all of a sudden passion suddenly

holy mother look what they have been doing here
take five minutes to push my impression to the left to let the
extression expression out again


pore clarifing days sweat dried
towelette


gives
me
nothing

maybe this purple dragon crystal ball
will tell me where to go with these fingers
grawling and snarliing the secrets of it's


giver the schizophreinic brother in law with wool sweaters in july
subliminal itch
sweat

crystal shows nothing

perhaps I should clarify my pores
fase skin smooth
as a mannequin

k-days and car shows

There's a momentary madness
in the heat of summer midday
midways
and parking lots closed
to display Johnny's lovingly restored
'67 corvette.
I don't think they had that shade
of metal-flake blue
but it matches his eyes,
sky
stains all over
graceful curves.
Makes me wanna speed.

Rewind.
Stop.
Play.
"Tell me a story,"
She says.
Her voice is sultry
little-girl unapologetic

"I don't know any stories,
anymore."
I sound like rough sex
bad attitude
silk sheets

"Just tell me something pretty,"
She just wants me to talk.
I remember this.
We are staring
out the windows at streetlights
on the ride home
She wants to hear a
heroin fairy-tale
and we are both very
drunk.

"Ok, lady. Ok...
Sometimes...

Sometimes I think it's not the heat
it's the humanity
Sometimes I think
That we only sweat
because we can't bleed in public.
It's not that it's hot,
you know?
It's that we're only human,
'n evey time we go to
that fucking place...

Virginia, I don't feel like doing this, right now."

"No, honey, you can make it pretty.
Don't stop."

"Ok, lady. Ok...
Sometimes...

Sometimes I feel like..
Like my chest is going to cave in,
and my heart will explode
out into the night,
ripping out my back
because my ribs have turned
inside out and it'll fly away,
you know? Way up in the sky
and little drops of blood will fall
on everyone
like rain
and I'll feel the wind
in every cockle."

"Cockle?"
She sounds like
opera
when she laughs,
her head tilts back.

"Fuck you, it's my story."

"Ok."

"And I'll rain on..."

I wind down. Did I look at her?
I think so.

"Virginia, I really don't..."

"Give.
Me.
Something.
Pretty."
I can see the
I-want lines in her forehead
a memory of a memory

"Ok, lady. Ok...
Sometimes...

Sometime I want a nice little house.
A little house I can paint black,
With a swing out in front
and a garden in back.
I'd decorate it with skulls and crossbones and..

and..."

"And what?"
Intent.

"And I'd plant little pink flowers out in front,
in chrome tubs with
'Fuck you.' painted on the side in bright
red letters.
The walls inside would all be white
and I'd get
maroon paint to flick on them,
so it'd look like a murder
and you'd draw on the ceilings,
little angels with broken wings
and ripped up jeans
and breakfast would be at nine-sharp,
every morning -
you could wear that
pink fucking retro
apron with the white border,
you know, the heart-shaped one
and big black shoes
A-line dresses with
high zippers in the back,
the ones I always help you with,
and you hold up your hair
like a pin-up
and you can use
that long stemmed cigarette holder.

I'd get us the ugliest couch in the world
so we could seal it in plastic and paint little
stick figures on it.

All the floors could be black and white tiles
and we could use headless dolls for
chess pieces.
I'll use dressed up Ken
and you can have
Panty-whore
bondage barbie

We'll only come out at night
and we'll only play metal all day,
but when it's dark we'll fuck with the
neighbors,
I'll play Mozart and you'll play
Vivaldi,
all at the same time
as loud as we can stand.

We'll go to neighborhood watch meetings
In formal wear,
I'll get a tux with a red jacket
and a deadly looking
bow tie
and you can wear that
little black number
that makes all the girls
jealous,
Long gloves -
The Breakfast At Tiffany's getup,
remember,
Like when we went to the
midnight movie?'

"Uh-huh,"
I can hear the smile
Don't remember looking.

"And you'll always wear pearls
and I'll always wear silver
bracelets and black sport-coats
and the neighbors'll never know
that I work at a concert hall
slash
bowling alley.
And you'll dress up in
nineteen fifty
elegance
and the neighbors'll never know
you sling pizza
with a red apron on,
delivering drinks with a
tired smile...

