below is a version of my book Nicotine Mentality published in the mid eighties.  I have since decided to split the sections into separate book titles and add some poems to each on that theme.  Acrostic Mirrors,  Childhood Poems (A Movement From Rhyme),  Reflection Creates Images That Shine On Once Wordless PagesYogurt Connectedness , Long Letter To a Lost Love, Some Small Relief, Tachyphrasia, Consumption Sickness, Organic Concrete, Crisis Still, Dropsy SonnetsOne Breath of Hot Air, 1000 Words, Early Poems, Performin’ Norman, Lyrical Lascerations




































































(*ala Wizard of Oz)

























TABLE OF CONTENTS __________________________2


SONNET I___________________________________6

SONNET II __________________________________7

SONNET III _________________________________8

SONNET IV __________________________________9

SONNET V __________________________________10

SONNET VI _________________________________11

SONNET VII ___________________________________12

SONNET VIII __________________________________13

SONNET IX _____________________________________14

SONNET X ______________________________________15

SONNET XI _____________________________________16

SONNET XII ____________________________________17


A SONG FOR LINDSEY __________________________19

CHILDHOOD TRAINING _________________________20

BLOW ME AWAY _______________________________21

THE ULTIMATE COOL___________________________22

SPRING ________________________________________28

SWEATING IN THE FROSTY ____________________________29

INNOCENT ONES _____________________________________ 30

THE LOVE I LOST ___________________________________ 32

HE’S A MEAN AND EVIL DEMON ______________________33

MAKE IT EASY ON YOURSELF ________________________34

TO BAMA ___________________________________________35

LAMENT ____________________________________________36


NORWALK MOTOR INN __________________________ 37

TO MY GRANDPARENTS _____________________________38


THE FISHERMEN ALL CAME ALONG __________________40

PAPER WORDS FOR TAPPING FEET ___________________41



YOUR MOODS SHADE MY LIFE _______________________44

MADAKET SUNSET ____________________________________45

PAGAN FURY ON THE DANCE FLOOR ___________________46

NOW IS FOREVER _____________________________________ 47

YOU BOTHER MY BALLS ________________________________ 48

CROSS‑COUNTRY CRUISING _____________________________49

OKAY _______________________________________________ 50

MAYBE YOU WON’T MISS ME __________________________51


THE MORNING FOR LOVE _____________________________52

MALAISE ___________________________________________ 53

USUALLY ___________________________________________55

YOGURT CONNECTEDNESS I _________________________56

YOGURT CONNECTEDNESS II ___________________________57

YOGURT CONNECTEDNESS III __________________________ 58



TO ROBSALA ________________________________________119


(PART TWO)______________ 135

(PART THREE)____________ 147

ANOTHER GOOD‑BYE I ___________________________148

ANOTHER GOOD‑BYE II____________________________ 149

ON A LIVING CUSHION ______________________________150



TACHYPHRASIA I ___________________________________153

TACHYPHRASIA II __________________________________154

TACHYPHRASIA IX__________________________________155

ON RENEE’S DA‑DA DITTY ___________________________156


YOU ARE STUV _____________________________________158

DAH _______________________________________________ 159


CONSUMPTION SICKNESS ___________________________161

TWO‑PART INTERLUDE _____________________________162

CONNECTIONS _______________________________________ 163

IF GERTRUDE CAN CAN I ENJOY TOO?  _________________164

DADDY’S SUGAR _____________________________________ 165

THIS COULD GO ON FOREVER _________________________166

THE GUTLESS AND THE ONE‑EYED ____________________168

DISBELIEF _________________________________________ 169

A MOONIE _________________________________________170

STIMULATE ME ______________________________________172

THIS IS IT ________________________________________ 173

ANYWAY ___________________________________________174

EPPERVESCENCE ____________________________________175

COMING OUT THE OTHER END _______________________176

I DID IT __________________________________________ 177

A PAGE OF JEALOUSY _______________________________







I WAS A SPLINTER _________________________________ 182

SCREAMING TEARS ________________________________183

YOGURT POETRY______________________________________184



CRISIS STILL _____________________________________ 187

WHAT?  __________________________________________188

PARKING TICKET INSURANCE__________________________189


PU CAB HUT HUG ___________________________________ 207

DREAM SONG _______________________________________208

KILLERS COME QUIETLY _____________________________209

INNARDS___________________________________________ 211

BOOMTOWN BOOMERANG _____________________________212

DOWN HERE THE END’S ALWAYS NEAR__________________213

IF YOU CHOOSE ____________________________________ 216

ONE BREATH OF HOT AIR SERIES I.  _____________________218

  1. _____________________ 219

III.  ____________________ 220

  1. ____________________221



































































No matter how you look at things, congruities

Matter but little.  It’s how things fit together,

How little Equality (yes, even that) can displease

You.  It’s, yes, how things stand, not whether.

Look….How even things are at even parities,

At things that stand, at undefiled Be.  Be

Things fit.  Can not even be odd even?

Congruities together displease whether parities be even or…


The large cosmos and man‑made lore

Engage in altercation for what we believe in.

We build systems of order that tell us what we see

But, Truth, that fierce trickster, defies clarity.

Things seem to fit when the odds are not even

But beyond our belief there is always something more.




























Form and content are not separate but unified

And controlled.  To some intellects, form leaves the

Content to psychology.  Kind thinkers give in; discrepancies

Are some kind of magical messages.  The forms,

Not intellects, thinkers magical, not innocent trees (making

Separate form) give messages.  Innocent lives are art

But leaves in the trees are not truly.

Unified, the discrepancies(forms making art) truly expand


And language is not the only source

Of artistic amazement.  The mere fact

That there was enough there to listen to,

The sounds of disguised equity as it plodded

Its way along, these and maybe something more

Are hidden beneath the silly surface.































I tried and tried to find a poem for you

But nothing suited my purpose.  One was too long

The next too pompous and wordy‑‑ You know how it goes.

I slaved three weeks, came down with the flu.

I’m not in love.  I can’t sing a song‑‑

Have to stop all the time and blow my nose.

I’m just a mess, I know‑‑ What can I do,

When the whole world seems rotten and everything’s wrong?


Only a simple man, yes, it shows.

My emotions are tamed, to slide on through.

I’ve never discovered if I’m weak or strong.

In the middle of the road, I struck no highs, no lows

And I’ve stayed quiet until now, but I’d like to say

I do love you.  You’re great.  Come on! Give me a fuckin= A.
































Still suffering from a formal tendency of mind,

Suffering, sometimes, a placement against extrapolations

(free emotion

From a freer mindset) creations question, making placement

A placement /mindset problem  (that poetry has nothing

Formal against creations that have nothing worthwhile).  All

tendency-extrapolations-question-poetry considerations

form poems

Of free making, have worthwhile form.  All are

Mind/ emotion/ placement/ nothing. ( All poems are nothing


Nothing but poems)  They are not imagery

Not questions, not extrapolations, not placement or tendencies,

Considerations of free making, not suffering, nor mindset,

Not problems, Not necessarily worthwhile

But they are sometimes poetry

And pretty good.


























A proud and fierce mockery of youthful rebellion

Delays the new wave of criticism.

The message feeds back its disguised equity.

While the media cry of our tawdry past,

The faded fervor of the middle‑aged hellion,

The precious purity of half‑remembered catechism,

The scientific method, the cult of efficiency,

And the wistful whimpering of a world confused at last,


And we sit back in our chrome‑colored thrones,

Listen for psychographic deviations

From the boom‑bah of brain washings,

Trying not to realize the sad condition

Of our times, we invest in change

And are bound by contractual agreements.


































Imagine what it must be like to bear the guilt

Of this creation, to embrace a universe of words

And to find only these for truthful expression.

This small earth pebble which floats like silt

Upon a cosmic breeze, the torn innards

Of selfless love, the long and painful digression

Away from childhood have buried me to the hilt

In acquiescence ‑‑ I turn my thought homeward.




Dad dah di dah

Dah dah

































Laugh at me, sweet dream child.  They laugh

At you too.  You fall for made beauty

(Me too) and, failing at fame’s fortunes, become

Sweet you, failing graciously, sunset taking you, (the

Dream fall at sunset is something, somehow) beast/

Child for fame’s taking, something easily ignored because

They made fortunes you somehow ignored, called nothing.

Laugh, beauty, become the beast because nothing matters


When love is lost.  When love is lost

There is no fame, no fortune worth having

And the beauty of form is only refuge

From having to remember the dreams you discarded,

In the sunset of youth, when love

Was pain to deepen the pleasure you knew.
































And no men left to see the dawn,

No tricksters living out some devious plans, and

Men living imitations of hateful orgasms, daring dusk.

Left out of influence, dreamers left the present

To some hateful dreamers, reigned over consequences to

See devious orgasms left over, to make fashion

The plans daring the consequences, make ugly the

Dawn and dusk, present to fashion the guilt


And become fashion themselves out of dreaming

So that dreaming is for them justified

But if no one sees the dusk and dawn,

If orgasms produce deformity, if my plans

Can be crushed, like my body can be, then

My dreams are worth something more when held.



































I look at the ocean’s chores during summer,

Look at my duty and wonder, just how,

At my leisure to form oceans that “better”

The duty, to masterfully create from need, the

Ocean’s, and form.  Create greater need?  I, doing

Chores wonder, “Oceans from need?”, what need is

During just that need.  I need more than

Summer.  How better the doing is than boredom,


So I do chores and write down lists

Of more to do, try to improvise

Like the ocean, try to fill the needs

It presents me with , try to be big

And impressive and yet soothing, hypnotic.

At least, I have inspiration larger than me.


































Plague, like the old fashioned kind, or some

Like death bug, bags mainly weaklings, they say.

The bug is bad for faltering whinnies and

Old bags, bad for bloodlines, intimations that mean

Fashioned mainly for bloodlines, blowing(evil wind), too

Kind weaklings, faltering intimations(evil plagues), down


Or they, whinnies that wind down, become infected.

Some say, and mean too, already infected, others


Say only pleasure they hope to give,

Say only silly formulations of mental acrobatics,

Say only imitations and are contagious

In their simplicity and art is obtuse

For them because death is so close

And they fall down without screaming.





























Same old story when they’re black and white,

Old sunlit lines just sitting dead, those fine

Story lines and existence here entangled like lace

When just existence survives, making webs these concepts,

They’re sitting here making webs,  crazy moonlight crammed

Black dead entangled webs, crazy moonlight visions, mourning,

And those like these moonlight visions, dark within

White fine lace concepts, crammed mourning within knowledge,


Within me and I try to tell it all

So that it’s beautiful and funny,

Try to look at life and imitated art,

Try to put something new on the page imbedded

In something timeless and , black and white,

All I have is formic tricks and words.

































If you place me where you wish to

You give me something less of a chance,

Place me next to me, course set, with

Me something to be.  Is that any good,

Where less me is more like anyone’s fortune?

You, of course, that like the concept, you

Wish a set, any anyone’s concept, leave

To chance, with good fortune, you leave it


Completely to chance and formal law

And everything is like brushing

Your teeth, you do it or not ,

And until something better is found

And if you’re good at it, you’ll do it by habit

And expect me to follow suit the same as you?




































































A Song For Lindsey


All those self‑made heroes

Trying to find just anyone

To tell their life’s long story,

Tell their tales of glory

Under the sun


And all the legend makers,

Those enormous fakers,

Trying to sell the story

Sell those tales of glory

To Everyone


Don’t worry when the record shows

That what they claim is more than they are,

More than they could ever be

Just like Don Quixote,



Are they wrong for dreaming?

Are they wrong for even scheming?

Their little plots may only be

Truth to children who hopefully

Reach out their hands to touch a star.


So what?  Life’s an endless quest

To them, searching for the best.

Who are we to frown and laugh

When they believe in a better way

And try to conceive of a better day

From all the mess we made?


All I can do is toy with words.

My course is set, my game’s been played.

If not for them…what could I write

The sorrowful loss of youth’s shimmering light?


Oh!  Quest‑maker, continue your quest.

Ah!  Do‑gooder, do your best

And lover of life, live with zest

For Don Quixote rides with you,

All you troubadours,

Making poetry not with words

But with your lives.




Childhood Training


I am an artificial man,

My life is a masquerade

And with my false presentment

I lead the mock parade.

My words are measured carefully,

Though they may not be profound.

With my falsehood and my trickery,

I’ll turn your head around.

The me you see is never

The person who I am.

I’m hiding safe from inspection

Behind an endless sham.































Blow Me Away



It’s right

For you

To flutter

From flower

To flower,

To live from

Hour to hour,

Taste only

The sweetest



I float

On the wind

Like pollen too‑-

I may be

A lot

Like you

But when a flower

Halts my flight,

At least

For a while,

I’ll stay

And only

The softest



Blow me

















The Ultimate Cool



It was conceived on a Sunday

And he was born on a Monday

And they called him Steven

For no absolute reason.

From nothing came something

That cries, feels, and knows

But most especially something

That grows.


He was a boy put upon the Earth

But the only reason for his birth

Was a fleeting moment in the night,

The climactic feeling of delight.

His fingers grew longer.

He went to school.

His muscles grew stronger,

But his parents forgot about the ultimate cool.


At only seven years of age

His suffering could fill many a page.

He was juggled and moved and swept out of the way,

Put in a home where orphans stay.

He learned how to read, how to tie his shoe,

The book said, “See Spot run.”

But where , O where, did Spot run to?

Where did he go when he wished to have fun?


His teeth dropped out.

His heart became stout.

His mind grew bigger.

A fact‑finder, deep‑digger,

He learned about things that all people need

And he, because he was nobody’s fool,

Began searching for a more eternal creed,

A thing he called the ultimate cool.









Ten years had passed since he was born

And still no righteous cross had he worn

But a cross he soon would bear,

And soon he would go where but a few dare.

A clearing in the mist, liquid turned to gel

Because a family of his own was not too far;

The stars were sun‑kissed and his pride would soon swell,

With a family to love him; But still he bore a permanent



His foster parents called him Steve

But don’t let the informal mood deceive

You into thinking that he was freed

From searching for a more eternal creed

And that is why he had to go

Back to the place of his birth,

Into a world he didn’t know,

And a time when there was no mirth.


So when he kissed his folks good‑bye

And his foster mother asked him, “Why?”

He just said, “Thanks for all the wonderful years,

I’m going now to conquer my fears.

I must keep moving.  I can not rest.

I have no time for learning in school

Until I know I’ve done my best

To find the meaning of the ultimate cool.”


He looked toward the city with buildings tall.

His heart skipped a beat but he didn’t stall.

So he did the boxcar, hobo thing,

The stowing away the rail jumping

Until there was nothing left to eat

So he pulled out his watch and decided to hock it,

The watch his father, long ago, had won,

And traded fire in his eyes and faith in his pocket,

For faithless eyes and a rusty, old gun.










He didn’t know which way to turn.

He tried to work, tried to learn.

His ribs sticking out, his skin hanging loose,

No need for protection the gun had no use

Until with hunger and thirst raging in his soul

He remembered what he’d heard in school.

