betweenessin between the words, (the chasm: inner space and outer space)between the lines and letters, (thusly close to chaos)lie entire worlds. (imagine images, an iris to ideas)
a simple markingnameless isa wayI preferthe zenof a markon the spaceunder whatI havelaid downit is enough*
aquiese life fades in as it fades out not just at the end it is continual coming and going and yet, here and now is somewhere to be
on zen benchsitting on zen benchwhat it isthis being~ at close to dusk Late January 2014
impressionsfrom the brushstrokesit all comes downto it, to nothingfrom where it came~I copy natureI cannot contain it in which we find the majesty ~over old ruinsthe sunsetas if we candiscusswhat is ancient~following sheepwhat takes medown this trail?~sitting at the beacheverything is herenothing matters~even the rainsand wind areat odds with oneanotherby their positioning~"I always wanted to gobut I never could"a packed trunk and a ticket~Hazy Cathedral Paintingyou have ghosted out the sceneso often do we forgeteven reality is only herefor a moment~speckled lighton these stepsappears as fallen leaves what differenceshave either upon my reflections~What is life itself?My dear, you are standing in it.~boat shadows have lives of their ownbarely noticed but we should such hidden depths!~Claude Monet,You hurt me. Youhurt me by howyou capture beauty.It might well
pearllooking forthe pearl of wisdomthe moon shows upon time
as it istheir absence isalways hereand with thatcomes their presence
absencein all the time since thenI have not yet looked up
gaspI can breatheout poemsyou are readingone but tobreathe in a poemcan be to inhalewithout air
The WitchesThe witches speak a languageclearer than my mother's, the edgeof a blade, crack of broken glass,silky slide of sin, come in, come in, inmy ear, a soft patting drum, thespell bound lullabythey croak and coo, all manner oftone and it is sweet as the summertongue growing fat on hand cart ice creampops, brisk as the Boston cabbies,neither here nor there, they areever here evermore. They areinside me, flapper dancingthe pelvis bones, acutely out ofstyle and carefree, they have me,the potion's daughter, their invitationsheer formality. I am in, I amin, I am deepat the bottom of the cauldron.Do you dare consume me? The womanwho gives cancer out freely and livesto die yet never dies, the sickanomaly. Can you hear them?Press your earto the flat of my skin. I amthe cast-off shell of the sea,hollow and rustling – that, there,that is them – their greedy handsare chanting, come in, come in,
Before You HowledI had forgotten for so long why I sang,so many, my song turned into tumbledbedsheets, bodies strewn,nectar of a kiss overdone.The lonely hoot low and languished,I loved, My Love, I loved strongand solid, the hollow notes,the lonesome bones.Crow, she came and whispered in my ear,said your song is lovely dear,take a feather from my wing, we beatsomewhat the same.But the song, it was the same,beneath the shadow of the bat, asthe love of a manI nearly slew.When she would call, month's laterthe chiming at my ear, o' my heartmy little heart,I heard her and she was me,and I, without us, her littleblack wings, my greedy perch, monthsI'd call back, filter through the poemsI hear your notes in me.Some nights she whispered love storiesof a girl, small-handedacross the mountains, a candid songof love and lossand loving loss, that which learnsto rumble after. She wrote of you,far across, the distancea somber color.O, I listened to her song an
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
poems of timethey have not been polishedI'm a little like an oil painterI just don't go over themonce the colour is downyes, they can take months or yearsdrying off the intensityby which they were writtenunder candle and winethen we can see if the colouris holding and we won't polish themmerely dust them offand maybe they won't stand the test
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –and it is work,and you will often come second to the job –it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,which ones are wishes,and which parts are for you.
Turn my words against me.I want my words to takeroot in your stomach and growup your esophagus, the calyxof your tongue brushing the edgeof your teeth until the words blossomfrom your lips in a slowexplosion of elegance, jawlinetrickled with nectar, charminghummingbirds and honeybeeswith the promise of butterfly kisses.
Here and There, Now and ThenBurnt umber dawn, swaying electric treesThousands of souls chant in the summer windJournals of the dead are read by schoolchildrenThey awake shaking someone else's dreams from their headsStatic electricity on the nape of your neckIn the television, on your phone, in your dinnerThe calling of a murder of crows from the treesYou remember the view from the hospital room windowA smorgasbord of life and limb, death and decayThe antiseptic smell has an undercoating of rot and dirtTalismans won't work any more than prayers and candlesSoldiers still fight lost wars, glory in the faded nightTall fences are built to keep the worlds separateBut everything that ever was still is, still livesTake your flowers to the ICU and give a last kiss on the foreheadBury your bones, but listen for the chanting on the wind
Juste un petit motNégligés ...Oubliés ...Juste des motsSur du papierFroissé ...
koancome home, be homeroam no longerseek no morethe mirror has no silverthe pond holds the flowereffortlessly
caring for p(o)etsscribbling down vicious verses ontissue napkins while seated atthe corner of a sidewalk cafe isabout as romantic, raw andhonest a p(o)et -outside of the four corners of your bedpost-can getif you've got that person dreading overdrafts and dreams on end -of you, for you-consider yourself a new ownerit is now time totame this p(o)et's perverse maneyou've got your hands ona fragile purebredwhich can be very tricky forfirst timers
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
CassiopeiaThe sickle moonfalls, and I blossomhenna red.
Lord of the DanceI'm a sun pillarin natarajasanacaptivating cloudsB reathing in a cosmic love spel LL eave all negativity & just let g OO pen up the pores of your spiri TO utcast melancholy by an adie UM elodic mornings of serene blis SI ntimacy with a totality of lazul I &N ights filled with a calm veridia NG reet you to a twilight of kisme TL ose the handcuffs of daily rus HI n the knowledge you stand fre EK iss the earth in dancing hoove SE xcuse the past, don't look bac KA ccept yourself
WormsA woman from the east divined the wormsThat I ate were high in bad cholesterolI turned to The Fuzzy One for confirmationShe was too busy eating them herselfWe all walk different paths togetherOr sometimes the same ones apartEating worms in the darkness of nightWaiting for the sun’s breath to warmThe Frenchman smoked his cigaretteAnd ate his worms all so nonchalantI went looking for the Brass-Toothed JourneyerAnd the Wandering Poet in a boxcarTo find what had meaning that could be definedTo see the view from the top for a changeJay the Street Poet just shook his headAnd the Lance of wisdom stayed silentA lady with bees in her bonnet debriefed usBefore we could travel, we must have a songI’d already tired of the idea of leavingWe all went for tea and earthworms
CherriesSweet on the tongue, you lay with mein the ripeness of desire, and I recallthe whisper of your breath along my ear.Never mind about tomorrow, loveforswear the sullen seed that fell before;now I am here.
HungryI’m hungry. No, I’m not hungry.I want a cigarette. No, I just had one.I want… no, I need something…What is it that I need, what wouldMake things right again?I wish I knew.
Hungry StarsAll the children were eaten by starsThe televisions don't work anymoreI saw you dancing in the ruins last nightBarefoot on the sharp stones, laughingBut your laughter rang hollowAnd echoed through the cavernsOld blood is never satisfied with new bloodRing the midnight bell and come homeYour efforts are all in vain, useless nowLike the fly trying to make its way outCrawling, dying, towards the lightThere is no light for the likes of usOnly hungry stars and the glimmer throughThe cracks in the boards of the floorDown there below where the masked onesHold their ancient ceremonies and incantationsLet me tend to your feet, loveAnd we'll seek shelter elsewhere
of substance and essenceyou want to figure it out?your mind is a ghost,sincerely. it is whispers