Ok?"

"Ok, honey,

Ok."

I can hear her window roll down,
the sound of wind.
She picks up the recorder
and there is
a click.

Stop.
Rewind.
Stop.
Play.

hauntingly quiet here
boys snore like
hibernated bears
no cars in two hours
cigarette sizzles and my
desk burns
as nightshifts
linger
in blood pressure
swings
and the half moon
heads west
in a memory wagon,

trapsing
on trails
that lead to
the bluest
sea.

terrible twos

You, young parents, I envy you
children in youth, still you wait
patiently for your son, or daughter
to outgrow that stomp and scream
pitchi-fit tantrum fit for a miniature
abusive king or queen, it's only their
lack of skills, to communicate with you
that fuels their frustrtion, but it works

it's wat into teenaged angst, acceptable
expectable, and if you give them your time
and love they grow out and up and older
andthen you th elucky parent, are left to accept

that tim ein yoru life when the terrible of the twos
is one year left, and you oldest is 22, ready to move out
and on and beyond this barely accaptable, but comfy nest
that you have furnished with flowers and feathers
and immeasurebale tears disguised as love

and terrible is your youngest, two years left
to graduate, no time left for mama, you've done your job
and terrible is the two of the, married for too, too man y years, too long
and terrible is no more bedtime kisses until,
if youre lucky, a grandchild comes alongthen the terrible is too much time, too little energy and too far to drive
to see your family, if they're still alive
and two plus two times moved away
still equals lonely and wishing you were here
and two again

I wanted to read to you, Little Women
and watch clockwork orange
without being confused
I wanted to hold your hand when you cried
after your first love broke up with you
I had two chances, but i didnt know
that two is almost immeasurable,
was a fleeting number- two secinds, two minutes
( to catch my breath) two shakes of a lambstail
two feet on the ground, two girls lovenow all grown up

our family was four, but its almost two again
and I can only stand on the sidelines
of parenthood and watch you with wonder

Your two faces
have not faded but rather
are carved like cameos,
lockets lain against my soul,
voices whispering
Mommy, Mommy.

My arms cannot stretch
far enough. My tears
cannot float me back
to you. This distance
swirls between us
like a river, always moving
to a destination never reached.

Time is a river,
and one hand over the other
again, again.
This is how days pass
over my head, swimming
above water, swimming
to live, swimming
past hoelessness
to your two faces
which are my face,
my body, surviving
on a distant shore.

Not broken by words.
Not broken by hate.
Unbowed no more to slings
of cruel malfeasance.
Unstooped no more to the sick shine
of your goosestep threats.
Unyielding in the sticky web
of your confusion.

O prating victim,
lost child crying
into a full plate,
ask yourself
Why? Why? Why?

Read your own words.
Eat your own grief,
choking on contempt,
then look in the mirror
and ask yourself
Why? Why? Why?

Every day. Stronger.
Flown past fear. Alive.

The lowest moment
still carries seeds of freedom,
and freedom is escape
from what you call
love.

you
human puppet
blanket wrapped treasure
almost not breathing
slowed down to yoga
but eyes open
following
me

me
moving circular
homing in on that
glitter in your gaze
open honest face
hand on a naked arm
wriggles free
beckons a finger
come hither baby
to the empty mattress
next to
you

you
drive me crazy
stop that stirring up
the place, you say
and lift your face
to inevitably pull me
home into your tranquil
Sunday morning bubble
by serene warm will alone
let me stare into those eyes
one demon at the time
you rescue
me

Just One

How I often I’ve won
a wistful smile
Or been sought out for advice
Counseled a friend
I longed to kiss
Been thanked and told
I’m nice
Or sensitive
or wise
or gentle
or kind
only to find
when all’s said and done
I’m left behind
the lonely one.

