Sunday, March 30, 2025

Zen September 13, 2014



 

I press the button
And hear the distant sound
Of machines and cables
bringing up or down
The cage I need
This vertical lift
We ride to and from
Destinations marked out
On no road maps
The elevation marked
on no altimeter
But rather inside my head
Where I leave marks
Of my own importance
The way my uncles did
In pencil on the dinning room
Door frame when I was small
To see how much I’d grown
Though now I am no taller
Yet still need to measure
How high I stand,
If I have lost stature
And how to get it back if I have
Who I am reflected
Not in any mirror
But on the faces of those I see
Through the small window
Of my cage
As I travel floor by floor,
My life measured
In the groan of cables
Above and below
When all I really want
Is to be where I am
At any given moment,
Free of the need to be
High or low,
Rich or poor,
Powerful or powerless,




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Light and dark Nov 10, 2024

 


sharp sun light splits my world like a comic book mask, one side bright, the other side black, forcing me to choose what side I wish to reside in, when I can’t have both, scalding light, illuminating the path along this River but casts huge places into deep dark, no moderation here, not even the sore face of the water where the glints of sunlight is most intense, this path bringing me to the edge again, to the places full of memory, scorched out of my brain from too much glare, I follow along a trail I took  in less brittle days, my feet knowing where I've been even if I can no longer see it and must rely on my intuition to keep going and my memory of days when things were less divided. and those brief glimpses of Joy I recall and treasure, even if I can no longer see them

 


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Full moon September 09, 2014





It is hot and wet
When I get there
A moving target
That closes in
Around me
And shifts
This way, then that,
Up and down
And sideways
Until I’m drunk
On the movement
As any sailor
Something stirring
In the depth of me
I’ve not quite
Felt before,
A rising to the tides
As if you were a full moon,
And I change
On your account
This hard and soft of it
Commingled
And always shifting
Like wind driven beach sand,
As if to cease moving
Is to cease to exist
With me wrapped up
In all that you are,
The need of it
Burning in us both
Making it impossible
To breathe for whole moments,
As I hold onto your sides
This ride, this rise and fall,
This ache and release,
All there is to think about
Or feel,
The perfect Zen moment
When time stops
But we cannot.




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The real me Nov. 9, 2024

 



My shoes splash through mud left from a brief night time rain, sunlight glistening in each puddle as morning comes, and I rush off to places I'd rather not be, the endless ritual of routine that lacks meaning merely aids in survival, not of the fittest, just those who learn to comply, while inside as always, another shadow lurks, one that aches to break free too, violate something or someone, to find joy in being bad, the excess of who I am spilling out of me from every pore, the need to fill up all those holes and still have something left to do so again, the splash of my feet over muddy landscape, my shape perverted in the reflections of puddles disturbed by my passing, reflection of my real and distorted me, I keep locked up

 


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Saturday, March 29, 2025

Brush fire September 04, 2014



Our fingers brush and something sparks
A device in me Tommy Edison barely imagined
Turbines turning with that first contact
And once begun unable to stop
I can barely move without feeling it poke me
From the inside out
So scalding I dare not touch it
Or expose it to air
Knowing that like phosphorous
It will explode into a flame I cannot contain
And barely kept quiet as I stagger around with it
A hobbling man with burning fingers
From a touch I never intended
But cannot take back,
I can’t even find the fuse that touch lit
Only hear its hissing inside my head
And sense its growth I cannot long handle,
Sitting or standing or stumbling around,
I can only suck at my finger tips
Like a child hoping to suck away the burn
Wishing I could taste something,
Wondering if the rumbling inside
Leads finally to something else.



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Deluded Sept 29, 2012

 

She says she doesn't hate all men, just some, then looks at me, we both carrying the baggage of love that might never have been love, just the shadow moving across our eyes, unsubstantial, mistaken shape we can maybe see for what it is, dare we step out of this cave to see what real love looks like in the light of day, or will we wilt under its scalding pressures as it unveils us, reveals the illusion we foolishly mistook as real, do we prefer the darkness, this Shadow, knowing it for what it is, yet preferring it to what otherwise brings discomfort, to face reality, to bear the scolding light, we must shed what we assumed, does her hatred to some men mean she already stepped out into the brightness of a light I cannot bear to see, as I remain here, deluded

 


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Milk and honey September 02, 2014



It is enough to fill you up,
I pour it all from the pitcher of milk
Into a glass filled half way with honey
I just don’t know when to top
To keep it from running over
And oozing down the sides.
I know don’t know if I can stop this
After having stoked this up
And caused it to flow,
You don’t stop a boulder
You set rolling down a hill
By running in front of it,
You just let it roll
Yet I feel run over by it anyway,
Feel each drip of milk
As it slips out the spout,
Wondering at what mixture it makes
When it makes with you
Do I stir it or let it settle?
Do I keep pumping it up?
And pour it in?
Should I ask you to taste it
To see if it tastes right?
And do I ask if anything else
Came come of this –
Some higher purpose
For all the energy we expend
The milkmaid and the milkman
Churching up this concoction
To make butter,
Or perhaps it is enough to church
Both letting the stone roll
Or the broth drip over
The edges.



