Any small gift

I breathe river air

Because I can’t live without it

My lungs flush

With the rush of wings

And the rustle of cattails,

All of it filling me up

Until it oozes out every pore

My life is rich with small gifts

Even when they are remote,

Even when I can never own them

Or even touch them,

They somehow own me

Touching me in a million ways

And make me ache

In ways that amaze me,

I take them in with each breath

Grateful for the little I get,

Letting them own me

From the inside out,

Letting them touch me

When I cannot touch them,

Letting them take root in me

To bloom inside of me

To treasure, a personal harvest

Of precious fruit

No one can see but me.

Moon tides

I rise to the tides of the moon tonight

Her face full as I get set for bed

Her glow flowing through the window

Like an old friend I can never touch

Only admire from a distance,

Can never claim I own

Too remote even for my howls to reach

On this terra firma full of howling wolves

All deluded into thinking that remote face

That glow in the sky shines for each alone,

Yet all of us rising to her tides

Swayed by her orbit, and puffed up

Each time her circling takes her nearer to us,

Moon children who wait for her to sing

In this night air, basking in her radiated glare

Howling all the more each time she passes on,

The pain of it drawing blood from our faces,

Leaving us only the echo of our howling

As cool comfort until the tides rise again.

How soft is it?

Pussy Willow

How soft it is?

Or sweet?

Dare I lay my hands on it?

Or my tongue?
Do I jump in with both feet?

Or feed my sweet tooth with it?

Do I hold it?

Or caress it?

Or take it in my mouth,

Letting my tongue feel

Each indentation,

Or it’s trade mark?

Soft or hard,

Sweet or dark,
tender or stiff

To put it in

Or take it out?

Can we shake it up?

Or make it sit?

Spinning on it?

Or in it?

Shaping it into

Whatever we want

It most to do?

Molding it around me

Like a tight fitting glove,

Soft to the hard finger

I poke into it

And grin.
Ah!
Chocolate!

Burning stick

I stick the stick in the fire

And watch the tip grow red,

Its glow illuminating the night

As I lift it before me

Too hot to last long

Always wilting when expended,

Dropping ash at my feet

Until I stick the tip in the fire again.

I can never resist,

Always knowing the outcome,

Always searing hot turning cool

And flaking away into the nigh air,

Always worth it for that first glow,

Even when I burn my fingers

And something deeper inside,

Always knowing I will always

Stick my stick in this fire,

Needing the heat to know I’m still alive.

Don’t crush the daisies

“Don’t crush the daises,” I think,

Two naked souls rolling among them

Like a pair of kittens,

The dark hearts of each flower exposed,

Petals spread wide, looking not like faces

I think, when I see them, and recall

That silly TV show that said

Not to eat them when that’s all I ache to do,

Needing to thrust myself inside

A perfectly busy bee spreading its seed

Each one mirroring the sun

Each exuding warmth I can feel on my face

As I press my lips closed to theirs,

Dipping the tip of my tongue inside each

To taste pollen that tastes nothing like honey

Hoping that if I keep at this long enough,

And stretch myself down deep enough,

I something might explode inside of me.