Money, someone had said, is what made men whole

And whole men had to have found the ultimate cool.


He finally found himself a job;

Fifty cents an hour but he didn’t sob.

Even though his inexperience, his tender years,

Were hidden by suffering and unannulled fears,

The boss in the city saw through his mask.

He was always sly and not in a daze

But he was too young.  What more could he ask?

That question put him through another phase.


All the time he was tending the store

He was thinking of getting some hash next door

And when he left his friends to watch it, not rob

Everything, he got canned for leaving the job.

Where could he go but to them for a place?

“To the good time man, he’ll take care of you.”

They took him to see the man face to face,

The man who fronted a couple, then a few


Sacks of smack, snort horse, white delight.

So he sold them and fought the man’s every fight

And wanted to be just like him

Little bad Steve, like big bad Jim,

Who did every task the boss man bid

And started stepping toward death’s dismal door

He developed the habit and all he did

All day was stealing, buying and mainlining more.












Steve followed a pattern and followed it well

But as he reached the precipice and as he fell

Some unwitting someone, was there and caught him.

She worked at a hospital where she brought him,

Gave him attention and personal care,

Talked and touched him and soothed his fear

With beads of love and flowers from her hair.

His heart was filled as his head became clear,


Filled for a plain‑jane girl who,

With corn silk hair, blimp nose too,

With lips like snails,

Black iris and bloodshot pales,

Became, for him, Juliet of ancient fame.

He would let roots grow, have ends meet,

As she kindled in him an ancient flame.

She made him want to plant his feet.


He fell in love, that soothing pain,

And married her, and did not complain

And life was so awfully wonderful then.

His dreams came true but he didn’t know when

And then there was war and he took his part

Forgot about turning the other cheek,

Left the woman who’d read his chart

And told him that courage was not for the meek.


Well, drafted was he

And as quick as could be

He was one in ten million, a government issue

With tears unwiped and no toilet tissue.

With all the comforts of life taken away

He was a killing machine trained at war.

His friends died beside him with no time to say

Good‑bye and no one to tell them what for;


And, searching again through all the pain

Of life and love lost, he remembered his main

Purpose, the goal of his life,

The reason he’d put up with all the strife.

So he, being a man of the nature he was,

Ran to a neutral territory,

To fight against war and killing because

The ultimate cool was to be his story.





He loved his country, fruity meat and pit,

But far from his home he became a hermit.

Living off the land without a dime

He wished for his wife and dreamed of the time

When war would end and love would start.

The beautiful letter that he wrote to his wife

Was never sent but still it was art,

Filled with the emptiness of his life.


Reading the life he’d written down,

The fulfillment that he’d never found,

Tortured by what people had to say

About how he was dirt for running away,

He grew to love.  He grew to hate.

He grew with every bruise and cut.

He grew in spite of his chosen fate

Because his eyes would not be shut


To the possibility of something better.

He forgave the world, forgot the letter.

He headed home to see his wife

Take his punishment and get on with his life.

Then the war ended and when the war ended

He was already home in a jail cell

But he wasn’t alone. Freedom defended,

The ones that lived tried to make him well


But his mind was gone and freedom lost,

At least freedom for free, because freedom’s cost

To Steven was his frame of mind

And the ultimate cool got left behind,

As age began to steal his parts,

Separate him from a joy for life.

The only cool then was two entwined hearts

And the beauty that was his loving wife.









She noticed the age, the difference in him.

He babbled after he lost a limb

And pain got old as pain sometimes does.

There was something missing but what it was

Was lost in muddled thought and remembrance.

Folks stopped stopping by, such a flighty host

Was he, and everything was in the past tense

And eating in the evening was milk and toast.


Too soon there was nothing for him to do.

His bones grew dry, his skin did too.

He only could watch his favorite sport

His lost arm limp, his breath was short.

He’d grown too old to participate

And could feel himself aging every day.

He was conscious of the time and date

Because so many had slipped away.


Growth steps are different except the first and last;

Death came too fast

But in death there was the promise of something new.

He waited for death for something to do

And if I ever reach that point,

The waiting for death, plodding toward death’s door,

I don’t want my life’s ambition to anoint

Me with jewels and oil.  I want more.


I hope that I will be able to say

That I grew a little every day

And, like Steven, lose my childhood fear.

So the meaning of life became clear

To him.  Like a clearing in the mist,

Liquid turned to gel.

The stars were sun‑kissed

With no secrets to tell


And the letter that was lost and put away

Was a love song found from an empty day

And those artsy words reminded the aging Steve

That there was something more. He was ready to receive

The grace of spirit from helping others,

The truth of death and a renewal

Of connection to all his human brothers


And now he lights the sky like a jewel

With billions of souls that found the ultimate cool.







A new life began the day he died;

It was autumn at the time.

I see the coffin in my dreams

And hear the church bells chime

Harmony with uncaring spades

That slowly fill his grave.

With all the wonders of modern man,

There was one man they couldn’t save.


Now flowers bloom and buds on trees,

New‑born birds and honey bees,

Sing a song of enormous rebirth

In the ground and nest and hive.

Why, then, can not the one I love

Be back again, alive?



























Sweating in the Frosty


Sweating in the frosty

Chill of a winter’s day.

My skis and poles and boots

Are still safely tucked away.

The cold winter weather

Reached a record high.

A dark and windy forecast

And not a cloud in the sky.

It’s much too warm to catch a cold

So with telescopes folks go,

In bathing suits and sunglasses,

To search the sky for snow.










































Innocent ones: you, the one that died

And you, (left behind) who cried

In life after the death of a friend:

In death or in life the friendship won’t end,

For death means a reunion with the one

Who was your earth and moon and sun

And though, innocent one who lives no longer,

Your pain was great, you were so much stronger

Than the one that was left behind to suffer.

Thoughts of you, the dead, have managed to hand‑cuff her,

The living, into immobility

Withstanding greater pains in nobility

But ever bending under the weight

Of life’s limitations and of burdens too great

To be borne by one innocent one alone.


That is why I, to whom innocence has been denied,

Have been sent around to grieve by the side

Of this innocent one, so all alone.

You must be shown

That love and care need not end

With the sorrowful death of a loving friend.

Left behind on this tangled earth,

You must live your life sharing the endless mirth

Of your friend who now can feel no pain.

Sing a happy song of love and its sweet refrain

Will lovingly sing back at you again and again.











You’re the one, the one who suffers now

And if you try you may learn how

To live with the death that set your friend free

To sail high above the clouds so endlessly–

Endlessly watching everything you do.

Oh!  Innocent one it’s up to you

To live her life as well as your own

And one day you may be flown

To that the eternal meeting place

To, once again, meet her face to face

But for now let her death share in your life.

Let her strength share in all your strife

And in life you may share some of the joy

That she had to die for.  You are the Amessenger-boy

Of the happiness you know she has found.

So, to keep her alive, spread her mirth around

And she will be happier at your contentment

As long as, in your heart, you hold no resentment

For the fact that she left us way before you.

She left to you love and something to do:

To live your life, one life, as two.



























The Love I Lost


Under this bush, under that one,

In the back seat where we sat once,

Along the path to lover’s leap,

(Remember?  The drop was much too steep)

Around each and every bend we took,

Is where I desperately look and look

For a simple sign, for the smallest clue

To where the love went when I gave it to you,

Where it landed when you threw it away.

I search hour to hour, day to day

For a smile or a wink or another sign

Of the love that once was mine, all mine.


When I finally find the love I lost,

When my emotions are no longer tossed,

Like drifting wood, by waves, ashore,

I won’t have to search for love anymore,

Won’t need to be blind to the friendship all around,

When the love I lost is finally found.

























He’s a Mean and Evil Demon



He’s a mean and evil demon with eyes of fiery red.

The devil makes him thirsty and the devil keeps him fed.

You, pretty little innocent, had better keep your head.

If he says go backward, go forward instead.


He’s a mean and evil demon and he has his eyes on you.

If you look too deeply, there’ll be nothing you can do.

He’ll take you in his power and the things he’ll put through

Will rot your soul and turn your blood a darker shade of



He’s a mean and evil demon who’ll rape your mind and steal

your heart,

And when he has no use for it, he’ll tear your soul apart.

Stop him, stop his evil deeds, stop them before they start,

Before he has a chance to use his lascivious form of art.


He’s a mean and evil demon who’ll blind you with the truth.

He’ll close your eyes saying evil things and he’ll claim he’s

saying sooth.

He’ll entwine your head in weedy vines and gin and dry


He’ll take your womanhood away from you while he quietly

steals your youth.


He’s a mean and evil demon so you’d better keep alert.

He’ll have your heart for dinner, your pure soul for dessert.

Then he’ll say that he must leave and it will really hurt,

Even though he tortured you and made you feel like dirt.


He’s a mean and evil demon.













Make It Easy On Yourself


Make it easy on yourself.

Put your sloth upon a shelf

And save it for a better day.

It’s hard to use it anyway,

For level heads and steady hands

Tame the seas and rule the lands

With forward forces driving ever,

Here to stay, stop striving never,

You’ll find your work is a bottomless well,

A source of joy and stories to tell.

Forces refined remain strong and true

And practice makes them a part of you

And level heads and steady hands

To tame the seas and rule the lands

Will be your justice, your well‑earned reward

As your work and life bring you toward

A time when work is leisure to you,

When you’re only at rest with something to do.

So get yourself to work today.

Put your worries and fears away.

Make it easy on yourself.
























To Bama The Village Poet


Bama, village poet,  man of black,

You stand tall and defiant

Uncompromising and enraged.

If you need to, you’ve agreed to go back

But only if you can do it black.


Stand firm and proud at your conviction

And bend to no man’s jurisdiction.

Unlike those blinded by the fingers of fate,

Blinded by systematized claws of hate,

You have maintained your sight and you can see

A dawn in the darkness, what it would be

If only we were truly free.

You are a black man, nigger no more,

Never to go back to what came before

And, though you can not forgive and forget me,

I will call you brother if you will just let me.


Black man, I stand by your side

And though I can not share your pride,

I share your dream– What a world it would be–

If every man were truly free.


So call me honkie and say that I’ve lied

And I’ll call your bluff and stand by your side

And though a brother in blackness I could never be,

In the ghettos of my mind I have never been free.

Maybe that’s what makes us brothers.



















Significant change has never been made

By the passing of a moment

And though it may seem hopeless

You can’t trade your lifelong ambition

For a moment’s success, if the passing

Of a moment can only bring

A fading happiness.


A monument in stone will stand alone

But artistry in flesh and blood

Can change the sweep of a powerful tide.

If just one person can understand,

Victory is a little closer at hand

But final victory is only yours

When everyone declares an end to the wars.

Your screaming has a wasteful, wanton feel

When change can be made in a tick and a tock

But acceptance slows down the wheel.



























Seduction by a San‑Paku Lady

In the Parking Lot of

The Norwalk Motor Inn


How can you so quickly say

That this is an escaping?

I am untouched for many days

But once was a starlet’s daughter;

You can see it in my eyes.


I go zoom, back and forth,

To chance meetings with

Obscure knowledge faded,

I am a genius, once I was a queen

But now I prefer to be fed

And clothed and carefully coddled;

Riches to rags, riches to rags.


There is no use in going on

To live a life half‑sane.

So come with me behind the walls

Where what you will is true;

Your sickness is as great as mine

And will be long in mending.























To My Grandparents


Remember the days when Earth was large,

When a man’s ways were oft his own?

We grasp so little that is known

But we understand

It’s complexity and too much that make the ugly

Seem more grotesque.

Infinity either way, you save or you spend

But how can infinity and imaginary numbers

In sets and subsets

Free the shackled mind?

Has everything been changed in this foreign land

Or do we just look differently

At things we took for granted then?

It goes in circles, it all was planned;

On this we depend

But how, why, and all that matters can change

When things, once flat, get spherical.




























Poem from an Assigned First Line



The mind is a city (overpopulated).

We clean it up now and then

When meaningful people visit,

Display famous landmarks,

Propagate an ideal.

After the mood is justified,

If ornaments and trappings

Are not considered, it’s

Mostly buildings growing

Haphazardly toward the sky.

We don’t know how far to extend,

When to stop or become polluted.

Nature, lost, is not soon forgotten

So we create our own to compensate;

Plant trees along the avenues,

Paint the concrete artfully.




























The Fishermen All Came Along


Cradled in a boat with a pole and a beer, all the sunny day,

I see Granny at the stove but there’s nothing for the pan;

The fishermen all came along and fished the fish away.



My home’s a mess, my business down, my life is slow decay

But my belly’s stretched out and I’m glad to know that I’m

doing all I can,

Cradled in a boat with a pole and a beer, all the sunny day.



When the kids get home, when the wife gets mad, I never know

what to say

To explain why all I have to claim today is a gut and a darker tan;

The fishermen all came along and fished the fish away.



The neighbors moved, but I got stuck, so I guess I’m here to


Not much to do but the work’s not hard; some say I’m a

fortunate man,

Cradled in a boat with a pole and a beer all the sunny day.



I never was one to sit and moan and watch myself get gray

So I’ve been smiling since the day this began;

The fishermen all came along and fished the fish away.



Three years ago, there were no more fish.  The sportsmen were

glad to pay

For a pond and some tanks and some tiny fish eggs. Last year

went according to plan;

Cradled in a boat with a pole and a beer, all the sunny day,

The fishermen all came along and fished the fish away.










Paper Words for Tapping Feet


The shadows, quivering red and black,

Excite the dance floor.  You thrive on contrast,

Don’t you?  You turn the thrill around

Until the flow is blushing at your wild, teasing wiggles.

Isn’t it wonderful how lust can deceive?

I make my youthful move toward you and you

Doubt my intentions, make my heart pound,

Inches away.  I grope at your beauty

In my clumsy attempt to carve myself into your memory

But you will not give me a tainted love.

It’s your habit to expose yourself, briefly.

You play with the cut of your dress between

Us and show the boy behind my charade.

You smile as your lover reclaims you

And as I walk into the night, with arms crossed

And salty tears, I remember your rhythm and rhyme. +






























reflection creates images that shine on once wordless pages













































Yogurt Connectedness

















































Your Moods Shade My Life


How could you allow me

To make you feel so ashamed?

My reign ends at your touch

And we barely rule ourselves.






































Madaket Sunset


It’s so very hard to know

That everything is just the way

It always had to be.


Our barefoot froth‑walk disturbs the flow

Of waves that will not stay;

The wind must die or flee.


Like the plans we lovingly laid,

In rolling tide, the stranded shells

Adorn the oily beach.


I can’t explain why we were made

So captured by sights and sounds and smells

And love beyond our reach.































Pagan Fury on the Dance Floor


With little resistance, I bend my head

to the side.

I say, “Excuse me.”  They snarl,

I snarl

And on my merry way I go.


I become a monster to please;

Wish to suffer and not be guilty.

Luxury is sin when man dies hungry


And I’m starving for me;

Don’t you see?

It’s a kind of revenge,


But when I smile to myself

It’s because I know

All about good jobs and lousy lives.


