Homeward travels

Your English soul is starved for sun.
You've summered in the hills of Spain,
and now you'll take all you can get
until you get your fill again. You've
weathered storms upon the sea, poetically
and literally, and now accustomed
to the spray, by waterfalls
you'll stand the day.

As lowering clouds come in
to slake the thirst of over-watered green
for miles around, from where you sit,
you'll wait and watch the windows
running clean.
In time,

the storm will break.
You're well-accustomed to the change.
So different, here. So good to be

around the world
and home again.

golden exception

The golden rule is bad advice
for a masochist, but
otherwise nice.

die for less

the least I could do

is come through for you.

I wasn't put here for any
of what I thought, maybe

I never thought I was, but
in the middle or towards

the end of it all, you found
me.

And I want to be responsible.

I want now to find my potential,
and fulfill. There just wasn't

a reason before. I may be all wrong
about everything known, but I think

I will. There's a reason now, to shoot

and score,

and win it all. Or at least our fill.
It's not just showing off, anymore.

There's a matter of life or death

for once,

there's a thing at stake

that I actually want.

And it's selfish of me,

I admit, but it

would also be quite a stunt,
and I've never been

so thrilled.

"Cautions"

What is it? There, just further out
Beyond the edge - I want to stand on it
and see what paths lead down, into

what I can't even doubt, or question
now, without any reason to.
I want to see
what kind of fools we are,

and I won't let you go too far,
and you won't let me go too far, but
you're the one who wants to
I'm the one who wants to

and I won't let you go too far,
and you won't let me go too far, but
we're the ones who want to.

Just to see, it could be for good.
It could be for better, for worse,
for the best. Beyond the edge,
what paths lead down

and I can't doubt or question now
and I know this is not a test,

and
I won't let you go too far
you won't let me go too far
and I'm the one who wants to
you're the one who wants to

and I won't let you go too far,
and you won't let me go too far, but
we're the ones who want to.

Guesses play out without making them
Ways go on and won't come back again
to tell us where they've gone, or what

was waiting there, to catch them up.

Explorers fall over the edge of the known
I want to discover what they know, and

I won't let you go too far
and you won't let me go too far

terms

There's nothing to surrender to.

No one's bearing arms against
or even for, no one's stretching
arms out towards you wanting

you to give in more. No one's
even in arm's length. No one's
ever close enough.

And you
were so prepared for siege. For
holding out forever

to give up

threshold

The world is wonderful and good
and I never forget that. Just

sometimes I find I've stopped
noticing. Sometimes for a longish
while. I only notice how long
it's been

when I'm conscious again, as if
suddenly awoke from disheartening

and very real dream. Dream logic
obtains, in those situations. Dream
logic explains without saying so:

we know that what's happening
is ordinary; expected. We even
know the rules: we know how

things go. By strange ulterior
mechanism, the dream keeps us

fooled. We need the sleep; it
knows. What's best for us, and so

it does something to suspension
of disbelief. Then on a day

like any other, in the middle
of doing the most ridiculous thing,

we wake up wearing the same clothes
and notice all of it. How wonderful
and good it is, we note! How absurd

to have forgotten? How droll, that
dolorous and stuporific existence

suddenly was.

Must remember to notice,

next time we slip
across

Retirement

I wonder where Calvin is now, and
what happened to Hobbes. For ten years,

every fall, he returned to 1st grade
and remained six. It seems at least possible

that he's still doing that. Or maybe he grew

into a hulking, surly teenager, as he'd
threatened to? Hobbes - faded, dirty,

an arm off, stuffing out along the abdomen

- forgotten in a closet, but never
ever thrown out. Appearing

time to time in dreams, perhaps.

An actual tiger, with not a lot

to say.

the missing parts

It's a story of sorts, in parts
seen partly, perfectly suggesting

a whole. You know it would be -

the whole story is there,
if you could see it
all, in a scene unfurling
uninterruptedly, in proper sequence,
nothing left out - the best ever;
you feel so sure, changing

how you see

everything you've seen. And
you've seen it all before,
you were sure. But in the shock

of sudden unjadedness,

you begin to imagine and believe
you ain't seen nothing.

yet

Christmas Where I Was

It's so weird. It's 2am
here, and I just caught myself thinking,
"One more hour to Christmas!" Like
I'm excited! Expectant, except

I won't be there when it comes.

And I guess I'm not quite here
yet. Soon,

it will be New Year's, and
I will try to find my present.

pretty much

You're considerably more beautiful
than would be appropriate, in terms

of the effort it takes to keep my mind
off you. Which is effort

I don't intend to waste. Anyway, who's
to know? Besides,

your freckles

make my eyes ache - constellations
across the milky way

of your face,

which, salt-kissed
and sunblushed, leans down
from above where I lie flat
on my back, having been
pretty much laid out.

In the hushed and closing space
between us sounds an ocean. You
are all I see.

You're amused. Just a touch
of a squint, as if
you could be as dazzled
by your smiling eyes

as I.

Which you could be,
I suppose, if you ever really looked,
and had an ego the size that you looking at me

makes mine.

Days without you are like memory
instead of living. But I know reasons why
it's worthwhile to live them.

The sun is going. The only falling star
we expect to see again,
and I wish on it

daily, except when you're here.

I wish
your seawater sunshine eyes
were there, because even a sunset this beautiful
suffers without its perfect frame:

your face, so all that soft blue glow
and rose glimmer of gold bands
can catch flecks and flickers
in your limpid eyes,

and I could just stand there,
agape

at the world's most beautiful view. And I know,

because I intend to travel that world, and to take
that view with me, with days and nights
flying after each other.

I wish

you were above me here,
shining down now.

I would look up
to the heavens, and see

myself, amazed and reflected in them -

good as eternity.

things

I wonder about us, sometimes.
if there was such a thing
I mean.

If I were yours, and you were
- would you be mine? Some
don't care for the implication

Let's say it was great, and
would go on for years with no end
in sight, I won't say "forever"

that's premature,

but what would our things be?
That grew up between us,
in the strange shape created
between just about any two people
who let it

beginning at random, and continued
as a joke you fall in love with,
that gets funnier each time you find
new ways to tell it, or just do it

the dumb old original classic way.
With an ironic dull face like "duh"

What would our sayings, doings,
rituals be?

Would we always enter parties
simultaneously through separate doors
with elaborate battle plans, contingencies
and signals drawn up?

Would we grow to love commercials,
as we each look pointedly
to the other, for their
sober critique - themes and motifs,
comparisons with other campaigns
and brands, social significance
- perfectly serious,
and occasionally disgusted
like a pissed-off film critic, or
disagreeing on merits, with unbelief
in the other's sudden lapse of taste?

Would we develop an elaborate system
of cuddling with steps and progressions,
and joke about publishing an illustrated
manual? Is "The Kama Sutra of Cuddling"
taken?

