There are those times

those nights

when she sleeps beside him 

she traces things

above her on the ceiling

below her on the bed

when she faces the walls 

drunk among the ivories

like teeth that leave with barely a wink

like teeth that have

forgotten to drink

from the fountain of youth

there are those times 

when bears leave the cave

when they live after dying

for awhile

she braces for horror

hit by an über another

drunk driver to boot

there are things she’s not made for

she may die of old age or

repent with a gun

aimed at her own unsatisfied self

what else

forgiveness in the pointless glory

the father 

from abandoned raves

the mother for her dangerous stealth

they died of lies, the age, 

and poverty’s wealth

the truth has its way with her

she’s the essence of stealth

indulgences nailed to a pitted church door

confounded by spelling

before they knew how

all is now and fancy free

among the cowards and the brave

all is undermined again

in the philosopher’s spotless cave

until and thereafter

when earth loses its way

she may die of old age or drink wine and be gay

 

nyc 4.22.24

 

 WOUNDED

 

I’ll walk among 
the wounded
not for the pain
but the crazy
what’s left on remainder
a membership
in altered states
where I slip behind
purity gates
I’ll walk among the wounded
in a private country
no need to undo me
left behind from birth
for what that is worth
again and again
I will favor imbalance
life is so messy
like a ruffled valance
in an empty room

what do I choose
I’m a fake happily
in a real situation
and then painfully
when confronted 
with creation
how do I manage
a lie over and over
I find the ones who know
when to discover
that  water flows
that water will save us 
the small in the earth
the deep in the well
I won’t beg for salvation
in a roomful of friends
or strip the lead 
from the lip
pull the cork from revenge
life is imbalance
what I wish for is instant
what i get is 
fame naturally
it comes from a distance
like a comforting film
arrives like a blister
a gift from the sun
I’ll walk among wounded
mystery’s sister
make me laugh now
make me sinister
be my friend through all winters
bind our feet together
trample enemies forever
walk among the wounded
discern the trust
walk among us
light footed
and make no fuss

9.27.13

ALARM

you have escaped 

sound the alarm 

pass through the door

touch my arm

so I know beyond death

there is still a kind roar

nod from the afterlife

across celestial moors

wink from abroad

drag a chair over the floor

let me know that the gang

who have since crossed-over

reads books, drinks wine

contemplates lovers

touch my arm

catch my eye with

a fleet moving shadow

make me nervous at midnight

shriek a silent falsetto

argue mortality

make me sound dumb

give me the room

on my swollen tongue

to find words that match

your gracious passing

to stop and reflect

that death does the asking

we decide on ruckus

or simply respond

like a slow-moving duck

over a still life pond

sound the alarm

get me ready

for whatever it takes

while I’m here

while I’m living

the heart will break

into pieces that grow

like new limbs on a starfish 

and just when I’ve been

bereft of courtship

opaque after bloodletting 

drawn from my heart

the chair scrapes

and sits on a heavenly floor

I have a seat

when I’m done with my purpose

a slow-moving passport

with the ones who are there.

 

2.23.12

nyc

 She’s at the i-don’t-care stage

Again

It’s the middle of the night

Again

It’s a good sign

She thinks

As it always is to those

who don’t fear her

or try to revere her

It’s a good sign she thinks

To those who defy her

To those who remind her

It’s a good sign when she’s angry

A good sign when she’s cursed

When the story hits a manhole

Like a digger

It’s better for the worst

Whatever that means in

Her female desert of freeze-dried tears

She’s at the i-don’t care stage

Possibly for years of a rage

For what she has left on the shelf

It’s the middle of the night

Again

It’s a good sign

She thinks

To go for a run

In her dreams

 

Smokin’ Willy’s Weed

Goes down easily

Teasily

Unforgiveably reasonably

Grateful for the friend who delivers

De letter de sooner

De better

Message well-earned from

Lightning circumstance

Opening the poetical nerve of those that hate us

Who tolerate our presence

I am honored again

I am hungry and fateless

I am older and maceless

Because if you want to undermine

Do it like lemon rinds

begging a bluebird

Until the surprise rings explosive

Then you know you have told this story before.

And nobody died.

Nobody came before.

Nobody died in this nobody war.

Smokin’ Willy’s weed just like before.

Painted on cave walls

Destroyed by wars

Grateful for the friend who delivers

What goes down easily

Reviles beastiality and the

Slow thrust of rivers

Destroyed by war

Grateful for the no end of endings

Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings

Of good will and happily ever afters

Grateful for the fuckers who discovered the boardwalk

The underneath

The choking remark

On the failure of boy and girl

Grateful for the no end of endings

Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings

Of good will and happily ever afters

Grateful as fuck with no nod to pretension

No unreliable mention of war

She seeks a slower less angrier pace

Squirrels on call to keep the peace

I am fucking lonely she wails

To no one in place

I am sack cloth and ashes

I am no ones disgrace

I am older and thinner and historically sound

I am you with your arms wrapped around

My complacency

For now until I run the race of me.

Smokin’ Willy’s Weed

Goes down easily

Teasily

Unforgiveably reasonably

nyc 1.22.24

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

Opened front doors forecast dread

Still lighter than a darksome home

 

Pecking naive transformation

Wounded like a crossing guard

She bangs her chest in absolution

 

What about this fucking poem

She screams in flightless fury

Searching for the nowhere compass

Redirecting dreams unknown

 

Her small arms reach familiar height

Leaves bloodied reason in the lane

The child becomes the ageless poet

Picks off attackers in lyric refrain

Never to set false hearts alight

 

Mustering truth among the shards

Re-made from broken arrows shot

She bangs her chest again with conviction

Renounces steps from false Camelot

Humored forever she follows intention

Escaping from the thumbless bard

 

Kneels and pries her uncorked anger

From a fully loaded glass of wine

The bag of lies they offered her

Full of listless danger tricks

Transparent as their unsound friendship

Returned forever their shipment of lies

A poem arrives a welcome sign

 

Dropping words in her once barren lap

A prayer to the end of everything

Depends on the sender

And the poet who believes 

Fully christened urges to rend 

Clarified fury on liars and thieves

She pens in silence her atheist prayers 

In a rarefied notebook to pain

 

They will force her inner child exposed

In their foul-smelling bunker of lies

Slowly invading the song of the poet

Wallowing then in spineless endurance

Like lice in the hair or cancerous starlings 

She paws the earth a misread boar 

Transitioned out of unbending fury

Front door knocker heralds dread

Winged doves arrive instead

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

nyc

1.3.23