So, with a little resistance,

I sigh

And slam into passersby.























Now Is Forever


It’s hard for me to understand

Why a woman needs a man.

You need a man that you can hold?

Confusion and uncertainty get so old,

So fast?  But nothing lasts.

The established way doesn’t work today;

We exist and fumble about.

The cities fall down; smell the decay;

Everyone’s moving out.

Moving out to where?  Do we dare ask?  Go north?  Go south?

All I travel on is word of mouth;

I can’t afford to move around.

So if all words fail me from this time forward,

If my speech just babbles from sound to sound

And no meaning be ever known,

Whose fault would it be: whose fault if not my own?

It all has been already said and done‑‑

I can not be your only one

And though I seem as calm as can be

I don’t believe what you’re asking of me.


You need to make love to something more

And take it further than you’ve been before?


You need to find a love that can grow

In a lover you can always know?


We’re stranded here;  This sad situation

Leaves us lost with no relation

To anything at all.  We’re so, so small.

Sibling systems fight battles of atoms, ions and light

And we just die.  So, I can’t begin to fathom why

A woman like you claims she needs this man.

I have no strength left to understand.














you bother my balls

make honey make haste

complain and connive, say

“i don’t love you, i love you so much,

why don’t you work for IBM?”

well, i be a man not M for money

and if i sold out it was to you

because i loved you

and if this is poetry, i’m sorry

because i think it’s ugly

to hurt so much for love.


































cross-country Cruising  (Does it Matter That it Was in a Plymouth Fury?)


Let me dye your wagging tongue

So that we might be equal.


I’ll dye it purple;

In purple there is unity.

White and black converge upon it

But it purifies the standard.


Metaphysical mirrors of what I am,

Soggy molds of some perfect image,

Hold no art– just a facade,

Like some bodiless extremity.


Your sorrow is a many‑faceted creation

And your eyes hold the truth in separation.


So, don’t give me watered down versions

Of what you think I should hear.


I picked you up on the side of the road

And give you a ride toward your destiny.


Can’t you share your journey with me?


The night’s too long for imitation,

For words repeated.  I could talk to myself

If my own sorrow was enough to make the miles

Move.  The tormenting shadows, bathed in

The morning mist, disappear.  You sleep.


Yes, the pleasures of the darkened road

Exemplify the nakedness of reality.


A fly dies on my windshield,

But the sunrise is still beautiful.












I’ll tell you the truth.

What really hurts me

Is how far away

You drift when

The world doesn’t do

What you think it should.


You seem to think

That nothing touches me

The way the pain touches you

And that just puts me, me, me, me (like echo)

Farther from you when passion

Suffers its most trying test,

When love has to be at its strongest

Because it is least felt.


































I’m Dying.

My mother, strong and sweet,

Is dying.

My father, quietly tense,

Is dying.

My grandmother, with arthritic smile,

Is dying.

My grandfather, enlarged liver and all,

Is dying.

My other grandmother, tall like poplar,

Is dying.

My sister, who just fell in love,

Is dying.

My Grandfather, who I never knew

Is dead.

I’ll bet someone you know

Is dying


Maybe someone you didn’t know

Is dead


I miss them all, completely, already, but…

I’m dying.

























I open my eyes to your questioning gaze

And lay in the light of a fiery blaze

That looks down upon me and my love

With warmth from even so far above.


What sweet surprise the morning holds!

Emotions warm as the day unfolds

But now is the time for me to know you,

For love to awaken and for me to show you


Truth without deceit.


My receipt


Is a yawn,

In the mourning for love.





























Like mayonnaise is transparent

When it sits out a while

And something tasty turns rancid,

Hideous, see us

Making a mountain out of tuna fish.


What’s wrong with that?

You want me to bear the guilt of deceiving you

So that you can be a new sort of

Delicacy, your anger

A calling into the priesthood

Of the human heart?


I hear your prayers,

The sizzling circuitry,

The cries for beauty;

Too much, too little,

It’s all too something.


All right,

I’ll admit it’s too nice

To tie up the world

In a Christmas‑colored package

With a pretty brown bow,



Maybe we can stuff an elephant

Into a bread box and blend

That grey with a wrinkled sky

But those infinite ties,

The language of sound,

The mold and melancholia

Make hasty reverence

To the obvious,

One facet in the diamond

Life of verbal philosophy.







An Appia image in veiled nakedness,

The stolen forest of gossamer

Symbolism can hint at immortality

(And solitary moments

Become traffic jams)

But men still stick their noses

Where they don’t belong

And women pedal along

On their menstrual cycles

And all those Cambodian children

Grow up or die

And poets tie up poems

Into little Christmas packages

And offer their naked bodies

To a science of analysis

Or hide the hemp‑scarred wrists

Of realization that nothing

Is ever quite enough because….


It’s all all right.


I could say I hate it:

Such a torch,

The anger, the discontent, the scumbled emotion.


In this world of hard‑core immediacy,

Futureless fantasy,

It’s all all right,

All tied,

All messy and beautiful,

Elephants and dappled sky alike

And sounds of mold growing

On the milk bones the dogs are eating

Because we like white teeth and sweet breath.














What I usually do

Is spend a little time,

Talk and mingle and mess about


Before I slap your face

With the look of my life.


Can you blame me for being frightened?


When you move the air you touch me.





































Yogurt Connectedness


What you do is

You take your yogurt

and its brother,

Another batch from the same culture,

Same yogurt culture.

Enclose them both in lead:

Lead boxes or something.

Separate them —

As much as you can.

Separate them.

Hook your EEG machines to them both

And feed one of them some milk.

The needle jumps on both batches

Both batches — yogurt brothers that they are–

The needle jumps on both batches,

Like they’re both being fed.





























Yogurt Connectedness II



There’s this stuff in my mouth that hurts me

When I don’t feed it sugar.  It lives there

Because I was lazy enough to let it grow wild.


It would have grown wild anyway but not on me,

In me; and now it is a part

Of what I am, which is caught.


I always was but didn’t know it.  There’s this stuff

That I am for some short time that keeps me human

And aware of my place, my connected nature.


All my vast deviations, all my play, all my toil

Is stippled with pores of worldly existence and so

Much more than I will ever be able to know or feel.


I always loved milk.  I’d drink gallons every week

But never was yogurt because of what I thought I was,

Because of what I wished to be.  Yes, I’m connected to me,



But that’s not to say

That I’m only connected to me.

I’m a construct from contradictions,

A made thing in a world of made connections.




















Yogurt Connectedness III


I don’t dare touch my lovers–

Let the air between us carry

My thoughts alone;

Make my move westward

To keep them from touching me

When I’m not looking.

There’s still so much between us

And still no way to melt skin

Into one human blob.

What’s a single soul,

Like me, doing

So connected–

When freedom’s ideal

Is a wealth of solitude

In this a poverty of aloneness?

Feed my lover and you

Feed me.

Touch my lover and you

Touch me.

Feed my lover and you.

Touch my lover and you.

Touch me.  Feed me.











































































So much darkness reflected in so many people’s eyes

That I sit and wonder if reflections are made by mirrors









































Tackyphrasia 5 or 6


Less time in the city

To do the burned bacon bit,

We fry our eggs and watch

The rubber edges brown and bubble

But simmer down?  Never.


Less time in the city

To warm things, grow green,

And sometimes let colors melt

Into landscapes of memory:

Less time but not no time.



































But beauty makes me forget the pain














































Be careful what you set your

Hard‑on for.  It will

Surely be yours.











































If man must make the same mistakes

Over and over again,

If blindness is only an eyeful of nothing

And colors are only meant to be seen,

Then you and I must be resigned

To the has been and will be unchanged

And must forget the could have been

Dreams of human glory that linger,

Too long formless, from age to age.







































The ratty clothing

Smelled old smells,

Was for and of another

Time, lived today

Determined,  not dust,

Not food for clothing

Parasites, but dampened

Thread getting on again.








































All in between.

I love the righteous,

Hate the wrong‑doer

But all the beauty

That is me is me.










































Into darkness silently I go

To bed and to sleep so

That I might waken on the morrow

With a new state of mind

And forever leave my sorrow

Far, far behind.






































macro‑intestinal obfuscation,

we darken each other with refusals

no! we will not comply to being i!

royal mediation and flattered flatulence

and all that stuff coming out‑interferometry

rainbow rhapsody, methane, PCBs, we chug chug along

or sing of sadness or youth or joy







































Good Night in the Morning


The light filters through my eyelids as morning is and in my

fogged head

And dawned on my sleepy mind is the distant thought that it

must be seven

(Time to rise).  My arms are lead and my legs won’t move and

as my head

Is slowly lifted by magical strings, I push it back to my

soft feather

Pillow.  A twenty ton tank slowly rolls across my ear and

parks on my



(I sneak a few more minutes in the land of dreams)


My wake‑up watch sounds like an air raid siren and as I jump

and dash

to turn it off, my bloodshot eyes freeze upon the luminous

dial and

The letters on its face.



I tumble back into my bed.

(What heavenly ecstasy!)

Good night.





























What kind of changes did you expect?








































The Temptations of Valor

The temptations of velour














































Now older I get so tired.



pa pah ta‑pa



























































































Who’s that walking along the street

It’s a pretty young girl I would like to meet.

My love is so far away

That I need some love today

And that little blond tomato

Stews my brain.

I’m going insane

‘Cus that little blond tomato

Stews my brain.






































17 TO 25

used to be, the crazy ones

were 17 to 25.  they’d play with power

test their tempestuous temptation

like thermometers of coital causality






































There’s no such thing as a “somebody done me wrong song”

A lock cannot be opened without a key

If you search your soul you will see

That you were not deceived by a charming smile

Or the pleasant while

That you spent together









































Sometimes I feel sometimes I think

I sometimes think of feelings

Sometimes I feel like thinking

But now I think I feel like sleeping

Because sleep makes me feel no longer like thinking

But like sleeping forever and feeling forever

The sweet thoughtlessness of sleep


















































As you’re looking toward the future

To the time when you’ll be free

Think not only of what you have been

But what you’re going to be










































Song for a Salt Marsh


I am the Northern Diamond‑Backed Terrapin

And Mr. Ryan knows the shape I’m in

But he doesn’t care because my eviction

Brings him no grief, brings him no conviction.


What does he care if the world just dies?

He owns the buildings that scrape the skies.

What does he care if we die from the crud?

He’ll eat his money and drink our blood.





































Predominantly Pentameter


The English language is predominantly pentameter?











































All the beauty I ever knew

Is all that is inside of you.

All the terror, the furor, the fear,

The yin, the yang, is you, my dear

And all I have to do to stay

Is tell you I’ll never go away?


Loneliness is my domain

So I can not always, always remain

And all the beauty I ever knew

Is all that I can leave for you.












































The world will go on

On its predetermined course

And all the prophesies of those wise men

Who wish to change the passing of the universe

Will be like the wings of enlightenment

Carrying our souls ever upward

And every deed of those who work

Toward a betterment of any kind

Will be like the turtle’s heavy step

On the road toward eternity

Ever so slowly carrying us forward

But never changing the way it will be.

AOh, Yeah?  So, why write poetry?”































So poetry is music, is art, is love, is ecstasy, is

innocence, is courage and fear, is life, is death, is

reality, is forever, is salvation, is discord, is melody, is

harmony, is not, is religion, is God somehow, is God seen, is

unseen things, is jealousy, is loneliness, is unity, is aged

and ageless, is faithlessness and faith, is lack of wisdom

and lack of anything explainable, is an absent man ever

expected, is always around, is all those things and many more

rolled up in one tight package?

AOh, Yeah? “






































nylons and chocolate


in World War Two the girls that would


for nylons and chocolate?





































Much Too Much


Too many soggy words

And trite conceptions,

Mixed metaphors

And overused themes;


Too many bad jokes

And worn out phrases,

Meanings ripped apart

And infinitives split;


Too many precursors

And images spent,

Too many messages

And too much to say;


Much too much

For me to remember,

Pen in hand,

Trying to write.



























Nurtured in your grief

By the milk of her kindness,

She, the only thing that can

See through man’s blindness,

Is in the hotel beds

Of newlyweds

And lying on the dune

Beneath the beaming moon.

Reflected in the water

Where no one sought her,

She’s the mother of the universe.








































I am the beer in the cold glass

That sits in anticipation of the lifting.

Bubbles float to the top of my head

But when I’m gone will I be dead?

Kiss your ass —

People bear their own blame‑‑

I’m just the beer in the glass

That was once full of… me?































Empty words,

They could all be just

So many empty words.

Who would know but you

And I?

Beautiful and vibrant,

They float ornately

Upon the heavy mist of evening.

So inadequate–

These devices are,


But until we learn

To look into eyes,

Words are all we have.


































There can not be

A snare strong enough

To entangle me.

I have felt the supple strands

Of the spider’s web.

Even they could not tear

The flesh of my virginity.

My soul is bent and twisted

But it has survived,

It has survived.

It has survived.



































Filet mignon and coke and smoke

Could never be enough‑‑

They will not make me live forever.

I have tasted the finest

And was not satisfied.

How can I now accept the half‑good,

When dreams would simply not come true

And perfection hid itself from me?

It was not mine and would not make me immortal.





































Puppets are People


Puppets are people

Who do what they’re told.

Puppets are people

Who can be controlled.

Puppets are mindless.

They come from a mold.

Puppets are bought

And they can be sold.

Puppets can’t cry out.

Puppets are mute.

They do what you say

And they don’t give a hoot.

People are puppets………

“Puppets?” you say,

“Incredible! Untrue! ”

Just think for a while.

Whose puppet are you?




























Modern Moppet


Hello love.

Well, this is finally moppet me,

No falsely deep voice,

No elusive lines,

No ploys, no noisy self‑expression.

Say smile–I’ll moppet smile.

Say cry– I’ll make big tears

But don’t, please don’t ask me to leave

You now.  My life and love are so involved

That I wouldn’t have a thing to do

If I wasn’t playing with you.

I need you now and give you control,

Will be yours until you cut my strings.

Hello, my love.

What else do you want?

A man?






























Little Things


How much I would like to worry about little things

Like how do you do and did you miss me

And how long before you let yourself kiss me,

How much I would like to dream little dreams

And try to imagine what it would be like

To have a girl of my own,

How much I would like to blush at words

I don’t quite understand, play little games

And not care about their meanings or consequences,

How much I would like to be happy for no reason at all,

Retain my younger self for a little while longer,

How much I would like to wish if wishes came true.

(But they do! )




































Supervision is…


Supervision is…









































The Definitive It












































Someone else wrote this poem.

I was not involved,

Not included, not there.

He wrote it for you;

It was your beauty,

Yours and his and you

Have the gall

To give it to me

And call it Aours “?













































But You’re Not Blind‑I CAN’T COPY THIS ONE!!!







































Will Have Been Seeing


By the time you decide

That our love is real

I will have been seeing

Too many others to devote

A lasting love to you.

AWell, is that fucking sweet,

Or what?”








































Used To It


You always said yes– you got used to it.