Would we over time develop one of those
private babytalk voiced cutesy goo goo
languages? I swear I will be vigilant
on my guard against it.

Will we always look around for stolen
moments when we can snoot our noses
with no one any the wiser?

Will one of us occasionally force it a bit,
an awkward, unsuccessful attempt to get
this or that approved and adopted?

As a thing. As one of our things.

You can't really force those things,
though. They have to happen

or not

seemingly by accident

borderline predator

Do I reassure you too much? That
you're safe

from me, that the thing I want least
is to be

unwelcome, to do or offer any thing
unwelcome to you. You tend to laugh

it off, or not laugh, but

no, not scoff,

actually, you're just
appreciative. But with a hint

of nothing else.

Still, maybe I push that note
too much. I mean, which of us

am I trying to convince? I assure you,
it's not convince, but remind. And
me.

It's because I'm secretly a borderline
voracious predator, not like

a
wolf,

more like
Gojira itself or something, except
ok,

that dude has never been seen predating
anything; the mouth parts, the rubber

teeth, yes

that's me, and
I hope you appreciate how great a feat
it is, for me to hold back my rubber-suited
fury from absolutely devastating

your Tokyo
of personal
dignity and respect, I mean

actually, it's no effort at all to me.
I put all the effort in

in the costume-design phase, and
yes,

you're safe from me.

what we had to ask

I hope we talk later.
There are some things I want to ask you
that I'll have forgotten by then,

and in the agonizing reaching after them,
we'll end up talking about everything
else. And that will become

the point. Always more than
good enough. But days from now, maybe
I'll remember what I wanted to ask. It's sure
to come up again, since it's about you,

maybe about what you would do, or what
you wanted to do that time, that thing you said
or started to, but distracted as we were
already moving on, and since

I don't know it.

Those things always come up again,
and part of you smiles and waves, like
oh, there you are, thought! I was just
thinking about you the other day.

I'm going to tell you something
quite creepy. In general, I want to know
everything about you

except the things you want to keep to yourself.
Not those, but just everything else you'd want
to tell, if you thought anyone else was
interested. I find it a little weird myself,
that I want to know that. What good

is all this knowledge of you? What is it all
leading to? I want to know that, too, but
I think somehow all the taking in and adding up
is part of the answer. No single question
could get there. It has to proceed at the pace
of the questions that come up on the way, and
the answers given out without any question
to prompt them. At the pace of everything else
that comes up

in the course of trying to remember
what we had to ask.

Revenge Warning

Warning: I want
revenge.

More than anything.

And no one's really
done anything to me
yet.

A denial, a frustration
that cries out
to be satisfied
with revenge.

The more time passes,
the more ideas
come

and the more revenge
I want
on someone. Will it

be you? You'll have
to do something

horrible, first. But
I'm warning
you: if you do,

revenge, revenge,
revenge
will be mine!

And the longer you wait,
it will be worse.

"White."

it goes
with anything,
or under it

without saying,
but you can still ask

and you might be
surprised, or
surprise someone

and your mind
will be clean and white
all day

or as long
as that memory
lasts

terrible and difficult art

Writing terrible poetry is a difficult art.
As much as you want to make fun,
truth and beauty break through
and it begins to mean something. So
you throw in awkward body parts
and pretentious, tin-ear spirituality

trying to drag it back
to the terrible ways
that poetry goes,

those times you've loved,

that mean so much when you're trading turns
reading it, straight-faced on a dare
not to laugh, drinking moscato
that you very much wish
not to snort

through your nose. Perhaps
with some kind of challenge involved,
as risky as you like,

and coming as close,

but such poetry is terribly hard
to write. You can't, quite.

Some things
are best left to the acknowledged
masters. How they do it,

who knows?

"Spirit Kisses"

Sending spirit kisses to your womb.
Where your womb is. A chaise
throne for your recumbent goddess nature,
masturbating in repose in a glorying
that goes on and on oh! god
and I am one. Standing and wise,
in understanding of my
masculine principle, which -
ok, may be a bit obvious
and I'm sure you understand
it too. We can't all contain
hidden mysteries within us
of cosmos unfolding. It is
the Yin Yang of existence
and I am sending spirit kisses
to the very nexus of embodiment
of whichever yours is; Yin,
I think.

the abundance

By the way,
if you ever were sad
to think that I don't
have a crush on you,

it's not that I don't.
It is that I do, but
I'm never troubled by
crushes, anymore. Their

fierceness, their sudden
surprise, the pang, the punch
- falling dizzy to catch yourself
and righting the world

before it can crash -
I'm an old hand at this.
A bit too old, and
in fact,

quite a catch.

And you, yourself, yes.
Most definitely. Don't
trouble yourself with
the slightest doubt.

But it isn't a problem
between us, you see.
It can't be, because

where affection,
fondness, respect
and love are concerned,

we don't keep our souls
in a state of drought.

fictional authority

I get into you
like your favorite character
in a book you just started
reading, but you're already
in love with and can tell
you'll be reading it
again. You go slowly,
not wanting the end, and
you keep going

back - to experience
a passage so beautifully told,
like the author stole a peek
at your living soul - and that's
an effect
you have.

In a book, we say

"the characters seem so real!"
even though, in real life -
have you noticed how few
people strike you this way?

The best part is
you

aren't a book.

So while we don't have to
rush, we also don't have to keep
holding up, doubling back, just to stave
off the end. There's nothing to stave.
We get to immerse and converse and
behave, with never a thought
for the needs of the plot.

The story may suffer, true,
but it's all that we've got,

and it's shiny new.

shrine to you

Every picture you make
is a memory saved
and he takes it all in,
taped in place, and arranged

Right where it has to be
where he can see your eyes

tucked away where no one knows,
there's a cell where he sighs

it's like a shrine
to you
a shrine to you,
it's a corner of my mind
I can keep,
candle-lit
it's like a shrine
to you,
a shrine to you,
I can go there anytime
it's filled with pictures
and shit,

He's got a diorama
of the moment you met -
with a miniature of you,
perfect in all detail

Well it would have to be
for him to recognize

every perfecting detail
you realize in full size

it's like a shrine
to you
a shrine to you,
it's a corner of my mind
I can keep,
candle-lit
it's like a shrine
to you,
a shrine to you,
I can go there anytime
it's filled with pictures
and shit

You have no real idea
how hard the rest of life is
because when you appear,
he loses track of the rest

And it's how it should be
But he should know full well

how hard the rest of life is
for you - he can't tell

He's got a working model
of the future from here -
except it doesn't work.
It's missed a piece or two

Well it would have to, though
Or else he'd have to come

And show you how it perfect fits
And why you need to sign on

it's like a shrine
to you
a shrine to you,
it's a corner of my mind
I can keep,
candle-lit
it's like a shrine
to you,
a shrine to you,
I can go there anytime
it's filled with pictures
and shit,

