He says, "I find I love you"
which calls to her mind a dusty boy, red cheeked
finding some treasure in his front pocket
a dark place, shared by dimes, dust and shells.
Or, an old man finding a forgotten phrase
none the worse for it's rediscovery, he becomes
a young man again, playing with words.
He says, "I find I love you."
As if it is the definition
of a word from the dictionary
layered with meaning
like the trunk of a Aspen tree.
Does he find he loves her in a peach
the juice that runs through his
fingers and down his chin.
Finally, does he find he loves her
on the way to work, musing while he smells
the scent of juice on his hand.
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When our bones creak
and hands tremble
let us not start to walk timorous,
as of breathed out
by some dark sea creature
with the great stomach of youth.
Though the world is full
of empty eyes, we will
not venture timid there.
No trepid misgivings:
we stand, a house with walls
of old, solid stone.
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Remember
there are myths
yet to make.
Linger by pools
beneath falls
where the mist licks
terraced stones.
Follow Zeus as he
rubs and muzzles
Leda by the lake
see him curl
his muscled
wings about her
as she
sighs and slips
in beneath him.
Watch them in secret,
then write windowpanes
between the worlds.
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Beloved, do not be bought away.
Who then, will bring colors to my expressions;
with coy brown eyes, glow a fire within me?
Who will coax forth the many joyful explosions,
that mean life with you. And whose eyes will
follow you on your path to a joyful peace,
where you lie, like a tender peach.
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How long have we together
three days - three decades?
What if today is a chance
not to be repeated?
Let me ask you a question:
at the end of the day
what is life
an assemblage of chances?
No, I think it is this:
hope realized
people loving people
a recognition of shared destiny
a willingness to move with things.
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To strike a calm, as nature breathes
and balance the grievances of man
weighted by sobs
grow like slime
in stagnant water
loving the smell of dark moss.
Above a stone ditch
a white face peers
over.
To those who have known spirits
human flesh is coarse indeed.
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The first thing I do
when I arrive home
after stowing his luggage
is to wash the sandals
he had left by the door.
It is a holy act
to wash the dirt
from the soles
of the man shoes
who's grace allows
me to sit in
warm candlelight
and write poems to him.
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I shall not feel
affection
for anyone real
an affliction
for any man
who wishes to scribe
of the agony
of being alive
with no one by his side
who could ever comprehend
the self he is, inside.
And here I stay
I say! Upon my rock
my solitary promontory
and write of weeping
landscapes, wretched priests,
Gods long gone, and the
artifice of life. Better
to scream, than every eve
eat before the same
adoring aspect, submitting
to domesticity. Rather
better, to rage and fling,
to hunt, than gather.
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We are harried hags
bent and cursed - plowing slowly,
or merely asleep in fields
of fatigue.
Floundering blind
for an illusive satisfaction -
helpless to realize
our true selves.
Flung as we are
at a pace
we do not understand.
We want what we are
counseled to desire -
we attempt everything:
sex, love, drugs, alcohol,
meditation, seminars,
books, poetry –
anything to jolt us awake -
ardent in our desire
to touch God.
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Through years of defamation
a woman's body, especially
the kitty (to use a euphemism)
has been described as
anything but a blossom.
A Vagina Dentata, an evil smelling hole,
a toothed gap to suck men in.
But these are brighter days; we
no longer gasp in horror at the sight
of a breast exposed, do we?
Surely we are beyond all that,
as I smell her, delve into her
how could I think of anything
but the lilac softness of a woman?
I think, as her dark comet whirls
softy pulling the edge of my
explosion - I think yes, this is a new
and radiant age; sometimes
a cigar is just a cigar - and folks
who flinch at the sight of a boob
are just that.
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The Unhinged Compass (or, The Un-tamed Shew)
Swings on the dresser
a gift from an old lover
settles an argument with the new.
No, that is West! I say
see, the sun is setting there.
No, that is surly North,
but the compass settles it.
Now he might have
shredded my fine fabrics,
called me Kate, spread
me like butter on the bed;
instructed me the sun was the moon:
I would have enjoyed it more.
Saying yes, my Lord,
the sun sets in the North.
Yet, he acquiesces to the
evidence, and I do not reveal
that the arrow sometimes
swings wildly
when I walk past.
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Every word is a prejudice.
~~ Nietzsche
We were once silent watchers – avoiding
false conversation, empty gestures
clinking glasses and fluttering eyelashes.
Yet among them still, we
wandering the evening streets,
marveling at the noisy ghosts
then scribing these observed events
philosophically, in empty rooms.
Till the night we glimpsed
our twin - smiling, big lipped,
between two men
dining, dancing and most horribly:
discussing poetry.
Consequently, we stretched into silence,
later starvation, aware that
even eating had become a ritual
of counterfeit togetherness;
an acknowledgement of the false body.
At last, we came to be, alone
and unmoving, lest the merest
gesture, betray our nothingness:
the poetry of the spaces between.
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You are forgetfulness
in a slender package.
Opium smoke slips from
your lips, dazing my veins.
My odd taciturn mantic,
you prophesied pleasure
predicted symbiosis,
which first I fought:
fearful to believe.
Uxorious love is sweet leaves
descending red and gold
like Gaudi in Autumn. What
can I do but luxuriate beneath,
their composing warmth
and believe in your falling.
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