You never said no– I got used to it.

We were such a mess– we got used to it

So we had no place to go but we got used to it.

Now we have a future that will never be a past

And dreams that will always last‑‑

They’ll never be fulfilled.

Our fields will never be planted in clover.

Our cup, our cups will never run over

And not a drop of life will be spilled.

Away from the bustle of the crowd

We live where a whisper is considered too loud,

Where words are not spoken for lack of a need

And laws are not broken because our creed

Is love to you and love to me,

Love to anyone who wants to be

A part of what we are and have.

No one does but we’re used to it.


































Dragon cosmos, roaring rotund

Moo‑Goo‑Guy‑Pan seascape:

With a wastrel warrior

And a plump misled monkey

Crush a windy gull.


( Favorite word game )


































Wow!  Other people have been here too.

What did they do?
















































(Dot,dot,dot)…but beauty makes me forget the pain.






















































































hellish year in Harlem?















































what a smile.  two thousand dollars






























































































Stanley Plumly says sex is funny?

Of course sex, not love











































And What You Do To Friends

….And what you do to friends is shatter the illusion.




















































because you live on the losing of what you had

when you wallow in your worries

and you tell sad stories

and you die every day, just a little bit more

‘cus you’re dying if there’s no joy, no hope, nothing in the

future to be living for

dying if there’s nothing that you’re living for







































I’ll tell you the truth.

What really hurts me

Is how far away

You drift when

The world doesn’t do

What you think it should.


You seem to think

That nothing touches me

The way pain touches you.

And that just puts me

Farther from you when love

Suffers its most trying test.


Why is it that love has to be strongest

When it is least felt?































Morbid Delight


Ooh I’m so angry & jealous

Oh I want her so much

Ah she’s coming soon

Hum I wonder where she is

Huh who’s she with

Ha ha here she is

Boy, her hair sure is messed up

Yo how you doing?

Phew, she’s not mad
































All the beauty I ever knew

Is all that is inside of you

And all the terror, the furor, the fear

The yin, the yang is you, my dear.

The love and hate I couldn’t know

Took everything you had to show me.

And loneliness now is my domain,

The obscure and plain to see.

If not for you and what your love does

I’d only be what once was me.




































People Eat Poetry


Pain, pain, pain

What are you

Telling me?

That after you

Eat, you can’t

Write poetry?









































For a Pretty Young Girl Whose Name I’ve Forgotten


With your half‑closed eyes and your

Indisposable assets to carry you along,

Do you find my affection to be

An unwanted intrusion on your daily routine?

Your smile ignores me but, still you smile for this nigger

So your day will be whiter?  I feel guilty, somehow,

For allowing you to be the way you wish to be,

Living happy on the edge of the grey matter,

Holding on to my adoring eyes, smiling half‑smiles.

Do you find my affection to be

Just a meager maladjustment in your daily routine?

Your smile ignores me but still you smile for a nigger

So your day will be whiter? I feel guilty somehow…































One For Shange


Are you getting married?

















































I     F            F           W

T S     I          C U        T  H

S H    O  G        S A N     I  H  E

N O I    U  U     T  E N    N  S  E  N

E M S  S T  R  C  O  R   E  O     R

W E    O    I  O     V   L  T     E

? T    M    N  M     E   S  H

Y    H  S E    G  P         E  I     T

H O    I  E         E    F       N  F  O

A U    N  C         N  E O       G  I

F V      G  R         S  M R          L

U I         E         A  P         T  L

N N         T         T  T      N  H

G         S         E  Y      I  E

?            N      G

E      H

S      T.
































Rhyming verse is the curse of the universe?+
































Long Letter to a Lost Love















































To Robsala,



You beautiful mutant.  The methodical man

Of set form and societal structure

May soon banish you from warmth and succor.

There has been nothing in this world like you

But perfection must be disavowed

When it’s already been defined,

When people on rungs, up or down,

Scramble to the image of that false myth.



You say you’re of a downtrodden race.

Circumstantial sorrow, cruel disgrace

Made childhood long and hard?

Isolation left you scared?

You have eternal glory, your race and you,

While I carve a lonely wake through

Useless time; waste some with me‑‑

We’ll get exactly nowhere, scarred and ugly.



Pretty colors bend us as we

Make love to more rambunctious rhythms.

Ignorance thrives for the pleasure of victory.

We still create demons to amuse ourselves

But folk tales are made glory and more complex.

Nobility skunks religion, science smells itself,

So we create to compensate, paint the concrete artfully,

Spread succulent juices all over everything.















Helpless love sneaks me back to your arms.

So sorry; I can’t resist your charms.

You float from one warmth to another,

Every man your incestuous brother.

You want too much, not from me,

And cry when you are lonely.

Please let me be your comfort, your secret alibi.

The past’s no reason not to try.



Come on….take a moment of violet life,

Melt with me into purple places.

We never had anything to sell anyway.

Life’s a bitch, a beautiful bitch,

Great big rusty nails and lots of irony.

Hypnosis has us crisp and crusty

But in the mirror we’re something else;

We move with love sometimes.



Like some apparition, in and our of my life,

You make mockery of marriage, sometimes wife,

Claw me in spiteful revenge, symbolic retribution

For centuries of grief.  I’m substitution,

Have two decades practice, gobble guilt like

An emotional scapegoat.  I run down the pike

When my ring finger aches for one magic day,

When I need to bleed in my messy way.



False exaggerations prostitute tears….

I could cry and scream and stamp forever.













Long Letter to a Lost Love (part one)




I’ll start out slowly,

Try not to skip and jump

Too much.  I’m on a plane,

Three hours out of town.

Funny, how time spreads

Sorrow thinner.  I look into

The darkness with half‑closed eyes

And let the night hold me.

I imagine your smile.

Maybe we ignored the signs

And strayed too far from

Our needs and greeds so, sadly,

I soar away from loving you.



Though other measures lead me astray,

My life still revolves around you

And the only ecstasy I ever found

In this plastic world of artificial euphoria.

False exaggerations prostitute tears, I know.

I could cry and scream and stamp forever.

You never wanted me, just sensuality.

We’d pass our hatred back and forth,

Gentle persuasions would hide our fears,

They’d echo through tunnels of emptiness.

But still you were no self‑sacrifice to a selfish boy‑‑

Just couldn’t find a reason to try love’s pleasure.

















I’m nobody’s fool but my own fool,

I make my own mistakes.

You looked at me psychologically

But that’s not what it takes to hold me.

Two different spaces and races and traces

Of misunderstanding, we’re souls cast

In molds of our fates and hatred

Is all we know.  To you, love is futile,

A frivolous showing of emotional weakness.

We lie to each other, sleep by the buying

Of joy, girl and boy, we lie and try to love.

We cannot connect, but it’s not our problem

It’s their malignant lie…that we be less



Last night someone took me home.

I don’t remember who‑‑but I was

There, alone, waiting just for you.

You always had to be so much,

Comprehensible but complex

So what you were to my loving touch

Was shared with strangers while I sat

Waiting for you to call.  We tried to live

Together.  We couldn’t live apart.

We were milk and grapefruit, Gibran and Sartre.

Affection, denied me, tore my loving soul,

My pride was substitution to hide the truth

Which chanted monotonous, “Die, bitch, die.”

Nothing could have crushed my bones,

But your disease blushed at my wonder.

As a sacrifice to a box of broken dreams,

You shaved my locks, Delilah, were paid

Your demon’s ransom.  O, that I were aloof

And handsome, less proud, strong enough

To choke you and destroy my taste

For a lover untrue and a love gone to waste.








For now I’ll just sit and examine the gloom

You say you don’t need me?…Well, that’s good.

I’m busy enough without you.  You say you don’t love me?

Well, that’s fine, but why do you still call me?

“I miss you” you say, “in this house all alone.”

What about the times you wouldn’t let me come home?

You’ve had enough of my misfit ways?

You haven’t thought of me for many days?

Well, that’s just fine.  I’m going back

To my women and wine.  You’ve locked the windows

And bolted the door?  I don’t believe you anymore,

Don’t believe that you could be so cold‑‑

I thought we’d raise some kids and grow old.

I don’t believe that our love could really die

But I will not give it another try.

How could you care for what you saw in me

If all I could give you was more and more

Solitude and shameful regret?  Was your life

So empty, your emotion so free, to be consumed

By any me that happened by? ‑‑Die, bitch, die.


….Playful and soft, you transfused

Me with your youth.  Blinded by your

Magnificence, I could not make you believe

That I loved you.  I should, after all this time,

But something about you terrifies the softer side

Of me.  Something tells me that something went wrong

And sometime along the way, you’d have slipped a blade

Through my heart just for fun.  Something was boiling

Inside of you.  It infected me, that bubbling germ,

So what could I do?  The future was calling me,

Begging me to crawl away from love.  It will blame me

If I fail, once again, to secure some goodness for myself.

It will blame me for a love born of shame,

A devilish concoction of our whorish hearts.












I was barren and empty, backwards and befuddled

By my youthful lust for what seemed like adult life.

In a crowded world of wall to wall faces, there was no

Inspiration– I couldn’t trust what I felt inside,

Couldn’t believe the subtle deception, back and forth,

Between emotion and mind, couldn’t disguise the absence

I felt, wakened by a different woman every day;

A different face but the same old allure‑‑

“Don’t bend to torture, be broken in love

and lust for me.  Play me, soothe me, hold me tightly

And have no shame.  It’s all your choice pleasure or pain.

Being alone here is what makes us the same.  Our love is

Only trickery to keep us from not playing the game, but

without it

There is no creation, no communication, no relation to

anything at all.”































With lowered eyes, I fought the battle of conflicting


Could my sorrow be but food for thought?

So when we met….

Your smiles were water sprinkled over thirsty soil.

You made riddles of my life, made the spinning of my head

Seem only natural.  As we ran with the evening breezes,

Built castles in the sand of our lives, I got all warm and


Waiting for time to wrinkle and warp my youthful exuberance.

I tried to not skip and jump too much, there on the portal to

my life of love.

You were the pillars of the house of my compassion,

The giver of joy, my angel of love, and sadly, the sweet

Messenger of my inevitable doom.  You made me think.

Like some lumbering river, the murky waters of my emotion

Fed an ocean’s need.  It was such a wonderful burden

To listen to your complaints as you lay naked

But waiting for you to contact me, my rage turned

To tired passivity and silence was no longer deep enough

To hide the truth from me…You tried to put me in my place,

Make me a member of another race and when I was just what I


You ran for another warmth in which to hide your fear.

In the end it was so easy.  There was finally a reason

For all the torn moments.  The hours toy with my memory;

What did I leave behind?  You kept me separate and to the


Out of your wandering way.  You winked too much, not at me

And cried when you were lonely.  Tell me, is love always


To make you cry and smile?  You loved me hardly at all, (or

So you once said) would slide into yourself to forget my


You looked into my love to judge me.  Could you really

measure its depth?











Little girl, grow up fast.  Leave your breasts to themselves

And me.  Get dressed for the world– We’ll dance life away.

Honey baby, sweet little child, I always did like little


The best but be a woman for me, kill me with the insecurity

I help to relieve.  I don’t care, I don’t care,  You look

into my love

To judge me, tear me trying to measure its depth.  You’re


Of my secrets?  Scared of my secrets?  If you search your


You will see that you were not deceived by a charming smile

Or the pleasant while we spent together.  Mutual deception

Is not happiness to me, but this is love.  Spread it thinner,

Bend some more.  It will stand the strain and embrace our

deeper selves.

You said love is hard, to make you cry and smile.  I’ll try

to be harder,

Slide into your depths with the brutal force you crave,

Tear at the crust that surrounds you, tenderize and soften



























It’s up to you that I strive.  Shaky in the night

Until you need love, I would have waited for your need.

But indication of grief that it is, all bloody and wonderful,

I decided that love couldn’t die, it’s a remembrance of

something greater.

So off I fly, into the new night sky, and you, perfection

here and now,

Must suffer another malcontent, which seems so similar

To all the other loves, and, shaky yourself, how sad you must


I didn’t get bored of the unique and odd but I couldn’t play


Couldn’t let you pretend to worship me.  You escape into the

night life,

Search for a newer world of thought, love with no painful


You are a queen when you exist free from frowning judgment.

You know infinity without me…And I am just shaky and


Circumstantial sorrow scars me.  You talk of repression,

Fingers pointed, “She’s different” but “he’d Ugly,

Some joke God sent.”  So I ride the midnight wind,

Live a scattered existence, raise my glass when I get sick to


“To glory!  A toast to man and his long, long story.”

All that ever mattered was that you be true to you

And learn about love at twenty

But that chocolate man, that false sort of danger,

Was waiting in darkness to take a pale stranger.

So you, Florence Nightingale of dreamy delight,`

Fulfilled his fantasy, creamy and white,

And slept by the buying of forbidden joy,

A self‑sacrifice and a lonely boy.

Driven by the desire to destroy a lie,

You found your reason not to cry.

And then you brought him home to meet me….

The silence is not deep enough for comfort.

Abuse was never a gentleman’s sport.

I found warmth in you, the best and worst,

But superlative exaggerations prostitute tears.

I could cry and scream and stamp forever.







You never wanted me, just sensuality

And I just happened to be there at the time.

You got what you wanted didn’t you?  You always do.

Strangers and squeaking beds make you happy?

They all stop by to scrape for love.

Your lovers seem somewhat abashed, you say?

But you’re still everybody’s baby,

Running from warmth to warmth,

Slaving the tortuous depths of many men’s souls?

Screw you!  What else can we do when you remain

Remote and unattached?  Nothing’s free.

You light your cigarette and smile;

You’ll enjoy the squeaking bed and get to a certain

Point.  It’s been almost an hour and now you’re happy?

Your molten mentality may question the flame,

Aren’t we all the same, dirty and human?

You light a cigarette and cry as life,

Searing life, lives it’s gravity toward doom.

And something smells like fruits in the sun.



























Funny round robin world goes round and round

And how I love to see you smile.  Spread it thinner,

Bend some more.

Sometimes, when there’s only night to hold you,

You think of me for company

But this raspy voice screams continuous,

“I love you, I love you.”  Still captured in awe,

I soar away from loving you.

My senses are dumbfounded by your art

And the love which was once a prison

Vibrates across the long space between us.

Are you still everybody’s baby, proclaiming the wonders

Of variety?  Even selfish love seems love somehow,

So hide the darkness with my incandescence

But don’t try to tell me what I have to do.  People tried

that before

And I’ve always, always preferred to be free to die in my own

little way.

My hatred would not be grateful enough if all I could give

was my life and love.

But enough is enough and I say enough, enough you and me.

The silence

Will not be deep enough to change the way it will be,

Though it pull my thoughts a thousand miles.























Even though you did your best to drain my emotion,

Tire me with love, rebuke me with hatred, left to me

Maybe I’d decide to stay– Is that the problem?

If you believe there’s victory in showing me

How cold you can be, if you find pleasure

In thinking it hard to convince a person you love them,

Then be victorious, be pleased; It is all I ever wished for.