If he asked, he'd have to stand there
waiting for an answer
that he wouldn't want to stake his life on
pretty sure he knows

So he goes back inside,
Where he can be alone,
and bask in all the ways
you make this life worth the loan

He's got a perfect place
inside a troubled mind
Where he goes to find a piece
of the only peace he's found

it's like a shrine
it's like a shrine

freestyle rap #numberidontknowhowmany

When I step to the mic with my kick step twist I snap
grab it from the stand and I flick my wrist
and spit

words
such as verbs or nouns, I announce
to the crowd in a fit of such syntactical precision it frowns

and by "it" I mean, "crowd" yes, you followed it

correctly from the first and now please let me reverse
for the remainder of the verse,
back it up,
back it up

ow shit - got my ass in a ditch, but
I'm not worried, I got triple A protection for this
pick-up truck, I yell

"YO!
YO!
ANYONE GOT A PHONE?" but
there's no one on the road, anywhere in sight, holmes

so just where in the hell went
the so-called "crowd"?
Or the mic
or the stand? Did I hallucinate?

Wow

tongue and tooth

As I age, I've begun
to do some things automatically. Every
time I drink something cold, I find
my tongue,

without being told,

rolls left to lie
upon the facings and cusps
of the first three molars
in the upper left

of my mouth.
So they don't chill and ache, which
they never used to do.

I remember some years back I was drinking
something cold, when
that unaccustomed ache began.

I couldn't account for it.
I always drink something
cold, I love drinking something
cold; it's never been a
problem. Anyway

the problem just went away
mysteriously, shortly after.

I just realized now, it was my tongue.

Rolling
over, without being told,

sensing on its own
what comfort needs

like a faithful dog

barefoot vigilante

passing birds drop cockle-burrs
at least, I can only assume that's how
they get back there. In my back yard,
there aren't any growing. So with gentle,
barefoot pace I'll walk in thoughtful
rows, make my rounds and keep
my vigil, as religiously
as I can manage when I step
on one. Wow, they hurt

As you stand, balanced
on one foot with the injured
one held up, leg crooked
across the knee for stability,
like a Yoga master with epilepsy,
and seize and try to pull it out
in one go, without counting
or anything.

It's a price to pay,
this vigilance, to prevent

bad things

from getting in

all innocently as if

There are things I don't know how to do.

And things I do anyway.

And things I do not do - they didn't
occur to me.

There are no other things,
except those three,

on any given day.

Except, of course
where you're concerned. Your path

being strewn with exception petals,

I've learned the easy and painful way,

one has to buck up and take the broken,
sprained and dislocated rules

you leave behind as you sashay

apprenticing

You stand by the fence,
with fingers of one hand
through. And up
to the masters in canopies,
listening, you sing out
with whistling lips,

as clear as bells, as clear
as you can - and
doing it wrong. So

one by one, and tentative
(as if wondering oh,
what do we do with this
one?) each begins

trying

- gently, with patient repetition
and insistence, singing back to you -

to teach you its song.

A beginner's
symphony begins,
each master weaving
its perfect and simple song
in and around
and over each other,

with you

adding always your guileless
part, so perfectly artless
and wrong, the coaching

and correction of which

is the object of art.

"Windshield note"

live your life outside
the lines. Refuse to fit in.
Stick out, undefined.

comprehensive

It's ok to joke, sometimes

it's just,
most of the time it's just funnier
not to.

Some of the things we say,
I wish
I could share with the world
like now, right then
in that moment, with everything in it
they'd need

to understand - but

even we don't have all of that.
Even we don't have all of that,

and we understand. Or, unspoken,
we sense we do, or

at least, no one's questioning it

and we both seem pretty smug. You know?
I think we do. Understand,

It's quite lovely and magical
to go around understanding
something that doesn't

actually make sense.
And we do,

so deep it hurts,
and we laugh

at consequence.

azimuth

it depends which way you face
the world, and how high up you aim,
or low, but by degrees you find
you've seen

so much less than it all. Or else
it's all too much to bear, too much
the same, like you've been there

it's almost enough to make you wish
for other worlds, to come and take
you away from this. But

you're not done with this one, no
you're not done with this one yet

you're ready to set your face and go

you're ready to set your face and go

so many directions, angles to plot
by degrees and courses to set and
scheme,

you're not done yet with this one, no
not by a long long way to go

there's so much out there you haven't
seen

make a disappear

Nudity is a kind of
magic trick, that people do

using their clothes. Clothes
are essential. The stage
must be set and dressed.
A flourish, a sleeve
- to show nothing's up -
then presto, wah-lah,
magic words aren't really
necessary, you know.
It isn't clear how
they pull it off,
but suddenly - TA DA

The magician, clearly, needs
no assistant, but often
they let you help. A misdirection,
no doubt. You
look here, but there
- you have done
the same trick, yourself!

How is this?

A pledge, a turn - the prestige
of it. You want to stand up
and clap! Maybe whistle, or
yell - but in such intimate shows
as these, what the etiquette is
can be hard to tell. You feel

like a dupe, or a plant. A willing
stooge, to be so taken in,

and you want to see them do it again.
To catch in the act, perhaps, or just
to be caught, and exposed - a gull

in the hands of a charlatan.

a word for that

n. the amount of life you give up in trade
as you fondle and dote on the choice you made.

slip to the side

My ego's role
is typically to observe, detached
and critique the fantastic job

my id
does, running things
however its fine and implacable
urge sees, feels, senses and
makes fit. As only it
can, apparently.

My superego

meanwhile, is off to the side.
Well to the side, with my ego
and id

laughing

at it.

holiday scene

deflated santa, waiting
face-down for days, for
whatever key piece
of resuscitation equipment
has been misplaced. While

all around him, methodically
assembling, a Christmas
Village lit up like a crime
scene

investigates

exponentially recipiential

I will
take
take
take

what
ever you give, you know
I won't even ask, I'll just wait

for the gift, and I'll take
take
take

what
ever you give, you know
I can't get enough, but
I can kinda
try to
live

without.
At need, or in
doubt of whatever
you don't
happen, think
or care
to give, offer,
or volunteer
so far, or
at least,
just yet, I

will bite
my lip, knowing
all that you give, feeling grateful
for it -

it's the last thing I want to do,
to ask,
Especially when I do, all too often

it's yes

To a delightful week-end

let's get drunk
on large ciders
and come up smiling
in a couple days,
like a derelict couple
of reprobates, out for
a hike, chased all the way
back by the lowering sky -
there's a cottage half-lost
on the way through pitch-black
rains and wanting

something's flesh.

