.

She has to remember

(This is a poem I wrote at the end of last year and something I perhaps should have posted sooner)

She has to remember to tell herself that someone else did this to her,
even though she has repeated it over and over ever since,
staring at famous paintings on a not so famous wall in a very famous museum in NYC.

She keeps seeing herself here every time she looks,
her features linked to the rolling hills that looked like waves
and are trapped in the borders of the frame.

She has to remember to remind herself to tell herself that like the painting,
she, too, is a masterpiece, crafted and still baring the marks of camel hair,
each stroke wearing the perfect patterns of a perfect life
that doesn’t ever seem to turn out perfect.

She has to remember that crying isn’t a crime,
But perhaps a waste of energy and space,
Perhaps she is a masterpiece someone set aside
before the artist had time to put in the finishing strokes
always something incomplete,
and she always trying to steal the missing pieces.

She has to remember to tell herself that she was meant to lead a wondrous life,
because it is rarely wondrous or fair or right,
or anything else that trickles up or down, tears or paint dripping at her feet.

She has to remember that for every painting on this wall,
there are many others half finished the way she is,
So she must not feel ashamed of being  incomplete,
or assuming that she ought to be somewhere or have something
 when she aches for it so much
She has to remember to remind herself what it must like to feel complete,
to reflect the perfect sunset, to know each master stroke, each note of music,
each move of dance, each piece of perfection is meant to be
when nothing is ever meant to be, but shaped and pounded, and built.

She has to remember to remind herself to light the candle at night,
to sip wine that is no longer wine, to let the night come calmly
and filled with dreams, master strokes on her canvas
 she just can’t manage to create in the daylight.

She has to remember…

I’d love to change the world…

(this is sort of a companion piece to another poem I wrote last year)

The Ten Years After song keeps playing n my head

The same line over and over

Like a skipped record when we still had records to skip

But in this digital age mp3s I have to live with it\

Like the indigestion of my own inability

To be anything other than what I am

And to do what it is I can

And not to assume I can do more or should do more

Than I ought to,

To know more than I actually know

Indeed, if I know anything at all,

But to let things be and accept what is

For what could be, and take pleasure

In the world as it is and learn to live on it

I have to learn to accept it

And love it as it is

Or if not love, then not at all

And being is better than not being

I have to learn to take what I can get

And not expect to get more than I deserve

I have to learn