Sunday, December 9, 2012


We float around like clouds

And the wind lightly touches our hair.

I have a beautiful feeling

When the façades release their birds into space.

The light bends to get a drink

At the stream, puzzled by its own shadow.

The colors of evening have arrived.

I love you more than gray and pink and pale blue.

I wish we were curled up in a flower.

That would be lovely maybe a tulip.

Before the sun comes down

And the words collect like droplets

Of water, I will miss you where you are

And the night will be as the day.

Monday, November 19, 2012

We Are Lucky

To be born on the edge of the same galaxy
And to have collided in the great particle accelerator
To have all our fingers and toes
To have our curves correspond like the sinuous bodies of ocean and earth
To pleasure one another with our five mouths
To be naked in our clothing
To walk hand in hand in the river of humanity
To spit rainbows
To have our teeth fall out so musically
Not to have lost all our feathers
To fuck also in spirit
To join two labyrinths with a single kiss
To eat one another for breakfast

The choices get harder, finer,
This thick into the maze.
The music we make when we come inside
Colors our sighs in the darkness.
We love one another in a big basket.
The white cotton towels have been engineered
To keep us floating in each other’s arms.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Trying Not to Think of You

How can I embrace what has no body?
You have a body and I embrace you
Wrap me in your soul
Consisting of arms, legs, shoulders, and lips
Your torso is smooth as the softest Greek marble

This poem embraces you like a cat with hazel eyes
Its long sultry glances at you signify the eternity of love
The universe is a void for verbs and adjectives
All nouns are illusions
It’s like a foreign movie with subtitles in a foreign tongue
As we walk around and put our mouths where they fit

The sphinx-like bridge in the light of late September
Queens almost looks romantic from this vantage point
Nestled here between steel and stone
Only you and I exist and maybe not even I
Only curves in space like rivers of sex
And while the tattoos flower up your back the dawn comes
So this is what it is to love and be loved by you

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Forty is the New Thirty

The same old abandoned walks
Despair would be too dramatic, would call for action
Instead I am shading my eyes from the sun
The dark side of the sun spooling out its disenchantment
I am not the only drunk on the temple steps
The swirls of light around people and special objects
All forms of knowing and perceiving
This road has been hallowed by travelers
The children throw rocks at the embassy
I can write whatever I want
The clock, the wave, the bird, the star
Some very nice things have happened
And some not so very nice things

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Lava Life

I slept through the resurrection
I drank too much Irish whiskey and had to sleep it off
It was raining fire while I slept
I woke up for the war but then went back to sleep
When I asked you to marry me I was asleep
I slept through chemistry, philosophy, and law school
The kidnapping, the hostage crisis, and the release were a good long nap
I never woke up for my divorce
The alarm sounded but I was sleeping
I couldn’t keep my eyes open for the French Revolution
I was asleep when I lost my virginity
Wake me up before you come
I slept through Great Expectations, Little Dorrit, and Oliver Twist
I was late for my own funeral I overslept
While America was working I was enjoying a siesta
I slept through the Olympics
Remembrance of Things Past was written for insomniacs
I was dreaming I slept with you
I was dreaming when I heard you say “I love you”
They had to wake me up
I slept through ancient Greece
The sunlight was so bright and warm I fell asleep
The universe rotated on its axis while I slept
I had to take a nap to wake up
I slept through Paris, Barcelona, and Moscow
When they walked on the moon I was out like a light it was glorious
I was sleepwalking when I performed a triple by-pass
The Berlin Wall came down and there I was asleep
I hibernated in summer too
I’m sorry Your Holiness what were you saying I must’ve dozed off

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The Ushers of the Exact Limes

At home in the caves of the sun
A perfect chest of drawers.
Ringed fingers.  The plausible ins-dead
Standing, soap flake galoshes
Essentially gardens, mythologies
Where the other animals read
After the lights go out, after
The war.  We shine up the lily,
The touch of feet silver the linens
And method.  The story of us
Tangerines every sympathy
Pursuance of limits
When parted.  To logic, a fig, flames.
Clouds and letters, blown.
If I could go where no one lives
And stare into oblivion,
It would be exactly as here and in this life.

Friday, June 29, 2012

In the Bird and Flower Business

Although the fraying at the edges
Occasionally flips the game pieces,
Scattering the pattern like tv snow
Through the mosaic of being,
Everyone has an unappointed task.
The bits we gather go back into the fold
Issuing between the visible and the light
On those occasions when the tide
Of darkness ebbs.  The flashlight
Makes them sparkle in unforeseeable
Ways, the flashlight of the mind,
Asleep for so long, then one day lit
Like a torch one is now carrying,
In private splendor, for the new creatures
Suspended in the walls of a raindrop.
The power is not yours to do with
As you wish, any more than sleep,
A pure good, is something to have,
But it will come to you, like love,
And then you will be swimming
Beautifully, the equal of the angels.