Go in, go in! Let's

a daring leap

Time has come, I feel, to take
a daring, death-defying leap. Unfortunately,

I find myself upon a vast and level ground
of grass and dirt. Pretty soft, even if I
took a running start to build up speed
and tripped and sprawled, there's not
much chance of hurt beyond raw scraped
palms, an elbow, hip, or bursting ache
of lungs from wind knocked out. Or if
I didn't trip, I'd only

safely land. A distance I could have just
walked.

There are no ditches, cliffs or even trees
to climb, which would anyway look dumb. Climb
a tree to daringly jump out of it? Landing
where I was. No, the sort of daring leap

I feel the need to make

is one that will land me
where I couldn't possibly get,
except by dint of great risk
and heart-in-throat vertigo,
seeing where I need to go,

imagining myself across
already landed, soft
and solidly

before I hit the air.

I guess I'll take
a death-defying walk or something, daring
the landscape

to jut
or loom
or yawn

in present
obstacle to

somewhere

I couldn't have
gone.

The pause before

The pause before
you answer me

- some question I
should not have asked,
unless you answer, hovers

in suspended time

as moments pass, oh
really, only one moment.

But it contains such different
things. How easy it would be

for you, to pull me up short,
wondering, and leave me there

trying to make a new arrangement
with my mind, at peace with rights

I do not have. All right with peace
I'll never find.

last ball of autumn

Individual leaves are dancing
on a carpet of others
lying still.

I wonder if
they take turns

or if the dancers
and the carpet just

both love what they're
doing? I wouldn't mind

being danced upon
by those twirling
sylphlike shapes,

which then fall back
like crowdsurfers
into a multitude's embrace, but

I'd kind of love

to see everyone get up
at once, go nuts, really rock
this place

in wild melee
of colors flying,
twirling, giving everything
they've got to give,
and living
every motion and
emotion they can make,
every moment they can take,

before I've got to rake.

Home sick

Came home last night. With a cold,
apparently - woke up with it. Not
too bad. It only hurts

when I cough, which is mostly
when I lie down, which is what
I'd prefer to be doing, big
baby. Anyway,

my voice is pretty deep and sexy,
and it's a dear, drear gray day
outside, with sandhill cranes
cluck-honking and Christmas lights
coming out. In all,
not much

to feel too bad about. And I
don't. Except

this meaningless shock of
anger and despair, that tears
my fucking heart apart and
fills my eyes with tears,
tiny spittle flies through
clenched teeth, head shaking
in a transparent attempt
to add drama to this
poem.

things of ours

It's not entirely certain how certain things
became things of ours. Like love hearts
and bears, which surely belonged

to the world, before. Or birds
and bees, and other things
I can't see, or even have occur
to mind without thinking of you,
too. Which I find
revolutionary.

But as to how it comes around, that
someone could steal in and stake
such claims on random and lovely
things lying about to say "Hey!"
with their presence,
perpetually

in your face,
any time when you least
suspect - I look round and find

the world is ours.

It's mysterious, since,
before - I don't even think
it was mine,

and it certainly never stretched
so far.

with Josey

But that was the way it was
with Josey. You never wanted
to disappoint him, because
he only saw the good in you. What
would you even be, then? Not

invisible. He'd keep looking right
at you. He wouldn't pretend not
to see, but you could see the hurt
there, too. Self-recrimination.
His fault for not seeing you,
for what you were. No shred of blame
left over for you, for your part.
"What you done." And he'd go right on
treating you right. In memory of who

he thought you were, maybe. Who
was just the neatest and coolest
person.

We all went through it,
with Josey. It kind of made you want
to hurt him.

attentions paid

I don't anything
why
do you ask? I mean

you didn't but

you could have. The answer
would have been

well, possibly different.

A lot depends on
the question who's asking
and

you didn't.

Did you?

Sometimes I can't
tell between the lines, and

points
you've been making.

I think you have made
several of these.

Very well,
But see,

what you don't
always notice

I always listen, so clearly

I want to.

It matters to me,
what you

mean

or did you?

I hope to
know

someday

what we're
up to

or anyway,
into,

or even
begin to

falling shy

In the hammock out back, under white skies
veined with mostly-naked limbs and branches reaching up

into the still-cold air, despite
the sun's up there somewhere. Each burst of breeze

disturbs the stillness, sends the tips of branches
reeling, swaying, lifts a ghostly rustle through
the few leaves still remaining, clinging
to what's left of autumn, wondering
what fall is for. Another breeze
comes by, and they decide: another
tiny squad of leaves, bails out
in unison, on signal Go

the target's
coming up below! but off
they wheel, so graceful, whirled
in pirouettes

like asymmetric pinwheel heads

to fall so slow, they spin
so fast, they almost blur

as down they come,
and here they come

off-target, just a bit to left
and overhead, and
further off

toward no one

descending, fanning out
from so far up above. You'd think that

one, at least
of these last leaves
could land on me,

to bring dry, whispery love.
There aren't very many chances
left, and I am not quite yet

happy enough.

Newly Irish Blessing

May the Isle rise to meet you,
as the wind bears you in
to your harbor.
And may sun warm your shoulders,
as you wend you homewards,
to find yourselves wishing no farther.

all the way to here

follow, follow, oh
I will follow you

If you stand right there, feet planted
going nowhere

I will follow, oh I'll
follow anywhere you stay

If you'd only stay, you'd never see
the sight of me
going away

Welcome you, I welcome you
to other parts of this same
place we've always been,

it's like a different world awaits
if you would only stay to see

and if you chose to stay,
with me - you know I'll be
a-following with every step,
I'll keep right up, just stand
right here, right by your side
I'm ready, set.

To follow, oh I'll follow you,
and welcome, oh I'll welcome you,
I'll welcome you,

and all you need to do is lead
me, anywhere right here is good,
and follow, I will follow you

all the way to where we'll still
belong, you know - like I'll belong
to you, and you'll belong to me,
because we'll know full well
we should. It's set in fate
like paving-stones, that lead
us onward, down paths known
I'll follow you oh, if you lead

where life is leading us to be.
You know where this is leading to,
you lead me on, I'll follow you

piling up

My headache hasn't started yet. It's in the mail
with reality checks I'll never cash. I let them pile
up in stacks, against the rainy day
I know is coming.

Meanwhile I'm keeping off the street, in public bars
they try to keep me there as long as they can
get, to settle bets and charm the snakes
with artistry and cunning.

While outside in the pouring rain, for hours
waiting idly, a taxi stands to take me
home, if we can find the way.
The meter's running

bless with ashes

I mostly smoke
religiously

most everywhere I go,
I bless
a curb or post,
or cold flagstone.

I stub out butts
in signs of cross:

a little gesture
of a prayer, for all the life

I could be giving up

Take in
this deep sweet breath,

and blow some smoke
up angel's butt

times come round

I'd rather it almost be anything else
but you

would prefer another chance. Which you
deserve. I have to concede.