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Flowers without thorns May 4, 2014

 

Not all flowers come with thorns, not all draw blood if gripped too tightly, this though, among so many other mental rumblings, coming into my head as I wake from bed, stiff, excited, yet warmed by the warm air spring brings, the new season firmly rooted after more than a month of dismal rain, pain bringing with it pleasure, if we endure enough, the dead roses from the dead of winter, replaced in part with other pleasures, other flowers, other of hearts, flowers with which we might never part, I think, as ease from sleep into the welcome warmer world, sunlight with its ever cheerful mood and always bright outlook, streaming through the window as I wake, partake the days refreshment, the rituals of morning giving away to those of the afternoon, the scent of New birth sweet and in part yet dark too, as if the turf out of which spring springs, no thorns to prick our fingers on yet just  not pure joy


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Friday, March 28, 2025

Laying it on thick (from My Little Book of E) ,August 31, 2014



I smear it on with both hands
Just for the excuse to lick it off
To feel the hard and soft of it,
To linger near the top
And delve into the bottom
To know it all with the best part of me
To taste what I touch,
To feel each inch of landscape
By having moved over it,
And I move slowly
As not to miss anything
Each flaw a treasure,
Each ripple a luxurious side trip
To fit with the tip or lip
As I move on,
There is always too much to
Take in all at once
Too many tiny places
To slip in and out of,
Too little time
to know as much as I should,
And like a road-weary tourist
I vow to explore this or that
On my next trip
Aching for the chance 
At least one more encounter,
Hoping beyond hope
That I have done enough
To deserve another lick
Smearing it all on so thick
I can’t possibly miss

My next try.

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Needing someone to rub against Feb 16, 2025

 

Heavy rain falls on my Sunday laundry ritual like a deluge, inside and out, a deep chill rising up from my bones and I can't get warm from, needing to rub against somebody to generate fire, the way boy scouts do with twigs, though you can't get fire from wet wood or old matches, and so I huddle in this doorway and wait for the storm to pass, the flick of drops pecking at the rim of my hat, at my face, at my eyes, smearing the world, confusing me with images of what is or what I want to be, the rain against me, no umbrella or memory can protect me from, needing a body to rub against, to Kindle a fire I know his long dead, stir up with hope of heat, enduring the rain and the pain of memory long gone


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Pointed shapes , September 18, 2014




The sudden chill
Brings out the best in you,
The pointed shapes
That haunts men’s dreams
even fully awake,
The nape of neck
The sudden fleck of wet
The lick that tips it all
Into so much more
And makes cripples
Of men like me
Who hobble on imaginary canes
We did not intend to create,
All too obvious
But not so easily contained,
When the chill air comes
We overheat, and seek
Just a little peek,
Or touch with the tips of fingers
We know will scald
Despite the cold,
Palms curled around
The whole of them,
While our minds plunge
Deep into places
We only dream
Of reaching



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Paradise Jan 9, 2015


Paradise is not all it's cracked up to be, love making in the afternoon, cuddles at night

The in and out ritual that means more than in the front door, the dark of night alone, the wish for arms and lips and hips, missing when needed most, the locked door, the people the fright of who might knock at night when all others have fled to other homes, other arms, other lips and hips, sometimes Paradise is a vacuum, the silence that resides when all the voices cease, the peace we seek when we need more than the rant and rave of imagined love. sometimes Paradise is being free of the bonds, the promises, the deception, sometimes Paradise is being alone



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Sunday, March 16, 2025

The salty haze of uncertainty August 29, 2014




I breathe the scent of salmon
As the net scrapes against my thigh
And I think of you
And the sea we all sale in
Waiting for the mesh to drop
The panic in the up-churned waves
The up and down and sideways
That leaves us perpetually confused
As to which way we have come
Or where we should go,
The tight ropes that bind us
And scrap our sin with a mixture
Of pain and pleasure,
The lost of the unknown
Mingled with the lack of free will,
The prickly coarse entwinement
Containing us as the moist fingers
Beats around us and over us,
And yet we somehow remain secure,
Wanting sure hands to haul us in,
A warm touch to rub those limbs
Where the ropes chafed
To ease the ache with bliss
And until we cannot tell
Which is which, nor care,
Only that we are no longer lost,
No longer drowned
In the salty haze of uncertainty.