Let’s dive in the oxygen till the stillness
Reaches its apogee and we are pure time.
Our twin souls will be folded and intricate,
Braided like sisters of darkness and light.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

A Very Small Exit

The junkies in the system sleep somehow
Through the revolution leaking from the edges,
One of many small exits.

And spirit is
I have a key to the earth
I water seeds in you, a secret algorithm of love
I am filling up a notebook
A spirit composed of clouds and verbs.

I am in a bad mood.
The horizon is holding by a thread.
I have lost track of the days and the nights
Sleeping overtime, clasping still the straws of hope
To be free, freely entangled in the junk
Nobody seems to mind I put
In this column of integers.  Why,
Should they?  I understand many things
And this is not one of them.
You must have rocks in your head.

Everything is tainted till the forgetting comes
Another set of integers
Then nature leaps out at you.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Le Cheile 6-21

The tides and bodies of boats
Move both ways, into and out of sight
Like a sinuous line between the visible
And the light and the scrutable
A boundary that doesn’t block but bend
All stems to the sun. Dunes curve and writhe
Along the coast til the chaparel reclaims
The dirt from blast and draught
A constant redrawing of wind and shore
An endless line of mad surveyors
Eyeing and chewing and scratching
With lewd stares into the air
Something you can sink your molars into
At last, a blank expression, no, a bank one
Passed through with all of the currencies
Exchanging saliva, despite the prohibition.
We signed for a copy of the resurrection
So now we are the captain.

We call capitalism by its name
And then the shrieking starts
Someone broke a fingernail
Or an iron law and circulation increases
Heading round the cape where markets rip
Stumble and spill into bigger piles of assets
For some the terrible necessity of being underneath
The gameboard of the sea juggling
Its risks like gulls down the line,
Amigo amici, the opening Italian
And the end game a slurry of howling apes
Somehow the vortex looks best in plastic
Pants, in the spirit of dropping,
Called out, collapsing, Pierrot on a string
Vexed at the stasis of his garment
Who are we to check your pockets
Without your coy permission?

Thursday, June 14, 2012

James County

Forgive me water
slows the mind

In the days before
The flames engulfed
Only watching
The river was
A prospective lapse
Or a project
From a lounge chair

There are no signs
when entering
or one sign
that reads x-ing
a neglected culvert
and a few machines
used to stack things

I have made a bed
Inside a tube
Small glass tubes
A piece of wine
As fat bodies flow
Down the river

I am always behind
The light unless
It is night or
The smoke fits
The atmosphere

Some places are flat
Others as common
As valleys
Frankly water
I wish you
were as clear as gin

I get my news like a
Human thing
Soaked in a chair
The future in nowhere

Samething again
We is reserved
For the things
That would destroy us

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Tiger Lily What's Your Name

An old bumper sticker for a comic presidential ticket
Milk under the bridge
The foreign news was also world news
The news from some other world
Live in the bag of discourse

Shuffling between observations decks
We view London from inside a gumdrop
And before it cloys
A midget grinds out an epithalamium
I licked the stamps myself

Then we floated up the same river
The absence of porcupines in the dining car
Dismayed the shoe-gazers
We were down on the floor when my egg timer pinged
A kitten had lost her phoneme

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Of Being Alive

Not many who can stand it ever return
To tell the rest of us to buck up
And quit being such a bunch of pussies
Whatever may come.  Is it wicked
To gaze at cattails in bloom
In that lascivious profusion down the road?
Don’t answer that.  Tell me you love me
But this time try to mean it.
The pyramids and the Alps
Will duke it out to woo you back.

The soda pop in the fridge is stale
Someone ate all the cookies
The house elf is not going to do the dishes
What more can we accomplish?
Some strangeness in the morning
And early afternoon
Lying around the house.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

To Walt Whitman

I look at my neighbor’s genitals
Have a drink
I love my neighbor
This poem is not on my schedule
I am stating it for the record
Bliss is not ignorance
The stars and stripes
We are now a corporation
Brick by brick the great wall
This poem is going somewhere
I don’t know where

If you like you can give me a prize
I accept don’t tread on me
Where is a policeman when I need one?
This poem is not a fictional person
I only live here
The water bowl is not mine
Do dirty secret wars give you pleasure?
Appeal to heaven
Write me a check I’ll call you

I am running out of sentences
I stop for food and drink
There is no standing here move along
This poem trudges along looking for a song
My utterance needs elbow room
We have plenty of rooms
One line at a time
In whatever order you wish
Dessert salad aperitif
I feel a fizzy sensation

One hour on a Saturday night
Clouds of copper
The sky rises like a turquoise sea
I am gold on the couch
The dog snores in his house
My neighbor
Something in the sunset for everyone
A swallow strays like a comma
I wrote this poem
I had rather it be you

Friday, June 8, 2012

The Weeping

The moonlight is more beautiful than silk
Flowing over the ramparts
When I pull the curtains back.
Moving to the rhythms of a soft
Parade, the women emerge disrobed
From their doorways as I weep
Locked in a room with no chair.
To defy the curfew, the bride
Of the city appears in my dreams.
She is dressed in black.
After two days of rain
A powdery blue mist erases the solids.
Eventually the weeping goes away.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

We used to Jump off the Porch

Dying of poetry is a mellow death,
It is cunnilingus for the mind
Windfallen to the pavement like a peach
There to deliquesce in the rain and sun.