For all of the time you've been waiting
for me
to tell you that I
was waiting for you.
Except that I couldn't

until it was through. Once I
was done waiting, I told

you so. You said great! We've been
waiting enough. Let's go!

forget to look up

It's one of those things
I forget to look up
for years. When it comes up

now and again, I remember and say

"I don't know what that is! I must
look it up when I can."

Mental notes, once made,
don't exist. In anyplace you
can refer to them. Until

those specific conditions obtain,
and they will pop up

Again, and again.

I have an egg tree

I've got an egg tree, in the garden growing

I go out mornings, picking fresh eggs
and I put them in

to the water boiling

for a perfect two minutes,
as the toast gets ready

for the butter,

and it's all for you, breakfast in bed,
I got this leggy tray

from the homemaker store

and I'll take it up to you,
with a cup of black steam,

you can send me back

for more. Some sugar and cream,
and for anything else

that you or we
don't normally try,
but decide we

might need. I'm sorry

the eggs taste a little
like leaves

suspiciously haiku

So v. beautiful
What kind of blossoms are those?
Your way home is strewn

"Give Up Hard"

The path of my life
is littered with
lessons I refuse to give
a second thought, or let sink in

if I make it all the way to the end,
I win

I won't
give up
too easy

all of my life I give up
hard
always give up
too hard
all my commitments
I'm all in
completely

can't count the loss,
just give all
at all costs
blame it on our
lost cause,

I give up hard

I don't think you can count
time,
money,
effort,
energy spent
the cause was good for as long as you meant
I don't really think you can beat yourself up
for trying too hard
when you think
it's love

I won't
give up
too easy

all of my life I give up
hard
always give up
too hard
all my convictions
charge me
I'm guilty

I won't even plea, just throw
away the key,
heart body and soul
it's all me

I give up hard

I guess I can admit,
retrospect
is always a bitch, but guess what?
what's next?
do you really want a future protecting yourself
by killing what you could be to anyone else?

'cause I don't

give up
too easy

all of my life I give up
hard
always give up
too hard
all my commitments
I'm all in
completely

can't count the loss,
just give all
at all costs
blame it on our
lost cause,

I give up hard

hear the fool

Once was
golden sunrise, shining too bright
to see

faithful,
every morning, bringing the dawn in
there,

you'd be

why are people all so temporary?
why were you the one to leave me here?

the
fool

Now hope springs eternal
everything else has died

you told me it's over
easy for you to say

that
lie

when you leave my life, you leave a wasteland
barren, all the works of your hand, with

no
you.

Hear me, all the anger
none of it aimed at you

Finding any reason why
I should seek out some

one
new

Hope you never see me crying
even if it changed your mind

hear

the
fool

your experimental life

I want to fit in
to your experimental life,
even if I'm sure

that would throw off the
results. But still, there'd be
suddenly so many more

you could run! An extra pair of
hands wherever you want? Or

folded, observing. Taking notes,
if you wish,
looking on in
expectant bliss

at whatever the next experiment is
to be.

Even though,
really you don't
need me.

trifle and fuss

like someone you love
might fuss with your
hair. It's a trifle,
I know, but it doesn't
seem so. Even if
it doesn't seem much,
I love
how trifle and fuss
take care
over every stray
feather of thought,
tucked in and groomed
with doting touch.
I could fuss
by the light of the moon,
if given a chance
for a full fifteen minutes, or
considerately more
on you, in minute
significant ways.
It would be a swoon

Let's go where we have no choice

I'm sick of conditions and options and
consequences. Let's go where we have no choice

Then everything will be just as it has to. And we
will run amok through it like a pair of

automata. I can't picture fate
more terrible

than choices that lead us away
from us. Rather than that,

some other thing. Let's go

wherever we have to,
do whatever we have to,
everything it takes

to find our place
together, wherever

we must, and by that point

probably,

take it on trust?

the truth is guessable

"How did you know?" I never
understand how to answer
that question. How do I ever
know?

I dispute that one can know

the things I guess.
I have a crack talent to guess
the truth, and it comes out right
as a matter of fact
more often than people

would care to prove.

the boring bit

The boring part of a drill is the bit.

It depends, of course
on whether you are the boring one,

or the one being bored.

Either way, you
can make it fit.

Fit is when you are healthy and whole,

and you have yourself

a seizure grand mal,

(a "big bad" seizure, the French
might say).

How easy it is to fit
in your day

222.2

This morning I weigh
222.2 lbs

that's with wallet and jeans,
and Chucks and socks
and a t-shirt
and drawers

and a hoodie on
from my morning smoke,
plus the lighter and pack.

But with all of that,
plus my morning b.m.

subtracted, I hope
and suspect I will find,

I weigh quite incalculably

less than that.

Unfortunately, it's
a thought experiment only, because

I have not time to poop, what with
breakfast at table, and me

eating it. That's going to throw off

the scales a bit. Who has time

to poop before it's really time?

There's always something. We must live
and explore!

We'll poop when we're dead

Or

a little before. And who cares

what I weigh?

About 224.

damnation myth

many Jews today claim there is no God
BECAUSE of the holocaust.

Because WHAT GOD? would allow THAT
(he was napping apparently
during the prior Albanian
genocide). So.

in that, they are playing
right into Hitler's hands and plans.

His hope all along
was to strip this sweet people
of the simple and great faith their fathers
passed down (matrilineally)

it was, (additionally)
a spiritual holocaust
he wished to make. He hated
even the Jews who were outside
his physical reach. (Say what you like
about Hitler, he

was one hell of an artist

) but this was a fit, a pique
of his. He needn't have bothered

There wasn't a God.

As Hitler knew well, but in this,
he would be proved
wrong.

Evil, even, but wrong
nonetheless,

For a majority (two out of three from
the sample size polled) of atheists

concede, Hitler's in hell himself!

And so he is.

For God,

so blearily, rudely
awoken from nothingness, labored

three parts of a Sunday creating
a vast and a horrible
Hell,
for Hitler to wade in, and also
a Devil - as all Hells need,

with a sales pitch as black as pitch
and a pitchfork,
the better the damned to convince.

And the Devil

has been with us ever since.

this time,

I woke up at seven
and it was too early. Then
I woke up at noon, and it

was too late.

this time,

I will set the alarm,
to be certain. And lie back,
closing my eyes

to await

Not her

She flew in to town, and jumped -
me walking by, outside the glass
- right out her chair! and flew
To arms! To arms, and knew

I'd grab that ass

No - Not her.

She doesn't presume.
Besides, at that time, I had a girl
friend.

so the rest of this poem takes place
in an alternate universe, where
that wasn't the case, back then.

You can just imagine. Hell,

fill in the blanks!