You look into my love to measure it’s depth, tear me trying

To create something mystical, trying to make it hard to love.

Why did you teach that love to me, only to send me back

With fangs dulled, much less proud for the lesson,

Lonelier than I’ve ever felt, ashamed for proclaiming former


Your lying eyes would smile at me,

Then you’d hide them in hopes that I wouldn’t see.

You’d smell of so many colognes, bait me and run to another


You must think a lot of me to believe I was so easily


Alone I remained on a drifting dream,

Begging for some truth somewhere.

My guilt and I leave you now

And hope that heaven is somewhat closer

In our absence.  If I knew how

To bring you comfort, I’d be by your side.

I’m sorry to tell you that I’m yours forever

Because nothing gives nothing so freely,

And forever is lost like you are to me

But today will hold its own secret dreams

And I will be content if I must be.

















I’m just a child who wants his rattle.

I’m here and you’re way over there.

You were my wife, at least in my mind,

You’d tickle me and make me feel alive

But I’ve died twice for every time you touched me.

So much depends on how you look at things so

My dunce cap fits, but loosely.

Maybe I can jostle it off

If I wiggle and jump about.

My love was becalmed near the knowledge of sin.

I was capsized for your eyes.

Yes, it’s a different world through the eyes of pain,

But sight was not enough to move me.

I thought confusion was death’s antithesis

And live now with both in mind.

I could have given up long ago,

Crucified you for your indiscretions

But my sins have their own infection

And any revenge makes us both to blame.

Hey, sassy little lady, are you still a whore

Who buys and sells your love?  I’m still broke.

I look back on it now, my cockroach’s squeeze

Which separated me from a whole life with you.

I put in three lifetimes of effort,

Spent every electron‑volt of my energy

And attention in our fantastic game of chicken.

We careened headlong at super‑sonic speed,

Crashing, scattered about between dependence and worth.

You were a wonderful exception to all the rules.

If only I could have ignored you, we might still be together.

















As I write these words, the sun rises and sets,

Days go by uncounted and months as well.

Locked doors and curtained windows

Hide me from the world.

No one dares intrude on my sadness.

Selfishly, I laugh and cry, always alone.

I hope that no one can hear me.

My life is ironic tension, strung upon

The bowed distance between us.

So, don’t you dare get off on some notions

About loving me too much or too little,

That’s never really what mattered.

So what, if you were just playing with me,

Checking out your femininity?

I’m still in shock, can not yet determine

The damage done.  Like an electrical

Short‑circuit, we came together.

Our lines were crossed and fused.

How much skin did you lose, tearing yourself away?

But I forget– You set me up,

Hated me before we even met,

Loved me on the rebound in some

Deluded attempt to trade scar for scar,

To regain a sense of yourself as worthwhile.

What did you expect me to do,

Swell with pompous pride?





















I forced myself to be a reflection,

Tried so hard to make love, make you love.

The me you never allowed yourself to see

Just may be all the things you were looking for.

That’s why I held on, held on to you,

But all you could do was practice for your

Inevitable sorrow.  Inevitable sorrow?  It’s only life!!

Such strange twisting you’d contrive to make today

A different dream of movement and magnificence.

Yes, today is our wonder, today our domain

But it’s still only life and funny at that.

Don’t you remember that you said we all were just pretty


Are you still frightened by peace and do you resort,

Still, to petty hatred to soothe your emotional upheavals,

Perpetuate your solid ideals?  It’s an everything world

And solidity is still but a small, small part of your


You vary the hierarchy to suit you,

Have to be either cute or sorry.

You waste so much time, precious, precious, time

Trying to impress distant men with impossible propositions.

You are a knot‑hole in the wooden wall of love.
























I cringe, shake and shiver to think

That a baby like you had so much to teach me.

Come here, get away, come here, get away,

Was that all you could say?  You always kept

A dual reality, for your protection you said.

I prayed the finer side would be the victor

But was not strong enough to wait for the decision

That loving was simple and love could be soft.

You may never know the torture I felt waiting.

Were you waiting too?  Your blood still stains me

Where I stabbed you on the floor, I guess I was guilty

For letting my feelings go.  I was opiated by love,

Didn’t know what I was doing.

I guess I was guilty for believing your words

Instead of my own eyes.  I caught you too many times

Taking comfort with other men, at least you could have

cleaned up

Afterward.  I ran into darkness to escape from you

But the night was filled with questions

And I still yearn to see you.+


























Long Letter to a Lost Love (part two)


Where is this all going?

I love you but what am I supposed to do?

I want your friendship but crave, yes crave, your love.

I wish to see you, yet grimace at your spoiled

Fruit rotting in the sun.

Why don’t you answer my calls?

I know you’re there in that same dreary place,

Waiting for love to call.  I’m calling.

Yes, I wanted some small reprieve

From your spoiled silly ways

But memories sweeten as I roll them over in my head.

The ragged edges smoothen and become polished glossy.

“She’s not a selfish grabber,” they tell me, “just the center

Of your universe and a secure little fetus.”  I stabbed at

The future to see myself reborn but you couldn’t

Bring yourself to have my baby,

Were frightened that you’d think it ugly,

Born from a shameful love.


My new lady waits for morning light

To look at me and love,

Says, “Enough you and me.”  I think

But dare not end it.

I will not subside.

We must fight to be free.

We must be free, we must be‑‑

We‑‑ I must be somewhat happy

In a lonely place while the new

Holds me tightly and has no shame.

You winked too much, not at me

And cried when you were lonely

And when I’d touch you sometimes

You’d smile in your strange way.












All night long you wouldn’t come home‑‑

Such a mess but we got used to it.

Away from the bustle of the crowd,

In the never‑land of always,

You did your best to tire me with emotion,

Drain my love.  If it was left to me,

Maybe I’d decide to stay but

Mania society, brain rot, skipping record, scratch,

Claw, pussy, willowing, tough meat, do put

Discord in the songs we sing.   We sit

Straight but stagnate and our edges get

Mushy when we think about how

Popular opinion makes us something else.

I made you a queen, don’t you understand?

I was a tripper but for you I was a man

And you worry about being used?

Use, use, use, that awful word use pops up

And we all misconstrue its meaning.


If all words fail me from this time forward

And their meaning be never known,

Tell me, whose fault would it be:

Whose if not my own?

If all the sleepy metaphors

Fail in their fight for life

The blame’s the same…

So your love is wasted.

You cry and laugh but my soul is spent,

Hidden.  Guilt is on my shoulders because

It wouldn’t be if not for you.

Love is gentle but when other measures lead me astray

My life still revolves around you.

Be silent, my love.  Listen.  Your heart beats

Its rhythm into my soul.  Does my pounding reach your

Ears, across the many miles?  When my head hits the wall,

Do you hear the thump?  Little girl grow up fast,

To live a life of alabaster and onyx‑‑ I’m no jacks

Of diamonds and don’t know the pose of the Jack of Hearts

But I am a card. Go ahead and play me.

Eventually, you will give more in taking than ever

In mistaking me for a selfless man, an altruist, a lover,

True, a self‑sacrifice or a lonely boy.






Somehow, I feel there’s nothing more to say

And if there was, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

It’s just pretty words that fit well sometimes.

Why work?  Why try?  Why why?  We’re all going to die.

I don’t even care about me.  Why should I care about you?

Is that something like what you said to me?

You have at your disposal a few good years.

Use them well, don’t waste them on me.

I have no soul, my funk is lacking,

My lady is too, was stolen before I met her,

Dying inside me and mine.

Inside you was warmth.  I thought it was love

Am lonely now and miss you.

You were so young for love and compromise;

Me control growth?  Cover my eyes?  I tried to think I tried.

I wish this was all a joke,

That we would crumble in laughter.


Alone, I remain on a drifting dream,

Thought love would come true, be true.  Torn moments,

Shredded hours and I try to remember a dream

Of happiness.  Don’t be afraid, my love,

But don’t trust me naively.

I love you, of course, it’s my love, though.

You bend some more to give me hope

And I hope it’s really love, am lonely and miss you.

I’m on the brink but the abyss is not empty space.

I throw myself into the fullness of my self.

I dig at the snow for the frozen ground underneath

But all that comes is memories.

I thought no one could hurt me, that love would diminish

My pain.  Your joy taught me ecstasy, your sadness

Was sapped in my cause and there was sometimes a quiet

Bliss in your eyes and when it rains I remember

And when the sun shines I try to forget…but don’t.











What great metaphors could I contrive

For the pleasure of embarrassment,

The embarrassment of pleasure in Central Park,

The first hint of fire in your eyes,

The long nights together and your gaze

In the morning when I’d open my eyes,

That blue and green petick dress

You made one summer and nothing else on,

Your arm wrapped in mine on ice,

The stranger quivering in your belly,

The times you cooed and oohed,

Our bodies and souls wrapped and tangled,

After that first night of terror, the morning

For love after mourning for love, the tension

Gone from our eyes and your face,

Just inches away from mine, so young and loving.

You caressed him with your voice and made

Me guilty for feeling jealous.

I’d fight the nausea at things you’ve done

But would gag at the stranger on your breath.

I look at faces now, compare them to yours,

See your swollen nipples, puffy in the sinlight,

See that sand, still patterned on sticky places,

See you running to town after hiding me away,

Hear your talk about my pretty pockmarked face,

As beauty with scars.  You laughed lovingly

That summer but I preferred that you hate me

With respect.  I miss your feathered touch,

Your deep brown and blue eyes, your disease,

Your youth, the wrinkling of your nose,

Your probings into passion.  Did you really

Think you needed another love, a substitute

Superego to balance yourself with?  You filled

My life with questions, gave me a future and a past,

Made me go back to the dark side and stick my nose

In the cracks of the plaster that molded my being

And your whispers still carry me back a thousand miles.










My parents told me the world was good.

Did we prove them wrong?  If we did

Should and shouldn’t , bad and good

Take on a new air.  We make excuses

For our excuses and try to judge

Everything separately. I could cry

and scream and stamp forever

But if you believe there’s victory

In showing me how cold you can be,

If you find pleasure in thinking it hard

To convince a man you love him

Then be victorious, be pleased.

It is all I ever wished for.

What’s in the mirror but an image

And what is painted glass?

You look into my love to judge me

Or look at the way I walk.

Now that you’ve promised yourself

To me– a friend forever– what else is there?

What needs saying, when emotional slop

Causes grimaces and sly grins?  Sentimentality is not the


But was I born too late to say it?  I love you.
























All right.  So you don’t love me, so I do live a half‑life

Dream.  All right, don’t love me and now I’m supposed

To….do what?  I had the choice, chose to play

Naked warrior on a bed of lost love, fought a losing battle

But why did you teach me love

Only to send me back with fangs dulled,

Much less proud for the lesson, lonelier than ever,

Ashamed for proclaiming former losses?

Empty glasses and, as the time passes, I sit and dream,

I sit and seem to listen, to hear.  What about Lisa?

Where did she go when my troubled mind left her virgin love

Far, far behind for you?  She would have been true

But I was in love.

I no longer ponder the worth of loving you

From afar.  We shared what we knew, guilt and pain,

But the worst is over, the darkness came first.

While you remain remote, I let a new love grow

While I try to be true to you

But if you can’t even hide your hatred from me

You’re already lost.  Don’t you see?

I see warmth in you, witch, warmth inside you.

You wanted power to love and be loved,

Had it but, blinded by intricacy,

Mistook, maybe mistake emotions for other

Emotions, confuse yourself and lose yourself.






















If I might be relieved of this tale, this emotional

Torture and warn others who begin to fall

Under the same sort of spells that made me old,

I might make some good come out of a love like ours.

Love is always hard, a burden of sorts, to make us

Cry and smile and in an easy way slide into ourselves,

In and out of life.

I loved you hardly at all, played with a love so fine

But made love while you took your time.  Torn and tattered,

All that ever mattered was that you be true to you

And learn about love at twenty; time does spread sorrow


So what, if you needed something more, needed to do

All you never did before– that’s right, so what?

Your bones grow dry , your breath grows short,

So play, play it out, while you still can have fun

Even if I’m the only one that will love you forever.

You tried to put me in my place, make me a member

Of a different race and love ceased for you because

Time left its mark– somehow you changed, changed me

And, like one more anchor line to cut, you cut me

And did what you must have done or had to do.

























Lover of old, my old little love,

Put yourself behind me.

I don’t know you anymore.

I’ll open the door and let you

Out of my life and thought.

No I won’t but I ought to, sometimes wish I could.

You kept saying that I hadn’t told you

My secrets.  Maybe I didn’t have enough to tell.

Maybe you were frightened for what I kept

Like my love, for me. It was my love, not yours.

Don’t you see?  You thought you could touch it

To measure its worth, smiled falsely when I smiled

Sometimes, but mutual deception is not happiness

To me. It was love, so bend some more.

Spread the lies thinner, hide my insanity:

Keeps me safe‑‑ you too, of course.

Happiness is just a thought away‑‑

Is it worthless to suffer?

Will those addicted to their shallow sorrows

Look at ours and know depth?  I doubt it.

Until the world is safe for joy

I’ll keep my hope and love alive.  Will you?

You don’t need to martyr yourself.

One Jesus did the job

As well as can be done,

And I imagine he smiled some of the time;

Some of the time.




















Mutual deception is not happiness to me.

No matter how it feels

It punishes quietly

And silence is never deep enough

To hide the whole truth from me or you.

Some bitch has been with someone tonight,

Her eyes smile lies as she

Hides them in the hope that

Someone really loves her.

She smells of many colognes,

Baits love to run to bearded lovers,

Loves facial hair and a worm demeanor.

Singing a muscular overture, she truly is

The Florence Nightingale of sex,

Slaving the tortuous depths of many men’s souls.

She gets screwed– what else can they do?

We perceive what we can,

Spies in the house of love,

Wilder than even we knew.




























I love you.

Believe me– What does it matter if I’m wrong?

Answers can be but yours or mine.

Arguing only passes the time.

Gentle persuasions awaken with me.

A new day shines in the eyes of a stranger

And I remember something about love

Not conquering all the blindness

Of love or not conquering all,

Or the blindness of love.

We’re two different races

And traces of misunderstanding

Put harmony and discord

Into the songs we sing.

We deal in human flesh and our power

Is crafted of flawed substance

So smile with me and hope or die,

Slowly from the inside out.

The last time I said that to you

You smiled in that strange way you really smiled.

We’re all the same.

Dirty and human,

Each other’s comfort

And secret alibi.

Someone said I was the jack of diamonds

Posing as the jack of hearts

But you


That that was at least half wrong.


















Remember the rustling of our skin rubbing?

Then, afterward, you would sneak away?  Sneak away?!?

It’s a black widow race,

Winner take all?

So many men fall,

Give nylons and chocolate;

Sexy and sickly you accept them

And sweet and sticky they play

Until they get entranced, entangled, enmeshed

In your gory, glory game.

You catch them; They catch you; It’s a cyclical dance

The ceremony’s the same

And everyone gets eaten alive.