Now the whole thing has turned a dark burgundy
With a lake of fuchsia at the bottom
We live now in the caves of the sun
Something very old which I do not understand

You walk in the darkness of your head
These are the last words you remember
Some people take the shapes of others
Petunias are not tumors

Imagine something other than language.
In the first stages of becoming a zero
You may experience a sensation of perfectibility.
This is normal.  What is written and what is not

The other infinity the one inside a thought
Fill up the spaces of your speech.
A whole continent of love and fresh towels awaits you.
We are all having a snack on the beach.

Monday, April 30, 2012

The Long Foam

Trees without leaves
Trees in flower
What is contained between
In the bud
Of imminent coexistence
May be a bubble or not
Thoughts escape their container

It is not always a crime
At least not self-inflicted
When a circle breaks
Into another circle

Many in the pond
Would argue old Bashō was
A secret ninja
So deft in composing
In rhythm with the end
Of all things
And seldom ripping throats

Soft, the hand reaches down
Subtle fingers to pluck
The sewing girl’s needle
From the paralyzed frog

Remember when we lay
On the banks of the river
Two holes in our shirt
From the snares we made
Out of reeds when we rubbed
Grass on our faces to see
What we’d look like older

Much later, the tired village opens
Its reflection in dank loam
Bilious pools and shorn casements
A less than stealthy resignation 

Froth issues from the frog’s mouth
Flecked blades of grass tiny petals
Slowly submerged in the foam
As the white bubbles grow
And alter the direction of the light
In each lenticular orb
So that our scene is myriad

Unsightly the ninja never stops for long
When the globose faces gather
To stare at the mortal hands operant
In the bubble of time a circle feracious

Saturday, April 28, 2012

The Lake

Are we then never to rest in port a single day,
Driven ever onward to unknown shores,
Till at last we are swept away into eternal night
Never to return?

O lake, another year has galloped to its close
And she meant to see your lovely waves again,
But look, I sit here alone on the same rock
Where you first saw her.

Then, too, you moaned beneath the plunging crags,
Then, too, you slammed against their shattered faces,
And just like this the wind scattered your foam
At her precious feet.

That evening – do you recall?  Drifting in silence
Between water and sky, we could only hear
The rhythms of the rowers striking in unison
Your waves like a drum.

Suddenly, a new accent was heard on the earth,
Stunning the magic echoes of the shore:
The waves quieted, and the voice that I love
Spoke these syllables:

“O time! Interrupt your flight, and you, hours of happiness!
Interrupt your flow:
Permit us to savor the rapid delights of the best days
We will ever know!

Fly, fly for the unhappy multitude here on earth,
They implore you;
The hours you steal will blunt their hungry cares;
Forget the happy few.

It is useless to beg for a few seconds more,
Time eludes our fingers;
I tell the night:  pass more slowly; and already
It no longer lingers.

Let us love, now, now, while we live; it is late,
Hurry, let us enjoy!
We have no haven; time has no destination;
It slips away, we die.”

Jealous time, is it true, the delirious hours of love
That we gulped down like happiness in a bottle,
Do they depart from us at the same velocity
As unhappy days?

But may we not at least preserve their trace?
What! they are gone for good? are they totally lost?
Time gives, time takes away; and nothing is
Ever coming back.

Eternity, nothingness, the past, abyssal depths,
What have you done with the days you have devoured?
Speak:  will you give back to us the sublime joys
You stole like a kiss?

O lake! silent rocks! caverns! dark woods!
You who are spared by time, who are born anew,
Preserve that evening, beautiful nature, keep
Its memory alive!

Preserve it in your stillness and your storm,
Beautiful lake, and in the aspect of your smiling hills;
Let it imbue the black firs and savage peaks
That hang over you;

Let it dwell in the breeze that trembles in passing,
In the echoes from shore to shore repeating,
In the face of the silver orb that lights your water
With its soft pallor;

Let the crying of the wind, the sighing reeds,
The imperceptible perfumes of your embalmed air,
All we may hear, see, and smell, let it all declare:
They were once in love!

Alphonse de Lamartine (1820)

Monday, April 16, 2012


The moon shines down on the water
Even after the first time
Playing golf on an island
Small enough to meet you again
If these islands are a system
That can explain the distance
Between as something other
Than the slow geology
That brings us together
And apart so briefly
Shifting the focus of affection
To the drift to furtive glances
Through the telescope
(breakfast in bamboo huts
and tea with raw fish)
Then I will find a way
To send a backwards sign
By smoke by subtext
Or maybe by moon
When you are not watching
And I am not home