It would all have gone just the same.
A perfect first date that went on for days, except

- me and her?

We'd have been amazed.

I'd rather your welcome

I'd rather your welcome
than anyone's. When you say
it's nothing - it's everything.
When you say don't mention it
- okay, shtum!
When you say "My pleasure,"
you know something?

Not yours alone.

Though if I were,
that sounds like fun!
Just shake and stir

When you say "Anytime,"
I will take you up,
and I'll thank you to not
look too surprised. And if
I'm too late,
I apologize.
I'll be one sorry dude.
And you'll be like, "PLEASE."

Now that's just rude.

"Formalities."

even up

Can I call in a favor? Not sexual.
In fact, is there anything else you'd admit
to owe?
I want to consider my options first,
in light of the things you'll think of worse.

"Never Live This One (Down)"

Thank you for being,
my consulting editor

- questions of content and questionable
form. I hope,

one day,
you'll be so much more.

The Nobel Prize,
perhaps,
or a Billionaire Entrepreneur

- and then I'd be SET.

And as for the rest, we're
cool I bet. Though meanwhile
of course

- I like you fine, but for money
I'd be your kept man
'til the end of time.

dreamlucky

Unlucky at life, lucky in dreams.
I won you
last night, and with everything
I can't wait
to wake up, and rake in
the air.
Don't know how to count it,
but it's all there.

enigma

I've got an unbreakable moral code.
I'm not a cryptologist, you know.
I can't redecipher a gosh dang thing.
Let's simplify, Wrong? One
knock. But Right? DING DING

time butterflies

time's passage
has been all expenses paid,
one way, express
today.

This morning I was
all fuzzy bud caterpillars,
who I washed down with coffee
into cocoons

Which molted about
before you showed up,
for the butterflies.

By long about noon,
they were flying so high,
with me outside, it was

fluttering nuts, and with you
along for the ride, both of us
very glad that my stomach
was strong, and time flew

like butter,
daylong

until at some point,
I realized I was calm.

usage tips and prerequisites

Remember,
don't be a word
unless you look it up first,
and you know that it fits for what you're

for. Close enough that it works
in the ears,
to the brain, hell oh
light-bulb!, and the person says

"Hey! That's exactly you!" Or
"What in the heck
word is that?" And yah,

You bet.

You will be all set,
'cause you looked it up first.

As I just suggest,

if you'd care to check.

Play

I would never fast-forward the boring
part
If I could
in life, you miss so much chance

As it is. Why would I take
the risk?
You're better off being there, considering
everywhere else you could
be instead.

You might even end up
with a thought
in your head

waking moments

What is it like in your pussy
when your eyes see my dick begin
in a literal process of longing for you
with nothing between our skins, no threadbare
excuse
for delay? or of course, with nothing to say
what we must do. Not in eloquent gestures
or words and such, no growing insistence,
except when
and if. So rudely polite, in
unsecret wish.
Is it like oh yay,
here we go
again?

And if so
is that happy,
sarcastic, or patiently
zen?

object lesson

They say wisdom is
what memory makes
of your mistakes,

or something, right?
But really, mistakes
are educational more
for other people. Well,

Edutainment, perhaps.
A multitask.

They get to see
the whole process unfold
down on me, without
the nasty distraction of doing
it, to be subsequently
concussed

to unconsciousness.

You see, much clearer
from where you stand
and stifle a laugh
on my behalf.

Because I can't. You do it
considerately.

This lesson's for us - but you'll be the one

reminding me. It has already
slipped

away, I guess.
So you be the one

to bring it back. My memory's not
the best for anything dumb.

dine & dash

you tip
on what it would have been
in some or many quantum worlds

Where things had gone another way, and you:

would be the one to pay.

Magic Kisses

Really, it wouldn't
matter if everyone on Earth found out
at once, about
Superman's secret identity.

That dude is so fast
and so smooth,

he could fly around the world
in a couple seconds kissing eight
billion people at once, before

they knew what hit them!

And they'd forget all about
it, plus any other

of his secrets.

That's still
one of his superpowers, right?

So how do we know
he's not already doing it?

Pretty creepy, Superman.

teeterless

Not teetering, but on the brink of something
neither of us want, but both or either
of us would, that we can't get
for well or good.

If indiscretion is
the better part of valor standing down,

The courage it would take is just enough
for us. Let's paint this town.

a treasury

A lot of people hate me. They're looking
at me all the time with hateless looks.

They're saving it. They save up hate
for later just to savor as they wait
for their next chance

to see me go away.

It's like a dance,
in some vague way. A clumsy
hunter tracking its
rejected prey. It's poignant, if
you didn't laugh - so sad,
the little games
they play

make love of

You're just making love

of
me

I feel so

romantic

and personalized,
accessory

- and I heart!
I don't mind

I'm being made love
of,
dear

it's only
the reason,

and I know you want
me,
here.

And I heart!
I don't mind

believing

a book that's been in the bath

who wants to read a book?
I do!

It's love, just to hold
- it's a comfort object

with all that it's been
through with you, so
carefully kept -

a book that's been in the bath,

your hands get wet, and large fat drops
reflecting within your nakedness
dive into the pages and hide their heads

the paper a pattern of patina
it inevitably gets, despite
your cares. It's ok, it creates

a more varying personal surface
to interact through,

and with.
I hope

I'll be reading it
After you

precrushed

Some bastard asshole son
of bitch has snuck

into my pack of Camel Crush
to pop the menthol berry buried
in the filter of each and every one!
If I were drunk, it's just

the kind of thing I might have done.
So now I sit deprived of this
enjoyable little ritual of innocence,

and all I'm left is filthy-habit
decadence, with leaden head,
the heavy thoughts of vengeance
pound upon.

Antipodienne

Lovely yet
Australian,

an upright antipodienne,
she works her way
down under it
to scheme
her next
and best
exploit

to benefit
this turning world,
by turning it to purposes
of greater goods than it yet knows
but in her eyes, it's all exposed -

a conquest in benevolence,
and patiently awaiting her.

It's not as if there's any rush.

She's always holding up the world.
It spins upon her fingertips.
She's contemplating longitude
and calculating increments
and climate trends,
she's passing through
in mind and weather
clemently, in summer pants
through Autumn mood

to find the place that she
was planned for. Suddenly
the scheme completes!

And looking round,
she's never less Australian,
but she belongs where she is
found, there making it more
lovely yet. And her as well,

by just in time to see -
another sun to set.

very Wednesday

Wednesday seems like an
adjective,

a modifier of weeks
in the midst of each, it makes

its appearance as if
to say what it thinks,

midstream, midway -
a good point to stop

and take stock amidst all
of this middling through.

Very Wednesday of it, I am sure.