Go ahead, look away.

Your eyes magnify the evil in me– look away, look away-evil in me

Feathered and painted, you wish yourself free.

“I’m free”, you scream but you’re still stuck,

Just the same, in the molten metal of your mentality.

Burn, baby, sizzle and sputter, go ahead and be free.

It’s the world we imagined and the way it should be.


Dangle, lifeless arms.

This disgusting orgasm

Ate at the defenses

Consumed the fear

That troubled us so.

Mutual deception is not

Happiness to me.

It feels so good

But punishes quietly.


















If I see beauty as intricate

And complex,

A different clone maybe,

A marred mutant,

A cog that slips,

Should I expound

My love for that beauty?

Should I tell you

What you wish to hear,

Some simple phrases,

Some obtuse metaphors?

I am here now.

All the world tried to keep me from coming,

From tasting the witch in you,

Finding the angel too.

Even you did your best

To drain my emotion,

Tire me with love,

Rebuke me with hatred.

I love you but live

This continuing saga

Of pain and pleasure because they are only

One simple way to know

The selves that we are

And love as an inward acceptance of the world.





















Long Letter to a Lost Love (part three)



I know I made a spectacle of it‑‑

Love, a looking glass

Through which people could see me.

You asked, “Is my friendship not enough?”

Not when I was stabbing at the future

To see myself reborn,

See a baby born of love.


These years away from you to destroy

The devilish desires that made life

Alone a living hell,

The outward appearance of strength

And control, tricked my thoughts

Into self‑sufficiency, exorcised

The emotion that tormented me

But my soul hid its inner secrets

From even me, winked at the waning of hope,

The watering down of my emotional intoxication

And this is its eulogy,

The death cry of sentimentalism, sentimentality

Because painted pigs mean nothing to me

Their trim bodies and pork‑chop loins

Can not distract me.


I sever the connection‑‑

Do you feel its last throes of life

Across the many miles between us?

Alabaster and onyx,

You feel the man who loves you now,

The one you bend for,

The chocolate man, that false sort of danger,

Who waits in darkness to take his pale stranger.

Aloof and enlightened, you forge a new race,

Caress him with your voice to keep him

Tame– yes, I know your game was played

Like a chess board– manipulated

Was your naked warrior on a checkerboard bed

Of marriage plans, as moves ahead, I cut

The flesh you tasted in a sort of respite

To be relieved of this tail/tale,

This emotion and torture,

The spell of guilty love like fox’s for foul.


Another Good-bye



My wrist, scared of your wishes,

Aches to bleed life away,

Escape the promise of love.

As you twist the hemp tighter,

My wrists tingle, swell and blue.

You smile reassured.

(Bloated beauty’s a secret stash

So you stop the flow, for security)

Certain that I’ll come running back,

You look away as I open the door

And walk into the cold outside.

A shudder of loneliness makes me uncertain;

I wait and wait but, through the window,

I see that a book has hold of your interest.

I scratch the frost for my fingers’ sake,

“Hello, in there.  I’m really leaving.”

In the freezing cold, I wait for an answer,

(I wait for the strength to say good‑bye.)



























Another Good‑Bye II



Why be frank?

Why not be earnest

Or Julio?

I sneer a lot

Like Gollum,

Call you on the phone

Call you sweet and young,

My precioussssssss.


My precioussss darling dimplesssss,

You want me to crawl through Mordor

For you?  Nay!  Back to my darkness.


Not elf, nor goblin,

You won’t believe


But I call you precioussss

So alight my shoulder

And perch, goblin imitation,

Nibble on my ears,

You pixie disguised!  Face

Gollum in the moonlit murk.

Come, woman, be!  Then, be gone.






















PROSE POEM‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ On A Living Cushion (a sort of an elegy to a feeling)


Afterward, it was afterwards, after words had been worn out

and all that was left was later and all now was was

afterwards and that was all, all that was left afterwards,

until afterwards, and even then it always, somehow, was

afterwards, after she left, after I left, after all that was

left left out of my life and breezed away.  So tomorrow is

something less new but when it gets down on paper, somehow,

afterwards seems at least refreshed and therefor removed

again and again for every way I try to relive it or rework it

or revamp it but that’s just a piece of the life I live, less

new but still new, left but holding on right here and nothing

was ever like this and maybe nothing was always like this but

it doesn’t feel like nothing to me so I make it all I have

when it’s really all I have and when there’s more, more today

than ever before and more yesterday than ever before and when

the something that it feels like, the something that keeps

nothing away fills me with hope I get all filled with hope

and it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing to hope for, no

reason to hope, nothing but hope to give me hope, doesn’t

matter that there are so few hopeful smiles, doesn’t matter

that I still find it, hard to find, find inspiration hard to

find, believe it will find me if I hope enough for it and

watch for it with hopeful eyes but they’re not what they used

to be, don’t sparkle the way eyes should when you’re this

friggin’ old and are still alive and so young too and so,

young too.  Yes, death must be the ultimate ager, aging

babies, even aging the live ones and maybe sex is rebirth and

the hard part is the afterbirth unless it’s a nice berth, a

friggin living cushion for babies to live on like perpetual

milk flow, a cushion with plenty of room for company or at

least enough so that when the milk runs dry there’s still

something to cushion the blows from the many memories of


























some small relief















































































I am water running from the mouth‑‑

I am a brain run dry‑‑

I am fire, biting and cold‑‑

I am wordless phrases‑‑

I am light, fragmented‑‑

I am matter destroyed

And energy in a rock‑‑

I am everything except speechless.






































Tachyphrasia II. (A Saturday Walk through the Sixties)


Proper men in tuxedoes and bow ties

Soaking their feet in the water

Of the fountain as I boogie along

To the musical squeak of my thigh‑

High sandals.  Going downtown,

(Going’s slower uphill) wearing

My electric suit of orange and purple

And green.  It’s hungry out, so women

Of wealth vend grapefruits from rooftops.

There’s a blind man standing on his head

With a German Shepherd lying close at hand,

Grinding an organ.  Teachers rush to class

To learn about life.  Unwed mothers wander

The shadows in fear of their children.

Lovers walk back to back to back to back.

Monocle‑bedecked garbage man waves good‑bye

To lifelong strangers.  Construction workers

In five‑inch heels are tearing up the main street

So they can repair it, pocket‑books at their sides.

Soldiers’ sons running to battle while their fathers

Shudder in fear in Canada.  Doctors living in garbage

Dumps, playing guitar for a living.  Shoppers brushing their

Teeth in the plate‑glass windows while their

Children take advantage.
























Tachyphrasia IX.

When the inerudite visions of tortured glory

And things more damaging by far

Make ten equal 9 and then thirteen

And all form fails


And fine words are pompous

And ideas must be hidden

Within some transluctant image,


When art is moneyed down

And yech(!) expresses more

Than slavish attention to verbal detail,

Then money yech(!) becomes the intent of art

And so many words are used to express it

And images fail to create but feeling

And philosophy is misunderstood

And children harm themselves.


























On ReneJ=s DaDa Ditty


Dada di dit.

Renee di dit do.

Doo yew‑‑

Put all the points

Upon a line and then

Pull the line out?

That’s like killing

Someone by mistake.

That’s like hoping

For a reprieve.

Can’t you figure out

Something else?

Must you raise your hand

Like the player who

Committed a foul?


Dada di‑dit; can‑can along,

Pout for freedom, be

The Be Cause, just because.

It’s a Renee sensibility

To charge the stars

In too‑tight tights,

To ring the bells of the nuclear

Age, like clashing swords,

In a sweeter song of less pale glory

But you could even get a suntan

On a winter’s day.  So melt me

To a telephone pole and I will

Sing no more.  Melt me to a telephone

Pole and I will sing no more.

Dada didn’t do it.

Daddy didn’t do it,

You didn’t do it yet.

Renee tried and died

So melt me… so much

Is so steeped in silliness

That no one cares about Renee’s sense.








Renee’s Dada Ditty After Sweating


Notice?  Notice.  Notice!

Notice how, how, how

I show you, you my

Joy– it.  I think

I, um, um, want

To, to go, oh, oh


I, um, could have, huh, been



Faking my, um, pleasure

For your– for yours.

But, but, I was, huh,

Was, huh, was not.

Why, um, won’t you

Say anything?  Say

Something!  Please

Stop!  Stop.  Stahahp

For a, ah, ah, um

While, while I, hum,

Cool off.

I can’t …keep going.

I, ugh, need a

Breather. I don’t

Like (!)

To run.

Or Jog.

But, hey, don’t leave

Me behind!
















You Are STUV


Hey, hey, mama said the way you move.

Ha ha, baby, bah ba di bo di bee.

Skit scat the cat’s too cool,

Making money but not shebop

It’s a weee, it’s a woah,

It’s away we go.

It’s a confused psycho‑sillyhood

But not yeeha

And not a tear

Except a rehearsed one

And shat they do

Or did or done; they

Are S T U V

Because now is then,

Its something done and, pressed

In vines, magnetized, it’s real

And what is real is real

And shebop diddily do.



















































































Consumption Sickness




































Consumption Sickness


Smell the platter.

Extra gravy soaks

And surrounds red

Meat, dripping juice

Where the fork stabbed.

Are you clean or

Chemical, girl

Or boy, or what?


Hunger tempts my curiosity.

(Odds good against

Sick bulls.)  Heifer,

All day long, plays

A bleating tune,

“I don’t love life.”

I don’t love you

But I eat you.




























Two-Part Interlude



She grit her teeth

And would not smile.

Her eyes mostly closed,

She bore, as always,

Her pain in silence.

Her wrists were bare

And I, nearby, saw

Her contemplate them.

Later, she lay silent

And still; shyly she smiled

Knowing that she

Had achieved her end.



She lied beside me

And we did not touch.

It was too late for tenderness.

Love was a myth forgotten.


The mistake, hidden

In our frozen depths,

Like blindness to

The blind man, came

From hoping that the

Beauty was within us.


I shiver now and still

Know not what coldness is

But if death doesn’t take me

Tonight, tomorrow I might.

















Connections needed

Inward;  Circle’s extending‑‑

Being good– no where.

(Being bad the same.)

Grope outward, too far,

Miss the bus, run faster;

I’m chasing you,

Taking time,

Making time mine,

I live with a half‑smile,

Nursing my ulcerous intentions,

Will have primary effect

Like it or not.


I’ll have fun on the way,

Remain childlike,

Like my likes,

And be deceived

By what does not exist.


Tempts the worst

Of us as well

As the well

Off and on top.

This garbage regrets

Itself.  It will

Consume all of us.


















If Gertrude Can Can I Enjoy Too?



Kids scream like seagulls.

There’s no fun in Heaven so

Enjoy, enjoy.

Take time off the wall;

Enjoy, enjoy.

I enjoy the thorn.

I enjoy the stem.

But roses are the whole

Thing; roses.  Enjoy the

Rose; enjoy, enjoy

Enjoy the rose rose;

Enjoy, enjoy.

The rose rose rose

To enjoy the garden.

Roses rose; rose roses

Rose.  Rows upon rows

Of rose roses rose.

And I still enjoy them.

























Daddy’s Sugar


You’ve been on the auction block before;

The man banged his gavel; you were sold.

Gentle souls, like me, can not afford

To buy or sell the slave monger’s goods.

My very nature makes you worth less

To me than to those greedy buyers

Who trade for pleasure not for love.

Woman, tell me, when you had the choice

To be free or to be tied in silk,

What could possibly have made you think

That life would be sweeter in bondage

And love true between master and slave?

































This Could Go On Forever


Maybe microscopic me

Will be a part

Of the final grief,

Or blown to the heavens

Upon a wail.

There’s no marvelous

Way to make a living‑‑

Life would be free

If there was.

Grandma told me

It was all right

To shovel scat,

Taught me how

To love the smell‑‑

Purple curtains, golden fields

Forty feet high, over my head:

Olympic practice

And potato fights,

“This is our field,

Our fortress, our mascot.”

I ran away, my belongings

Tied in a kerchief,

On a stick, over my shoulder,

And lived on sugar beets.

The money from selling

My toys bought beer

For me and all the boys

When we found a village

On the way.

Only five, I reached the bar,

“Bitte, fur alles ein bier.”

The castle was ours

For the day,


So I manned the parapet,

Watched the Rhine,

“No French men in sight,

No Indians– Manitou!

Where are You?!?

I’m an American!


I’m just a little American boy‑

Who was Hitler?



When I was six,

Dad brought home

A television;

That was after Kennedy

Was shot– everyone cried,

“‘e vas zo bretty.”‑‑

But all they’d air

Was old westerns,

Opera, and pictures of

Relatives in the East.

Wolfgang was killed

Trying to rescue his mother.

They called me Hitler

When I got back

From the Fatterland‑‑

They never tasted cheesecake.

I cried when my head

Hit the pavement; Remembered

Purple curtains and wild boar,

Across the auto bahn in a forest

As dark as Baden‑Baden,

Beside the no‑speed‑limit sign.

Mercedes were giants

Compared to three‑wheel eggs

And sewing machine engines.

Easter in Rome.

The ruins were small.

The Coliseum

Blocked the view

Of black, marble statues.

The fountains were pissed in

So I couldn’t swim.

The barbed wire is always filmed

So if someone dies

The world will see.

“We still are free”,

The microphone crackles.

My suit really fits

The fork’s separate styles.








The Gutless and the One-Eyed


The message tunneled around the outer edges

Of his tired old head.  (All part of

And extravagant plan of escape,

The bullet cut it’s bloody way home.)

“The one eye that can see has no choice.”

The man quivered, the Gutless crawled out

Of hiding, the pistol dropped, and one eye

Popped out of it’s socket as sacrifice

To pay for lack of power– And what is left

Lacks any courage to finally find out

Where truth and reality lie.  Gutless and One‑eyed

Lives to carry on an economic metaphor,

Lives together with separate fears

Of cost versus value obtained.


































Shred me, tear me apart,

I love it like shit.

You think you’re fancy

‘Cause you talk so nice

But I’ve been to Paris

Twice and have gambled

With better merchandise.


I speak softly.

Are you relieved?

I scrape and bow,

For now,

And whisper, just whisper,

“When hatred is gentle,

The trickster’s deceived.”


When hatred is gentle,

The trickster is deceived.

























A Moonie


Is a blinded dreamer who listens in his sleep

For prayers in tongues, lives personal experience

Through communal life and tries to see

Moon’s universal light, a reflection of truth

Or gets satisfaction from flowers sold

Or new members to work for Christ.

Is there any reason for him to believe

That the Second Coming has not yet arrived?

He turns to accounts of Biblical beggars,

Is a disciple of shame in the procession

Of progress, lives in houses that were bought

With flowers, pays taxes to the moon

By liquefying his assets, lobstering in Gloucester,

Ignoring his parents, inviting strangers

For philosophy and tea and memorized passages

From an abridged Bible‑”Have you been saved?”