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that dark night in May May 3, 2014

 

 

I still kick myself for bringing card and candy to that bar -- that night when she took pity on me for my birthday but wanted to fuck the bartender instead of me, or perhaps an orgy with the German couple, when it was still odd man out, four is company, five is not allowed, that dark night in May when I got drunk on my own hormones instead of bottles of wine

 I still kick myself for not seeing it in advance, how unwelcome I was, how I ought not to have gone, let alone left early, abandoning her, even though she had already abandoned me

this idea we can fix things that are too broken to fix, no amount of magic able to bring the magic back

that night in May I can never forget but also will always regret. wishing I had seen it all coming

 


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Smoldering August 27, 2014






The leaves cling to the ground
With the first autumn rain
Skins slick with wet
As if churned from a summer’s sweat,
The rubbing of limbs
The moan of pressing trunks
The expired sigh of each breeze,
All lost in this afterglow
Of changing seasons
And the expected chill
That makes limbs shudder
And press even deeper
To retain bits of warmth
And keep it all from oozing out
Winter being such a long
And exasperating time
That makes us cling
All the closer but without
The rage of heat,
we rubbing together
like stick against stone
expecting no burst of flame
but a slow and steady smoldering
we hope will keep us warm
until spring springs upon us again,
bringing back summer’s bliss.




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Trained dog Jan 22, 2025

 

What exactly do I remember best, the bits of fragrance, the softness of flesh, the jumble of thoughts rolling around in my head, drunk before the first sip of wine, being inebriated by being so close, I could reach out and touch, grab what it is I wanted, and yet resisted.

 what exactly do I recall, if anything at all, the staggering moments when she could reach out in touch me, to do whatever she liked, as if I am a trained poodle or one of those mob dat ragtop pups, women like her stick in their purses and let out for show, maybe that's exactly what I wanted all along, to cling to her heels at the end of a leash, to sit up, sit down, bark, roll over, each command filled with ever-present promise of reward


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Saturday, March 15, 2025

What I live for August 23, 2014





I melt in your hand
AND in your mouth,
A stick of butter
Injected into scalding heat
You cool me
Only just enough
To mold me,
An oozing mass
Of hissing steam
My thoughts evaporate
When I think of you,
I never learned
The most fundamental lesson
I touch heat
And it hurts so bad
I always have to do it again
And still want more,
I’m like one of those trees
Whose seeds pop
When set on fire
I can’t get out of the kitchen
Even if I wanted to,
Stirred up on your stove top
Until I’m all froth,
You drink me up
A bit of slip clinging
To your upper lip,
You sip, I drip,
The ever melting man
Aching for you
To melt me
To mold me
It’s what I live for.



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That precious moment Jan 8, 2015

 

What I really wanted that night outside the bar -- when we broke from our routine on the stools inside for her to get a smoke outside -- was to push her hard against the wall, her arms splayed, my mouth pressed against hers, my body throbbing to get at hers, to press in, undress her there and then, in the dark so I could get at her, the ache do acute, I still feel it  all these years later, asking myself why I didn't do it, why I settled later for a kiss on the ride home, to take her then and there, to feel my hardness against her softness, to deposit in her, all the flow of lava pent up inside me, then, now, always --  that precious moment gone


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Vampire love? August 11, 2014




The wind weaves
Through the meadow grass
Like fingers through
Strands of hair,
The palms of my hands
Moist in the chill air
My breath near your ear,
The nip of love bites
Always leading to
Blood lust,
My lips brushing
Your neck
Always with the deeper
Hunger for more,
Always struggling on
With the eternal debate
How deep to sink my teeth,
To satisfy this that rises
Up inside of me,
Not done until buried deep
This flesh that seeks
A moist sheath,
To draw in and out
Each blow matched by
The blow of breath
And the moan of this meadow
Wind as it stirs,
This vampire love
Leaving me to wonder
How deep to feed
To sedate this insatiable hunger
My lips pressed against soft flesh
And with infinite impatience
Seeking solace in twin peaks
I can easily reach,
How deep do I plunge
And will it ever be enough?




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artificial peace Sept 28, 2012

  

I wake to pre-dawn and wait like a countdown to a sunrise that may never come, only the gradual lightening of clouds and the usual false promise of rain, we having finally pushed out of the unbearable heat of Summer and into the uncertainty of fall. no leaves turning yet, just the dulling of green, as if the trees have ceased hoping, as I have, hope for what--  relief, reprieve, forgiveness or perhaps, the need to feel numb, no Harry Potter magic, no clicking of Dorothy heals, just the vague notion of a quiet space, after the brutal threats of Summer have ceased, winding down to eventual numbness, in which I feel neither pleasure or pain ,and no longer wake to the fear of being undone, sometimes this is all we can hope for this sense of artificial peace


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