What a difference, too

just-so cozily

A beautiful day
in the offing, it seems. Let's wait
a bit under the awning and see
if it passes us by, or comes in
like a storm, to stay for a spell
of warm rain, and things. Make
coffee and tea, for lingering
and small sweet talk signifying much
that's been rainily daily upon
our minds, not waiting or missing
the sunshine's touch

moderate modern standing

I'm a poet
of moderate
modern standing
around, coming up
with ideas, and putting
them down.

awoke so

I think I must have dreamed of you

my hair is sticking standing out

in smoky plumes, with memory wiped

discourtesy of lightning strike,

no doubt

conflict buddies Pt.2

anybody

coming in here to mess
with me and my buddies, is going to have

MY BUDDIES

to deal with.

conflict buddies

Here's what I like about conflict-
You find out where you stand,
and who your BUDDIES are,
- and that NOBODY fucks
with your buddies! At least,

not so far

unspoked

Your mind
is so far up

to no good, that you
can't even vouch
for your mouth.

It's been misunderstood.

Like a card, thrust sharp
between spokes, supposed
to add charm or an aerodynamic
flow, or some kind

of sound effect. Whatever it was,

the result
was wreck.

You are hardly fit now
to say what you meant,

with your knees and palm heels,
and one whole

side
of your fresh, raw face

alive and stinging with red

the machine jerry built

respect
is built on
retrospect.
You know who to trust
when you know what to trust
them for, whatever they say
you'll get, you will judge
by reflection on previous
score.

seduction of the ulterior

my mind is beyond beguiling you
at this time. I have things better left
to do undesigned,
so if I should
accidentally slip -
do you really think that I should?
Get over yourself,
or it.

shouldn't call 'em Injuns

Never call them "Injuns," even though
that's remarkably close
to just what the old colonial
stiff-upper accent
might have made of those
from Injia. It's not
considered correct
or considerate. Call them

Indians.
That's what
they call themselves -

the accent is different,
so don't say it wrong.

respect. Peace out

they have

a nuclear

bomb

approbate

That was viral-style nasty. It deserves to GO,
wide!

LIKE & SHARE, hey people LIKE & SHARE
snide

mailbox fool

Let me guess:
"Your mailbox is full."

The task -
of clearing a pinchworth of space
from the precious past

to let present and future slip in
- not worth it to you? that

is some kind of sin.

hypothetical task

PLEASE
I'm terribly
easy
distractible,
easily, I mean
any time when
I am,
as I am, now
singly and mindfully
focused

on task, going off
one thing, only

spiraling out into
fractal rings of superimposed
(imperfectly) versions of what

possibility would suggest
isn't wrong. (I'm perfectly)
Sure,

it is

probably not.

"Young Quixote"

Defending the faith is a dirty job. But somebody
has to do it
beautifully.
With ugliness
involved, I've pretty much gotta. Discussing
"social issues," sometimes,
you find yourselves down
to specifics considered unfit
for mixed company, which
you emphatically are, but
you flatter each other suggesting
that clinical phrasing and euphemism
can carry the day, triumphant in ways, everyone
feels free and pleased
to call understood

- which you use,
as your cue and excuse
to pull huge and grandstanding stance-dance moves
on the poor Church's good and innocent head! Well, I
don't have to be Innocent, Pius or Papal
at all,

to say "Bull!" to that!

Come hand me down
my favorite coat for my naked arms,
and my naked sword. It's right
over there by my Cowboys hat. With my naked eye,
I can see,
it's time,
I guess,
to war. Sort of

- Saddle destrier! For to ride out again en carousel,
we've been chasing each other's tails so well, oh
well, we forget
sometimes,
the smell that surrounds.

Ew.

Let us cut this chase, and proceed
with our points raised high
in a line. Just time
for a last crusade, and
cover your shame with your emperor's
cloak (that damn thing's mine!
And it's beautiful

On you, I think) and in all your glory
let's run this day
down the lists,

so tilted and whirled, how we've missed

- I will drop handkerchiefs
for you, silly girl.

Free as birds

It is free verse, with rhymes
that fall like birds
from the sky, to lie

where they lay,
for reporters to gather and theorize
ecological cause. But it's all

as it should be,

it's all in play.

little wounds

little wounds

appear on your hands, days

after they are made. You have almost

quit noticing them, or wondering when

you were ever so rough.

Was it work or play?

Unsettled

Remember how much you wanted,
and make sure
that's always how much you want,
or more.

many layers

I'm wearing way
too many layers. I miss them,
where the cold is gone. And I have lived
too much in the sun, for so many
years, I slip them on

at any excuse
to look a fool

wearing too many clothes
for the weather's best
- but look! See? See!

They come on and off!

I can pull off this look
quite handsomely,
I guess.

A sweater! And under that -
a button-shirt! Under that,
a tee! And a hoodie goes over,
and over that, my good
and favorite coat,
that I never get any excuse
to go out in. See how it goes
with my scarf!

How often do you get a chance to wear
a scarf? So comfy and bundled up,
and snug, all
slung

on my arm with the coat
and stuff. Just watch!
Like a magic trick, I will pull
and put it all on,
just as soon as it dips

just a little below
what the forecast called
for this outing we're on.
Are you ready? I am!
You can see

I have very well
planned for this.

Let's go!

The trick
to dressing in
too many layers is,

try not to draw too much
attention to it.

the girl out of time out of mind

Don't worry

I know who you are
I have waited in cars,

for the girl out of time out of mind,

and always
counted it mine. And well-spent,

knowing you would arrive, gasping disbelief
and apology,

that so many things came in -

it was always
Now

that the girl out of time out of mind
would always arrive,

with perfect intent,
and with disbelief
in apology,

I have waited for you.

And you'll come.
In your own best time, and into
the fullness of which,

we'll flee.

a question of short-term memory elves

There's something that I don't
understand, if your long-term memory
is great. Which it is! You say
- and I'll witness to that,

But you're bad
at short-term memory.
So you claim? And it's not my place
to dispute! But how
does a short-term
memory, once
let slip,
return to the fold? to complete

the great and the vivid truth
in the unbroken record
your long-term keepsake
picture box

has come to hold?

What little elves
slip those gifts in,

so you open it up
and gaze on them?

They only stole them away
for a spell, perhaps
that they cast -
and it served them well, but
in token of mischief
or gratitude, they steal
to your chest,
and slip them in

just behind your heart
Where every piece nests
in its final place,

fit
snug

with the others
you can't replace.

"Clean"

You don't need
to worry bout me
anymore.

I broke free,
I swam to the opposite
shore.

and we'll see
who's better at being
themself,

because free
is higher than we
ever felt.

I'm clean;

I'm strong;

I'm bright;

I'm tall,

and no one's going to tell me I'm wrong,
and nothing's gonna stop me at all.