He’ll ask, his eyes will sparkle with love

Well‑taught, must be always a friend to

Any lonely soul; even the woman who cries

While watching a Moon parade for unification,

“That’s how Hitler started.”  She cries with

A thick German accent but, answer prepared,

He does his dedication in duty for love

And at ten o’clock sharp, locks the front door

And no more beds get warm from strange breath‑

“Come back tomorrow.” he yells from the upstairs

Window.  He doesn’t worry what Moon was once,

Just listens to the rules except when he calls

His mother on the phone for a milkshake

Telegram and some underwear without stains.

No long hairs allowed, no drugs, no cigs

So he finds happiness in friendship and love,

Prowls college campuses and back alleys

To make a difference in someone’s life,

To clean up after the anti‑war mess

As ministers of the Holy Word,

To give children attention their parents

Are too involved to even understand they need,

To set the framework for a lovely world

In dismissing argument with rote, written

Answers that are pulled out of context

With Eastern spice and rumors of reincarnation,

Hints that the Devil’s rule may soon be over,

That, a thousand years past, three VI’s took

Hold of an unholy ruler, he gets lost in dreams

Of unification and hopes for so many brothers.

With such a father figure and suckling from

A motherly church, he’s resigned to existence,

So caring, so kind‑he practices smiling,

Lets someone else do the driving or is good

Enough to convert a house or a town

So there will be donations in exchange

For friendship, smiling and salvation.

He used to do drugs but is high on Jesus,

Haunts the highways late into the night

In search of souls to add to his cause

Because money from work done by lost young

Children just might mean respect from

The money‑mongers and wasted souls

So fill the jar for Jesus, for peace, for unity

For anything that you hold dear‑

He talks so smooth with a steady voice that

Invokes trust until, his insides all given,

He is but a shell, cloaked by guiltless good,

Somewhat useless in comparison to what

He could have been.
























Stimulate Me

Open me, silly siphon,

Stimulate me,

Tickle me.

It makes me giggle and smile;

Sometimes I fall in love.

Sometimes I just watch.

Pretty colors bend me,

I taste the air around me‑‑

It tingles with promise.

Tickle me, more, more;

It takes more, always more

To make me happy.  So give me

More.  Satisfy me or I may be broken.

My head falls groundward.

I could scream but I won’t‑‑

Bad publicity.  Incarceration

Twice because of my hormones;

The women regret me when I’m funny.

I need to be loved, need stimulation.

Stallions are rare and should be prized.

Make me a stallion.


























This Is It

This is it.  This pile of shit

Regrets itself.  I leave

To chew long stalks

Of yellowing grass.

People scream insanity

Over the subway noise

And spit on sidewalks

And me; I sit back.

Caring is harmful

And confusion gets drab

After too, too long.





































Give me a drunkard

Any day,

A brother anyway‑‑

Not blinded but

In need of numbness.

Too fast we’ve gone

From good

To both good

And bad.

Kiss me,

Hit me‑‑

What does it matter?



Killed my father

And maybe me too.






























The eppervessent water comes sparkling forth,

Agitates the bowl.

Aaaah!  What a way to spend a moment.

All I do, all I buy, everything me,

Is reflected in the porcelain

And knowledge grows

But knowing?  Who Knows?







































Coming Out the Other End


The whole world

Consumes me;

Still life,

Living artistry.

Multiple connections,

Wire and glass.

I come slipping

Out the ass end

Of youth‑‑

Still confused,

Still life,

Still looking

For truth.































I did it

I did it I did it

I made



That I was something

And you know something?

It was

not worth anything


All it was

Was me

Making them


That I

Was worth





It’s me




That I

Was worth


And the way they are

They think



Worth less

If they think

That I’m worth


They think

That they’re not

The only


Who is


So I keep


To make them think


They’re not

The only one

That is

Worth Something





That they’re

Not something

And you know





That is?






















































































Reflection creates images that shine on, once wordless, pages

And shadows darker than death.





















































































I Was a Splinter


In your ass

I tried to be‑

Don’t like baby sitters















































screaming tears that stay stuck









































that’s not worth anything;

the salivation, the mild discomfort

prod you when things go too smoothly

but what’s the image? an organic pink?

an orange pain?

a single drop of your drool

tells more about you


but words‑the mathematics of imagery

make themselves plain enough

if not inspired if not overdone

they fall from the tongue

like germ warfare and tickle

an image that will not laugh.

what’s not worth anything?


(what do you want, answers? you want to talk about it?)



































Crisis Still







































Frozen Answers, Fluid Questions


What a strange way

To find truth:

To freeze

What we cannot dispute

In terms

Of what we’ve already proven,

False as it may be

Because we may have started

At the wrong place all together

And, even if we really don’t,

We act like we believe

What we’re proving

So that some semblance

Of structure

Is maintained, frozen

Until a whole new system

Can be arranged,

So that we can jump

Into another answer pact

That remakes truth again.

























Crisis Still


In my solitude

There is a beautiful anger,

A calling into the priesthood

Of the hard human heart.

I hear the prayers,

The mumbled mania of realization‑

The meaning of that being,

Making real in the mind‑

The electric heartbeat on the radio,

The sentimental sounds of human indignation,

The reaction to sizzling circuitry,

The mind of the matter

That was once flesh

But is now seen as something else,

Machinery maybe.

These prayers I hear.  They

Are not to me, not from me,

I wouldn’t want them to be

But wish that maybe a word,

Not a hello, good‑bye or howdy do word

But a word like artistic expression,

A making real of the things felt inside,

The untouchable pace of a single word,

The matter of the heart, which is cut and replaced

But still means something more than

Boom‑bah‑boom, more than blubbering cholesterol counts

And strokes of the oar of silly metaphor,

Would send heaven down to touch us, touch me

With easy company.


















You feeling white tonight?

Or just a little bit uptight?

Well, it’s all right.

It’s mostly fictional fright,

Just life choking life;

And you’re a mutant primate,

A tourist on a trip,

A rusty keepsake.

It seems so senseless if all this is chance,

just happenstance

But seeming is a textile womb when

the soul has such divergent passions.

Childhood’s gone but fetus‑me is still

attached umbilically.

Coming down from insanity,

Coming into me,

I ebb and flow.

Where can I go?

Sibling systems fight battles of atoms, ions,

and light.

Trying to understand it all makes me feel so…small.

Captured by the prophets’ dreams,

We sit on top of the world,

Dancing funny dances,

Having strange romances.

Coming into me again,

I have the same problems as other men;

Have so little power to make a  change

And know not what to rearrange.

I’m so profoundly confused.

Playfully, the irony

Deludes objective humanity.

The truth remains hidden.

Coming down from insanity, into the world of men

and me,

Coming down from bliss….

Into this?








Parking Ticket Insurance


The fantasy broker is coming

To melt our icy delight,

To turn our wings to

Sculptures in wax, lain aside

And to replace the sport of things

With impossible imaginings.

It is beyond us how much

Has become rearranged.

Pieces are lost, some are distorted.

The stars are not hazy, yet so very far away.


Filet mignon and coke and smoke could never give enough ‑‑‑‑‑

To the immortal.  Rows upon rows of roses, secret rows of

scarlet fire,

Testify that one’s self is the mystery– If there’s fun in

heaven, enjoy, enjoy!

Enjoy the petal, enjoy the thorn, enjoy, enjoy.  Perfumed

perspiration thrills me

And pounding emotion, almost forgotten, so renews me that

I’m intimidated by the prospect of a different darker truth.

Struggling not to grasp some sorry delusion, I’m consoled by

the belief

That instincts unused are soon forgotten, that hormonal

disruption will fade

And, conversely, wonder if affectation may not be the human


I’m so confused by minimal realizations.  Does metal bend

when freedom calls?

Is life a meager maladjustment for this cement speckled


If humanity made us what we are, why does man disgust


Searing and biting, life’s mostly balls and chains by whose

desire but our own?

We mirror the image in each other’s eyes, are the best and

worst we know how to be,

Seek the most direct path between here and heaven: veiled in


We’re an alphabetical entourage of yet infant numbers,

symbols of greatness.

With no relation to anything at all, we must sit to the side,

Watch the planets move in a dance of vaster glory.  We dig a

fiery grave.


Enough of subterranean spaces.  Not captured by a blockage

in my brain,

Intuition knows that all is not lost.  We can make the world

safe and strong,

Can find harmony in our own little song and continue to

survive unimportance.

On layered blocks upon

Layered blocks, we sit

In representative peace,

A piece; a piece, a peace.

Perfumed perspiration thrills me

But when I watch the planets move

In a dance of vaster glory,

The room gets small and space suddenly changes.

In the silver glow of the desolate city,

Alone in the gloomy, speckled darkness,

Keeping watch over another man’s land,

I recall the last, long year.





























Sold my furniture to get a car,

To get a job, to pay for the car

That got towed away

Because it was parked

On another man’s land.

When I lost the car,

Which was where I stayed,

A guy gave me a deal

(The guy that had the car towed)

Which had me fixing up, taking care of

His country house for a place to stay.

The work broke my spirit and made me so tired

That I fell asleep with a cigarette lit

And the house burned down

So I bought a house

To pay for the house

That I burned down.

In thirty years…

I just don’t know what.

And the notary republic,

And the notary public says

“Such commitment you have, young man,

There must be a paper to fill out here.

We fought for them, we deserve them,

Papers to fill out for every occasion, more

Jobs that way but even I have succumbed to my addictions.

I’ve hoarded them for years.

There has to be a paper to fill out somewhere.

So you want to get something started?

Didn’t daddy tell you it was too late?”

What are you trying to say?

Somehow, my feet stuck

In the rabbit‑joy plot of a farm,

And you wish you could come play in the mud?

I stay stuck.  With no where to go but up,

The make‑up gets polished and new in the morning.

The chard is vaporized, fashion is a change of state.

I’ve been taught

To put up a bold front saying “Of course

I can do it.” and to work out the problems later.

I sit here knowing I am worth nothing.

I’m where no inspiration

Can reach me,



No pain,

No pleasurable thing,

Not little or large,

Human or foreign,

Alien or ethereal.

Nature is shackled and cultured.

Insanity is too much work.

Beauty is…Huh?…Where is beauty?

In the poet’s eyes?


I am alive with tiredness,

Would jostle the germination

If I meddled, like Pifi,

With the plants, so the little stray,

Pifi, and I walk the lawn together

Waiting for the first signs of desired growth,

Waiting for summer’s verdict,

Waiting for a reward to be harvested

And somewhere there’s this guy going out with

A pretty girl and he’s just smiling.

Just one small expression,

Just any old expression

For me to show myself,

Just one memory captured,

One moment, one lifetime,

Is it for this or humanity I slave,

Waiting for the crops to grow?

The seeds are in,

The rabbit joy and nitrogen set down,

Defoliant on surrounding honeysuckle,

Honeysuckle squeezing the plot.

It smells and spells death

And the weeds are not pulled.

I bolster my sequestered resolve.

Is it possible to “invoke” God?

Isn’t He everywhere, always?

Heat without sunlight, the gas burns low.

Eating lamb is macho.

I’ve run out of poetry.

The brown innards of the rabbit that

I cook for dogs too lazy to eat them raw,

The pissed‑on innards of a house

I was supposed to protect and nothing else,

No furniture anymore, no warm grandma smells,

Surround me

Because I don’t believe in Schismism.


The fog is a mountain

I’m tunneling through.

A tow truck watches the streets,

Prowling the night like some strange


A rock show of lights from a passing

Ambulance‑‑ That could be me.

I ride.

I ride running

From the channel changing, that certain airwave flavor,

From the endless work, from the big down beat.

Surrounded by fog,

I’m not alone somehow.

The fog excites me.

Can’t find the city lights

Through the blackness.

Late‑night police escort

A house on a truck.

Still no city lights

Anywhere to be seen.

Maybe there’s a blackout.

No!   There they are, just a little late.

Can radar see me now?

I slow down to sixty‑five.






















(later still)

Falling off the fast lane,

I was forced to slow down and take my time.

I was told to look normal and fit into the line,

The waiting line, the waiting line, the waiting line,

So I did for a while, for a while longer

And then they said,

“Hey, you weren’t supposed to wait.

We just wanted to see you do what you were told.

And you did, my dear boy, and we now are men,

And now we are men.

I walk back and forth, pacing miles across the house,

Like I’m walking across the continent

Or around the world a couple of times, all kinds of

Things can happen and the only new thing

Is greatness remade. We don’t have endless myriads anymore!

There’s no time to wallow in emotion, so I get the condensed

Edition of the world by walking the carpet,

Walking on a foundation of lies.

What wake will follow me when I can’t move particles,

What planets will be swept away under pressure from my


Help me, Mother Earth.

I call on your powers to secure the goodness

But only hear these incandescent platitudes.

Man will do anything for manifestation,

And metal bends with interaction.

In a house full of gambling things,

We’re the Spartans of the modern world

And the Athenians too and we don’t

Even have to be what we look like.

We find ourselves in a watery world,

We learn to swim and realize we’re alive,

So what if it’s an uphill struggle downhill.













I promise

That I will never

Give you a poem

About how much your love means to me.

I won’t even touch the subject anymore

If you’ll do one little thing.

Cut and squeeze some blood

And with this kerchief

Tie our wounds and be my childhood dream

Of tying an Indian to me.

They were wrong when they frowned at you,

Indicating their displeasure

At your cholesterol count.

Your bakery‑good body

Helped me see beauty like none other

And then I could see no other.
































Me be

A man.

I mean,

I’m a sensitive man.

I’m a sensual man.

I’m a caring man


Let me be

A man.

I mean,

Let me be my fantasy.

I mean,

Will you finally hate me?

I mean,


I try

To make you yours

Will you really hate me?

I know the beautiful curves

Of the bosom,

The shape of the feminine


Isn’t that justification?

What do you want from me?

“You”  you say, “Just you”

What treachery to mean so much

With so few little words.

So, now you sit with me.

We swill our imbibement

And say silly things about

What it is to feel alive.


















Crisis Still (A Message to Michael)



I haven’t felt a good thing in too long a time‑‑

Been hiding from most of my life.  Baby‑me just couldn’t develop

A suitable taste for disgust.   I opened my eyes to a spank on the butt,

Have been fighting pain with diminishing wonder ever since then.

The terrible smells: the Brussels sprouts, the creamed onions and peppers,

The sex, the lakes I watched turning to sludge, the New Jersey air

At night when no one was supposed to notice, all these things and more

Forced me to search for filters, sensitive me, like tobacco and brain death,

Perfumed love on those teenage afternoons, and evenings of mathematics.

I lost a hundred lovers, maybe more, loved and lost

A wife, had more jobs and chances than one man deserves, but,

Morbid menace to my sanity, I knew they all were the dirty way down.

I tore my flesh, broke my heart, suffered to pay for my delight

At the prospect of heaven, somewhere out there, waiting for me.


































So, what prelude is this?  Yes, we both sought the most direct path

Between here and heaven, wished to learn as much as we could on the way.

We are apart at our own discretion, so volatile were our lives together,

But was it really wrong to live so free in the presence of evil?