Upon reading Whitman again

It is the sea that shudders under me as I sail

Spreading canvas across this vast blue bed

Where the world lays flat before me

And waits for me to dive in

The seaweed weaves through sultry waves

Like fine strands of hair

I ache to run my fingers through

Or press my face against

The scent of the sea embraces me

With a sailor’s lust,

Always longed for, but never satisfied,

No matter how many ports of call

I dip my oars into to stir smooth water

Into a wondrous white froth

This saltine broth overflowing each cup

Glistening on its lip

And this sea always haunts me

No matter how far ashore I carry my oar

The sirens’ song perpetually luring me

Back to what I lack, pulsating in me,

Stirring up old passions for what has passed,

For the seat to wake me, shake me

And make me cling to slipping decks

From which I must eventually,

Regretfully plummet, taking my final plunge,

Letting this sea, this warmed water

Flush with froth and broth and seaweed

Consume me once more

Songs of the not so innocent

1: intro

The songs we hear inside our heads

Are not the ones we take to bed

That long, long night we take for dead

And early morning we always dread

Sing to me of hope instead

When we our night gowns we can shed

2: The shepherd

She seeks them out as if to say

They will always make her day

If they help her find her way

Before alas she casts them away

3: Evergreen

When the green grows

Thick around my feet

I know a time will come

When I will meet

When I shall lie

Underneath

With earth spread over me

Like a sheet

4: Lamb

The sheep look up

My best friend said

From a song caught

In his head

No lamb of god

From a book he read

But a chop upon

His plate instead

5: beasts

The beasts of the southern wild rise

The flash of film before my eyes

As waters climb up high

And sun bakes from the sky

I think of all that’s in your eyes

When the storm brings floods up to my thighs

And hope that I might compromise

And breathe out more

Than just a sigh

6: The blossom

I hear the sparrow before it sees me

Feathered beast clutching its sea

Of green, fluttering in its constant chill

The cold, cold ice thawing still

Ahead of the riding thrill of spring

I always wait for blossoms to bring

For winter’s chill to finally fade

And the bones that ache like new remade

Will it ever come to my abode

Only the little sparrow knows

7: Weep weep

Weep, weep through halls I creep

Sneakers squeaking as I sneak

Weep, weep, my mother I seek,

Mad as a hatter leaving me alone,

No father to find me or call my own,

Weep, weep, this halls I still creep,

In cavernous shadows where I seek,

No coal in my hair to turn my hair black,

No crows on my shoulders, no claws in my back

Weep, weep

8: little boy

My daddy left me when I was three

After he had come back from the sea

And I feel so lost now that he

Wanted to be rid of me

I found him later when I grew old

A man, a memory I could not hold

Hard of heart and cold as stone

9: Cradle

Non stop shop

In this hopscotch

Lollypop stopover

On top or bottom

Upside or down,

Inside, outside

All around

Each move

Feeling of eternity

10: Divine image

I pretend I want one thing

When I really want something else

The look in the dark

That people read in me

When it’s not at all

What I’m thinking,

Long passed desire for fame

Or even infamy,

I settle for love

That seed born out of lust

To linger and age

Like old wine into something

Much more magnificent

Than anything imagined

Not dream look down

Low cut blouse

Or up high hemmed skirt

But the burning perpetual

Candle on the altar of lust

Upon which sacrifices are made,

The stained silver dagger still dripping

From a wound still raw and red,

Love beyond the valentine’s day heart,

But a stab in the dark,

Pain raised out of pleasure,

Made more intense

After the gush of blood has ceased

Lingering, blissful

Even when it hurts

11: Holy Thursday

It is this day above all I recall

Not the day the cross is raised

or the prophet falls

but the calm day before

the dawn in the garden

before the balm is on his garments

this day each year when winter falls

when the girl I love runs down the hall

to linger and fall for charms of another man

this day when Peter does not pay Paul

and denies he knew his lord at all

and lets the others fall to sleep

while the man, the lamb led like sheep,

this terrible night in this utterly dark wood

when we look for light as we should

and wait for morning’s shroud of thorn

we beg to pass before the morn,

to drink this bitter wine again

to take us back to what was when

love was just an innocent bliss

when all we wanted was just a kiss

that’s what this day makes me most miss

what the stirring masses do not strive for,

or for food that comes not from above

but let's us feed on what is love

and the whole time know it’s not enough,

and on this day before the cross is hung

and all the mournful songs are sung,

when when was when we can’t get back

to what it was we thought we lacked.

12:  Night

The wind howls

outside my window

As I wake,

Stirred out of deep sleep

By still deeper dreams

I barely recall

The fading images of

Something still

Lingering in my head,

The scent of lavender

Clings to me as I shift

My limbs from under

These sheets,

Static crackling

From the huff and puff

Of a long night’s labor,

A touch of tenderness

The panic of pleasing pain

All bleached out of

My consciousness

By the stark streams of day

Drowned out by the drone

Of everyday,

But still lingering

In the corners of my mind,

A shadow, a tang

A tantalizing tingle

A soft kiss on my

Still moist cheek,

The feel of it around me,

Over me, under me,

Inside and out,

The hurt and promise

Of what might be again

When sleep seizes me

Once more

The scheme (with video)

“Maybe it’ll work this time,”

Dave said, repeating the scheme

He had repeated so many times

He needed no rehearsal,

That vague play for fame

He played each time

We played a parade,

That ten note masterpiece

He tooted as we passed

The bandstand judges

 Trying to get them to believe

He played the whole parade

Like that when he couldn’t

Play it twice in a row

And get it right

Always looking for someone

To tell him how great he was

When beyond those ten notes

He wasn’t,
needing to get famous or rich
but refusing to learn

The additional notes

What he needed to achieve it

Willing to let the cops

Come bust him

If that’s all the fame he could find

Which in the end

After all the flags were furled

And the crowds gone home,

And the only judge who’d listen

Was the one who could care less

About how well he played

as about fair play,

Handing Dave no ribbon

For his achievements,

Just a sentence to a place

Where he could play those

Same ten notes over and over

And over again

Until he was

Blue in the face.