Sometimes I think
the only one
who didn’t want
to hit and hurt
to take and leave
deceive
deprive
sad souls
of joyous lives

but then I stop and cry
weep bitter tears
knowing I am all
and none
just one
like all the rest

Unable to sleep
I listen to my heart echo
tangled in your memory
I succumb to sleep
anxiously awaiting the promise
of another deliciously dark tomorrow.

Carpe Noctum...

If wishes were fishes
they'd swim away,
recede to depths of hope
like wishes do

every day,

whole schools of them
unlearned, but yearning
for the dreams that might
come true, propelled
through sea or sky
the blue, the fertile green,
or earthy brown of eye,
unfurled against the tides
of life and time.

There is no reason here,
where even rhyme swims
blindly at the head or tail
of words. Not even poetry
can make your wishes heard,
and stars are distant.

Night is cold.

Someday
when you are old and gray,
sit by the fire, take down a book,
and wake to ashes, hail
the crowd of stars, but look

to life.

Even in pain or sorrow
living will prove tangible
when wishes swallowed
whole by bigger wishes,
splash through your finny fingers,
toss and swim away.

A Plutonic Relationship

a plutonic relationship


what is it about you?
I feel the need to orbit
spin my axis around your sphere
but you can’t hear the ever-slowing tick tock
of my internal, atomic clock
and a day is a few hundred years, out here

excess gravity keeps me grounded
a distant witness to incalculable pain
incurred by probable Big Bang
at least that’s my theory
and only silence, universal and profound
can ever outweigh
the sorrow inflicted, by our distance

the starveling
leaf eater
byn belly down
under river myst
in shadders
the shape of whyte and fire kicks when
bellows sqweaze togethyr
shaykin the hand of the
rattlyn man
balls of his feyt myndful of the
feyl of the clay.

far offen the sound
lasts like a cerimonial-
good enough to
ecko in the mountyns.

I have failed, though not at being human
tears burn my face as they do yours


I have failed, though not for lack of trying
friendship takes two, not just one on bended knees
begging

I have failed, though not myself, I have failed
to feel you from so far, failed to hold you tight enough
that there would be no doubt

that you are loved



4 SF

One Shot Kill

with meticulous care,
he examines his round
then loads one shell.
firmly seating the bolt.

with a discerning eye
he selects his target,
difficult,
but within his range.

he lays his sights
on the distant range
eyes peer down
long cold steel.

with a deliberate motion
he flips from safe to fire.
breath in, breath out,
breath in, hold.

the silence breaks
to a rifle crack.
a single shot,
a single kill.

slowly he rises
from his chosen spot
approaching his target
approaching his kill.

he smiles with pride
at the perfect shot
he shoulders his rifle
and goes to show his dad.

another dead feral tin can.

an indecisive dawn murked the sky haze,
vague lights ran the shore,
shadows ready and eager
to leap forward

idleness hung
in silence,
waiting...
bated

but gloom bent forward
dull striding
grey morning
coming awake

Dear Daddy last night I
watched Saving Private Ryan.
I saw your young man's face,
the fear in trembling fingers,
numb movement forward,
carrying bandages, not a gun.

I can't imagine you crashing
onto Omaha Beach, bobbing
over waves bloody with men
like you, floating, sinking.

Maybe once they knew
how to do the lindy hop.
Maybe once they held
the seeds of daughters
waiting to hear stories,
Damon Runyun read
in a steady goodnight voice
that dipped and nodded,
beckoning sleep.

Do their grandchildren remember them like yours?

A fading face, a dusty purple heart,
and not a word against
the crawling factory years,
days sung to morning clink,
spoon on coffee mug
and then goodbye,
sweetheart, goodbye.

Not a word of friendship
blasted by a single shell,
the scrape of sandy tears,
numb movement forward,
and life beyond 1945
a cakewalk by comparison.

Dreaming.

My mother mourned the death of the novel,
While my father was crazy for days
Stacking bodies in a haze of heat and death.
No one writes poems about how hard
It is to get the stink of your friends
Out of clothes, or mind.
He saw men hung by the neck,
Decorating with chains tall trees that
Never knew Christmas.