I feel the cancer eating away, smell something like dead dog

Wafting in on the summer air, look out my window to watch

My pets lying in the shell dust road, waiting as they wait

For the occasional car, with nothing to do but become a shaded memory.

It’s not quite the same for me, not while there’s still one righteous man

Or one who tries to be.  I’m torn between answers.

Conquer fear with fear?  I clasp my hands.  What can I do?

What prelude is this?  What offspring’s offered?  Is destruction or relief

Foreshadowed?  A planned worse, by comparison, or the best way things can


With suicide smoldering undrenched within me, I still am ferocious and free.





























Was I lucky to be a storybook child?  Musty, humid, closed‑in

Living and burglar bars on every window make me wonder.

Is all human dignity finally lost?  With California wine

To pass the time, I dream of green‑eyed, black‑haired lady lovers

Who, still undaunted by their own beauty, refuse to treat me like a cur.

I growl at the filet mignon and drink myself silly, no past silly.

I know the resignation that comes from chains too strong

But Macdonald doesn’t rule my world.  Metal wobbles when freedom

Calls but it does not bend by my strength alone– there’s the

Crux.  I’m still alone.  Regretful hindsight is a deceptive delusion,

So I look ahead.  What prelude is this?  If there is still a chance

For change, if immutability has not clamped shut the iron vices

Of certainty, if we’re still human, we defy definition.  No one knows

What makes us go.  There still is mystery and in misunderstanding there’s

































Struggling to not grasp this situation, I am intimidated

By the prospect of a different truth as my hormonal disruption fades.

I was a ravenous stranger, rolling strangers, made fast female friends

The objects of my desire, forced them to be alien and detached entities.

In an alphabetical entourage of infant members, I took my place

So that girls becoming women could falsely determine what evil lurks

In the mythical minds of the mythical men that we so desperately tried

To be.  They wave their mythology at me now and try to drown me

In an ocean of false form and structure– And I’m the one they blame

When things like love turn dank and dark and dreams begin to fail them.

The shades are shut so it’s safe to smile.  I smile at my discretions.

What, after all, is purity of the masses but a blindness of the few; a brain

Blockage, a brain blockade to keep the ocean safe?  I believed

In man’s good nature.  I still do.  What about you?

































Lindsey died because she knew the truth about you and I.

We killed her long before the needle kissed her;

She had no choice but to exist or not.  Pulse‑first she ran

To death and, ravenous for delusion, we’re pacified by her hunger.

But we may indeed be the new dying breed.  We see the signs of our faltering

Importance.  The past is gone. The destroyer, the darkness, the iniquity


We lived man’s history in scraps of books and pieces of poetry

And it’s a new world already.  In this paranoia city you gotta

Get a gun or get dead.  With blade in boot, I practice martial art.

Chances are that very soon the gears won’t turn, metal will corrode,

And knives, well‑honed, will stick into the burly beast that feeds on fear.

We carry tears of sulfuric acid beside the front seat of our Cadilacs,

Cry when someone tries to hurt us.  Honor’s some sort of secret affair

To you, silly hero, so you sigh, “It was an affair to remember.”
































But my intuition knows your deeper secrets.  I listen to your changing

Rhythms.  As you shut your mouth most of the time, you go quietly

Insane– “What was she lacking, so close to my side?”  Computers

Keep us classified.  So I flash a defiant gesture skyward and speak

In a subdued fashion.  A free floating fish is swept ashore

And we, a part of that same burly beast, consume and reinvent her.

With our half‑closed eyes and apathy we remember– she was brave and free.

Her breathless test was our proof, her rotting bones our legacy.

So we scratch at the air and nothing else, smile half‑smiles,

Live on the edge of the grey matter, and become less benevolent

With age but believe otherwise.  Our idols left us masterless and we

Consume their memories with fever‑fervor; Our taste-buds teach us disgust.

As rekindled love carries us along, we spread the nausea thinner,

Find solace in a terrible world of short‑circuit sickness and dreams.








































A Harvard man flew a Phantom over a jungle playground, dropping bombs

On peasants for super‑sonic fun: He creates demons to amuse himself,

Collects trinkets to buy his way out of the monster’s path.  Old women

Burned like embers in the night– so what if the world didn’t feel the fire.

It’s all just a meager maladjustment in this cement‑speckled wilderness.

Dawn has almost covered this land of cultured greenery, but

An opiated enemy a tropical night died in a charging pile, a rehearsal

For instant replay.  I was drinking screwdrivers then.  Now I’m a martini


What did you do tonight?  Give away your love?  The lusty advances of

Foul‑smelling souls, acting out obscenity over the subway noise, drove me

From civilized madness, from trying to capture company, from this land

of concrete and cultured green, to the silence of my country home,

To fake and flounder, fool around and flop about, steal away

With my sweeter memories and find some pretty words.





























Lindsey died along the way.  She forgot it’s all in how you play.

It was a wicked dose that killed her; the rat that got the rat that got

The rat.  You play the odds.  You win, you lose– So how could I care?

I really don’t know.  In with a slap on the butt and out with a boot in the


I have no knack for apathy or closed‑eyed sneers.  I know that regretful


Is but a deceptive delusion to make the sunrise magnificent and red

But the Phantom man teaches silence now.  A new game keeps him thrilled.

What, I wonder, could be more secret and sacred than murder for fun?

What did he hear above the engine’s hum?  A dog howling from chains too


In this crazy world of master and slave I forget what art is, am crisp

And crusty in the mirror.  But still I can’t get over the madness. I’m


Here, still in the mirror, with nothing but accounts to recall, in the dying

Embers of the night,  I still don’t know what to do.  Do you?  We’re grown,

At least by all legal reckoning, but I can’t bring myself to do what I must.






























What was it that transpired when we were young?  What was going on?

Was Lindsey right to die so soon?  Is the Phantom man,

In his high position of power, more correct because of being there?

Are we just dogs chained to the same sad foundation, allowed,

Sometimes, to lay in the middle of the road waiting for a car to crush us?

Was the spattering blood of televised martyrdom worth

A thirty second spot?  Were the outlandish styles of our youth

So timely and persuasive that even we got lost in them?

The perforated edges of our saran‑wrapped lives give great meaning

To no one but me, and hope and intimations of true love so I

Can toy with what could be clarity if I wished for a further deception,

An easier way to justify my journey toward an ending.

What prelude is this? I’m still alive here but fear we’re dying

At different speeds, Michael; I can’t imagine a world without you.






























Gah‑tah back up

Pu cab hut‑hug

Gotta back up

Pu cab hut‑hug

Gotta back up

Farther, farther, farther, farther

Rruth‑raf, ruth‑raf, ruth‑raf, ruth‑raf

Pu cab hut tug

Gotta back up farther

Than the bomb

Mob uhth nath

Ruth‑raf pu cab hut tug

Gotta back up farther than the bomb

To remember that courage

Juh‑a‑rook tath rrrb mem ear oot

Mob uhth nath ruth‑raf pu cab hut‑tug

Gotta back up farther than the bomb

To remember that courage

Juh‑a‑rook tath rrrb mem ear oot

Mob uhth nath ruth‑raf pu cab hut tug

Gotta back up farther than the bomb

To remember that courage

Was always a blast of fear

Reef fa tsahlb huh sayw law zowuh

Juh‑a‑rook tath rrrb mem ear oot

Mob uhth nath ruth aaaahf pu cab hut tug

Gotta back up farther than the bomb

To remember that courage

Was always a blast of fear

To overcome.





















Dream Song

My purpose still hidden,

I watch the coming apocalypse in awe.

Insanity tempts me but

Hallucinations rot with age.

A prisoner of my search,

I want a chance at Heaven

But grow weary waiting

For the pain to end.


My whorish heart knows

That forever is lost

But I can not believe the jargon

Of these times which denies me

My humanity.


Are we not all living

Artistry in wrinkles and scars?

The brain‑washed believers make me

Unsure.  Foul‑smelling souls

Rape my innocence but a pixie queen,

Some madrigal mother, sings

A soothing song to me,

“Hold on sweet child,

The end is near.”
















Killers Come Quietly


Strange noises surround me.

I pace back and forth,

Learn every shadow,

Duck behind the bed

To jot down a line;

Maybe just for you.

Rape the house, will you?

And fill it with your ammonia

Smells.  I’ve got a gun now,

A pump shotgun with no plug.

I pace back and forth

The whole length of the house,

Learn every shadow.

The pantry light flickers

Off and on in tactile warning‑‑

Better get down some last words.

All this empty space where once

There was a sort of wealth;

It was not mine but my lady’s.

She sleeps soundly, feeling safe.

Check for the car (her Daddy’s car)

Still sitting, brave, outside

Where the one that got stolen

Friday– right out of my hands!‑‑

Used to sit.  More strange noises

And now all the dogs are barking.




















I think I’ve found

The safest place to write.

Silence outside, silence.

My pant legs squeak too loudly,

My heartbeat pops up

In various places on my anatomy‑‑

Gotta watch that window‑‑

Still too much silence.

You killed three of the dogs

Over the last long week.

(The three brave ones)

Hope the rest are all right out there.

Noise outside the front door,

The thin veneer between in and out.

Silence until the water drips tritely.

You have the keys,

On the same chain as the car keys,

But broke in anyway, you bloody vandals.

Misshapen landscape through shattered glass;

Wish I had some way to fix it.

Mosquitoes buzzing in and out,

Encephalitic something or others.

(I’m too frightened to be metaphoric)

Watch the window.  Listen

For the tumbling at either door.

More sounds outside but

No dog sounds– something big

Moving out there.– How many are you?‑‑

And miles of boonie brush between

Here and the nearest phone.

A helicopter arms the airwaves.

Come on, spotlight, shine down here!



















what is poetry,

the brown innards of the rabbits that

i cook for dogs too lazy to eat them raw,

the pissed upon innards of a house

i was supposed to protect and nothing else,

no furniture anymore, no warm grandma smells,

the years of loss?



































Boomtown Boomerang


A bad taste in the proud mouth of progress,

This flatland flourishes with gumbo soil

Okra in summer and reports of oil.  The spikes

From eye to eye, “You oil patch trash,

Or just white?”  I’m just here for wild western

Times, I live on the edge of this nightmare,

And watch the progressive haunting of a town.

The cops are going crazy with border boredom.

The wages of economic war go down.  The ten dollar

Hour is Mexican sausage time, Pico de Gaillo,

Giddy‑up, get out.  There’s always the rodeo

And a gulf full of fish…and shrimp.  The lines

Get shorter, the showroom’s filled,

The money is maybe.


Boom‑tacked, the wind made salesmen duck,

Swinging the other way.  In the ruins

Of frantic growth we settle down or continue

On a transient travesty of trickle‑down theories.

“My daddy’s in Crisco.  Let’s get slippery.”

The city lights twinkle brighter than humans.

Uncle Ben tries to rice us out.  And the farm

And land are less like Faulkner in winter.

“Maybe we’ll see you in Denver.”  But we know

Better.  Like street cleaners after the carnival,

We watched the clowns take off their noses

And wave as they pulled away.

I spit out the brown haze of breathing

And return to the edge of the night life.


















Cheek against the marble, my lungs wheeze for life.

The air’s almost gone.  The long night watches,

Electric fingers probe the residue;

Vibrations to shake the world.

Turn it up, amplify the white noise,

Jam the grey‑beard.  Life tries to escape me.  Can’t you feel

The children crying?

Leave innocence alone!

Sub‑sonic super glue, a spiral staircase: My cheeks feel the


Between cold white and black.  The checkerboard marble remains

Alone where a fine house stood,

A fine house that fell when the earth shook, leaving me on

the border

Between earth, air and water.  I feel the frozen rock,

Conjure images out of the past.  The whole night long, I

pluck my cranium

But whorish time will rot me with age.  Mama Sue Planet


A trembling reflector,  reflected IN THE RIFT OF DAY AND NIGHT

they tore the softer tissue
























YOUR FERVOR DELIGHTS ME  life tries(its best)to escape me.






















































depleted of imagery

i am a cockroach

i am a monster

i am a smoking machine

but am i my brother’s keeper?

(don’t have a brother anyway)

if i can be anything i want then what’s the point?

love is funny when sex is involved and childish when it isn’t?

oh! that bigger human love is fine if you don’t express

it in such a way as to make it less, if you don’t express it plainly































there are no conscriptions, no ways to be sane.

if you choose to do it right you wrong yourself

imprison a vital life force, tune it to servitude

so that you might be leader, you learn the law,

try to find justice, and all the while become tainted with compromise

(justice) becomes more rare than love

looked for and justice gets generalized and law

is a block of experience but not a building block.


if you chose to do it right and heal the humble

you spend years watching beauty turn to age,

watch bodies getting weaker, watch death and pain

and pain is symptomatic and bodies are generalized

and what can you do,(?) talk, ease the pain, cure

the infection by killing the antibody with the bug,

research the cause, cut out the bad, juggle medicine;

you get paid for unwanted knowledge of human indignity.


if you choose to do it right, and police the bad guys

you see people making out above the law, you see the scoffing,

you hear the complaints, the taunting kills you,

the bullets are insults and insults invite your death license to be extended

a little to include the bad mouthed mugger who will not sit down.  and you

can stand if you want to get catlike when mousy men are clamoring chained

you joke

about how stupid they are to be in your clutches.


And if you choose to do it wrong you still have to do it right

















One Breath of Hot Air

(meant to be read aloud in one breath)














































One Breath of Hot Air I.


Indifference slowly melts

Floods of teardrops flow


Salty sons of rude reality

On crowded streets the women strut


And sometimes stop curbside

To waste and wither


Sidewalk sights of

Hands and faces


Fingers and cheeks

Wiggling and waddling


By and by more

Of them by and by


Hands and faces

Fingers and cheeks


Waddling by

And good‑bye

























One Breath of Hot Air II.


Grasping Mothers Cry Out


Make them busy


In this prison

In this prison




The windows

Are not metal


Extend them


The overseer

Is hidden


Introvert them


And the captives

Are oblivious


But keep them


To their sad





In this glass shell

Keep them at any cost.


Content…at any cost.









One Breath of Hot Air III.


As I understand it,

A match is a match

And a rose is a rose

But they could be anything

If they would just decompose.


If death be the feature

And death be the father

And death be the friendly foe,

Then what will I do

When my life is all through

With no place to go?


Will I ride on the breeze?

Will I finally be free?

Or will I really be

Eaten by the worms

Eaten by the worms

Eaten by the worms.  If

Time’s a dimension

We’re almost


Eaten by the worms

Almost everywhere,

Eaten by the worms

Almost everywhere

Eaten by the worms, (etc.) etc.


















One Breath of Hot Air IV.




Fascination (consideration)

Temptation, reservation

Deodorization (preparation)

Reclination, stimulation,

Extrication, elongation,

Lubrication, violation

Fornication (degradation)

Vibration, gyration, syncopation,

Duration prolongation,

Liberation, elation, jubilation,

Termination, germination,

Impregnation, inflation,

Donation, creation,

Population, relation,

Continuation, no relation,












































I added this page because I wanted the book to have 222 pages.