We always go back

(For Roe)

She was the girl

In grammar school

Who always had my back

That jet set lear jet

Kind of gal

That rich men courted
door men always let

Into places like Club 54,

Who caught up with me

After the cops caught me

After high school

Just shy of getting

20 years in jail,

The girl the jocks

Locked onto

But could never get

And couldn’t make out

What her kind was doing

With me,

Blood brother-sister

If not really blood,

Lovers but never lovers

Who always yanked out

The arrows others

Drove deep into

Our hearts,

But never the ones

We flung into

Each other,

Always drawn back

to heal

all these long years

later.

Peanut butter and jelly

It’s all warm inside

And moist

The sticky touch

Of jelly

On the butter knife

After scraping it

Over slices of bread

I get hungry

For its sweetness

But can’t take the labor

Of screwing on the lid

Always leaving it open

When I’m done

And let the knife drip

Dessert always being

The better part of a meal

But for me,

The whole thing

Is dessert

From top to bottom

From inside and out

From this side or that

The bun and the bacon

The hotdog and roll

The peanut butter

And jelly.

Another spring poem (with video)

I feel winter

Oozing out of me

The last bit

Of bitter toothpaste

In a tube

I have used

For too long,

The dribble

Of pale remains

Dripping from

Every part of me

As I wait

For spring

To come

And ache

For the blooming

The change

Always brings,

Buds bursting

In and around me

That explosion

Shaking me

Waking me

Raising me up

So I feel

Fulfilled again

That throbbing

Amazing feeling

Of expiring old

And glorious new

That wondrous haze

That flows

Out of me

To fill up

Those gaps
I have in my life

A magnificent

Phosphorescence

That blinds me

To all else

And leaves me

Exhausted

And inspired

Like nothing

Else can...

Void (with video)

For Tygrrr

When they pass

They pass

And all we can do

Is pray

And ponder about

Their souls

And if they have none

Are they covered

By ours

An umbrella against

The torrential furies

Of eternity

That lets us live on

In some other fashion

Or is their existence

What we see and feel

Here on this world

And whether in our efforts

To be kind

Have we done enough

Given love enough

To fill the void

They must face

From here on

Alone?

Lips (some notebook stuff)

What is that little dip called,

That nick above the lip

I so ache to lick

To stick the tip of my tongue in

To begin the kiss

I so ache to make

The tip of a toe into

The waters of love

Before plunging head long

Easing the whole tongue in

Passed plush lips

To the warm, moist darkness beyond

What is that little dip called

That nick, that lick

That always leads to love?

Lips, hips, ships

That sink in the night

That submarine plunge

I never meant to make

To find sunken Atlantis

An immortal moment of bliss

All starting with a kiss

Consumption

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

in defiance,

at me, at the sea that swallows me

at the world that consumes

us all.

Chains of love?

Every time she hears

The Beatles sing

“Chains of love,”

She goes ape

That bottle-blonde

Bomb-shell

The band

Mistakes for shy

For whom

Leather is

Not just

A fashion statement

And the chains

She puts on a man

Pinch more than

Just the heart

Curved surfaces

The curve

Fits the palm

Of my hand

As if made

To be that way,

My flesh too rough

For the silky

Surface

As I draw

My fingers

Up its side

Stirring up life

A shudder

A sigh

Don’t do it!

The invite read: “You should go,”

As if written just for me,

One of those things

Written deliberately vague

Easily misread when anyone

Who knows anything knows

I’d never get invited to anything

Remotely like that,

Me knowing that I’d never

Get invited to any party

That doesn’t have a noose

At the end of it,

And that a trap so transparent

As this kind is

Screams with the warning

“Don’t do it!”

When behind the scenes

This is Vietnam all over again

And that teasing voice

In the jungle hoping

To sure good guys like me

Out into the open

Where bad guys like them

Can get at us,

Or the political party

That always likes to keep

Ugly behind the scenes things

Like this wrapped up

So later they can deny

It meant what everybody

Presumed it meant

And the only one with egg

On their faces are those

Who took the meaning

Literally and fell for the trap,

In this world full of

Wishful thinking

We all wish for things

We shouldn’t have,

Or can’t have anyway,

Losing ourselves in a wish list

Of impossible dreams even

Don Quixote  could not rival

And no matter

How many windmills

We fight

We can never win

Watching the world spin

On a gust of evil wind

That must blow itself out