Bullets and beer were courting gifts
From suitors too young to know exactly what
Should be done with a girl like Liberty.
Someone mentioned she was a bitch,
Who oughtta get fucked on top of dead bodies.
Dad just wanted to go home and sleep for years,
Forget about organizing organs under a hail
Of gunfire, on the hillside, sweating and wondering,
“Will he live? Will he live?”

What happened to the distance runner my grandma
Talks about with a smile that’s painted on a funeral?
Where, the clean cut boy who held the
State record, if only for two hours and four minutes,
Forty-two-point-oh-five seconds? He came home to a cane
That became a wheelchair, screaming nights,
a brief coke habit that left him brittle and thin.
There ain’t no purple heart for getting your
Soul shot off, or learning to stare at an unseen horizon.

Though “It don’t mean shit” isn’t much of a foundation,
it’s all he had to give me, along with a few
dirty jokes and a taste for Oreos with my beer.
It’s not hard to figure out why he laughs at it,
I guess. Medication makes that sort of thing easier,
Burying memories with chuckles,
Nightmares with trazodone,
Gone, but not forgotten, I hear and wonder if they mean
The soldiers, or the fight. He still won’t watch war movies.

we be poets
scribing seredipity
into the serene dull
dough of dreary

uprooting comforted souls
flipping the coin and flaunting
a life less ordinary

but be we poets
to clench those notions
as our own
or to open hatches
to the hoover dam of
heaven and horrors
and let the flood
out and in
and through

we grab pens
tattoo ink into blank spaces
to give them purpose
to change the world
in great or small measures
unload bile
uncover treasures

we be poets
but do we stand up straight
accept responsibility
for the roads we weave
that we pray
someone will walk
some day
perhaps

or do we step aside
let minds be minds
and divert our eyes
to scratch the next
blob of ink
into another idea?

today I strain
to pen the eulogy
of an era passed by

my ballpoint trembles
while pale apologies
turn tears paper dry

accept to do my part
to take the load
before my feet

as shifted blames
might tilt again
i'll fill this virgin sheet

to confront and surrender
through this blue
ink spell of fear

I don't know where
the buck stops
but for now
the Bic
stops
here

Give me ten minutes of your time, God
give me the strength to care about you
I'd make a better believer, if only because
I don't think you believe in favors
and I'd rather make it on my own, anyway.
Rather believe in a momentary God
in the spaces between atoms and Adam
dancing away and making the reaction
happen, bringing out the life that slinks
about in the middle of an electron cloud
a positive/negative, polar God,
God as AC/DC, god as molecular bond,
God as a sense of order,
Not some asshole on a throne
with the gall to tell me how I would,
should, or could not be, with my own will
And my own goddam choices.
No one hands out a prize like freedom
and then tells you what to do with it.
Do they?

is it safe?

metal clicks teeth
exposed nerve
raw


is it safe?



what else is there to say

it is never safe

"we were never meant to survive"


rinse
spit
pass me a new brush
and a plastic toy
thank you mumbled through numb

send me on my way

I am alreaady there

I am in love with my av

so I will post another passion
full of all of a sudden passion

for my av

she shines
reflecting everything that crosses her view

andy warhol
velvet underground
mirror will be washed

watch yourself in clear view



metallic magnetic timeless

eyes chin point somewhere

do you dare bend low
to see where her gaze falls?


will there be a pin point burn
magnified passion into corner beams
and cold aluminum ductwork


I am in love with my AV

I may even write more just to see her again

what other reason is there to write anyway?

following rules of no delete skip this mother

I do not want to paint my kitchen
I do not want to paint my kitchen
I do not want to paint my fucking kitchen
or write my goddamn speech

I want a math notebook
poems like this look so muich better
scribbled in the margins

I hate E. Coli
I hate drosophila
I hate quadratic equations and
I hate you

oh wait
that was on the boundry of science notebook

but it is all the same

boredom frustration scribbles
I smoke cos I am hoping for an early de4ath
and I need to cling to something
the smiths morrissey


a challenge

college ruled
outside the margin
hidden from view

damn

Do we really need this now?

If not now then when?

Just not now!

So, when?

Sometime.

Soon