I'm clean;

I'm strong;

I'm bright;

I'm tall,

and nothing's gonna stop me at all.

I'm clean.

And we'll see
who's better at being
alone.

Without you,
there's finally nobody
home.

You don't need
to worry bout me
anymore.

You can go:
Enable yourself
to the door.

I'm clean,

I'm strong,

I'm bright,

I'm tall,

and no one's going to tell me I'm wrong,
and nothing's gonna stop me at all,

I'm clean,

I'm strong,

I'm bright,

I'm tall,

and nothing's gonna stop me at all.

I'm clean,

And we'll see
whose rise is the highest
from fall.

You don't need
to worry about me
at all.

And we'll see
who's head is it that
it's all in

'Cause this high
is freer than I've
ever been

I'm clean

I'm strong

I'm bright

I'm tall

and no one's going to tell me I'm wrong
and nothing's gonna stop me at all

I'm clean

I'm strong

I'm bright

I'm tall

and nothing's gonna stop me at all



I'm clean.

armistice

the clock should stop

as soon as you look at what time it is
and overreact, and suddenly rush
to finish all things - you did the right thing!
You decided to stop, and start getting ready for

whatever
you're late

to get ready to do.
But next thing you know,
you're still finishing up -

it's a half hour past, and then ten minutes more

from the moment you looked at the clock
and realized you'd lapsed,

and you started,
so furiously to catch

up.

The clock should just stop
for that. It's a virtuous act

in the middle, to quit

of anything soft - and to rush

to complete

what you're trying to do,
is the hardest part -

it's the thought, cut off
for the sake of the thing,
for the sake of these picked,

appointed times

rushing down at you
like the devil's tines
in a pitchfork poised

at a beating heart,
made for suffering.

The clock should just stop
for the hardest part,
and let us clear decks

and breathe a piece,
and get ready for what

we said we'd do. And
who we said we'd be.

firm plans

You're going to call
before you leave, right?

Once you come
to pick me up, it will be

too late, to shower
and shave and a change of clothes,
and everything else - one last
cigarette, perhaps, before

you pull up to see
the smoke. Please call,

I know about how long the drive takes.
As soon as you call, I will need every minute,

and just

a bit more,

for both our sakes.

coauthor

I am writing a book
with you
right now
it remains to be seen
the credit you'll get

so much depends
upon etiquette

and editorship
and antagonists

and every which role
you play
in this

you can be amanuensis;
muse, or plow in and strew
developments, as only you
can. It remains to be seen
the credit you'll get

for all you've been

idiot luck

How many times
can I come right out and tell you what
I don't know yet how to say, and
it comes out fine?

As many
as you care to have, for
as long as you want, you will have your way
with mine,

and I
will be having my way
with yours. And together we'll mind
very much, as we have our way
with coincidence, fate,
destiny and luck,

and everything else so certainly sure.

Just as if we were great,
just as if we were both in the know
and the game is fixed.

When in fact,
we haven't got inside dope
at all, just an outside shot
with an idiot.

misunderstandings with the ideal reader

The way that you read my poems,
it's like
they were written to you,
which is an imposition at its best,
or quite daringly close
to it. A presumption, perhaps
at its most troublesome, which
- when proven true, will get up
and go, leaving you
with no further game
to pursue. And me,
I will write
another one.

carefree

As much as I love
how we muck about, it's time
we considered our room for doubt, and why
we both hold so fiercely to it. To step up, consider
if time has come, if we need to admit
we believe in much more
than we think we'll get.
And if so,
figure out
necessarily what, if
anything's
next.
And
whether we strictly
need

to place a bet.

"the hundred left"

one hundred strong,
with mighty heave
burst
off
their
bonds to stand defiant, turn
and leave.

the lists

With that look in your eyes
you have seen beyond

I'm a mystery bound
by your violent insight

and you'll hold me free
for the rest of my time
on earth, unless I surrender
conditionally, and agree

to the worst you'll be,
as often as it best pleases you,
too,

which sounds great to me,

but I'm still not sure if that means
we have anything else

to do.

leave-taking

Thank you for asking. You're welcome, I'm glad
if I have been of service
or of interest. It certainly costs me
nothing
but enjoyable time, which I've always
been all too willing to spend. It's a pity

we can't have breakfast again. You know
how it is, and
how it isn't.

key made of locks

You hold yourself
in reserve, in case

and your hold is easy and calm,
and safest for everyone, you believe
and think. If you turned on your axis

just ninety degrees, you'd slip
in a hole just exactly the shape
your shape makes when seen from just
past this brink, where you catch and hold,
and are turning

again,

as all of you clicks
like teeth and eyes, and slides, as
all of the tumblers in you
spring free -

I don't know what else
it can do or is for, but
for sure,

this key
made of locks
fits me

Forward the Species

humanity is the greatest project
any species has ever embarked upon
so far as we know, and it is worth
the sacrifice of countless

billions

which anyway, would have been spent
on something

frivolous,
probably

like us.

lock made of keys

maybe it was just

everything you said, but it made me think
that a whole new way of talk
had been invented, and I was

trying to catch up, to
contribute, only

you knew

the key to it all, but

maybe it was just
everything you said.

talkin' dirty, or

Well,
dirty talk always tends
to transgress. And most people,

holding themselves out as
decent, more or less, tend to go

straight for the nasty, transgress

that propriety line, that false
dichotomy, which they've set up and strengthen, partly
in order to misuse now, and then.

In contradiction lies
release, from the public self

to some wilder beast you give in to
what you try to hide, which is

hot. And that is exactly why. Otherwise,
we wouldn't bother. Me though,

I'm a feminist, so
-called, or effeminist some
may say, that's fine. Okay,
so naturally what I tend to transgress
is not propriety,
so much as a politicized conception
of what we all these days hold forth
to strive for as correct, but

secretly, maybe

cries out for correction? Yeah,
maybe. Though to be sure: just
between us two, only
for educational purposes, and entertainment
value. Because that's

not really
what we really are,
when we speak these sweet
everythings askew and ajar

- in a case like this, which we press
'til the instinct screams

give it all away, and be free!
Be free, for a series of deep
-drawn breaths, clothed in sheens
of another's sweat and then tapering
back to the greater and lesser things
that we know are right, and proper

for us. With a shh
and wink. Naturally, once
the obligatory geek-reference
pon-farr has seized us
and been spent,

we revert

to a by-then more
or less semblance

of how we feel our best self ought
to be, or acting like

at least.

But, you know, right there
right in the middle of things, right

there

that's just
what we want to test,
and transgress against - because we can,

and as a weird
kind of trust
and a confidence,

yes!
to drop

what we meant
to be, and get down

like a living thing,

sworn to secrecy

daring cancellation

The story of how I won you over
is still going on, I hope

that it has and will always be. Going on, drawn
out - it's one of those will-we
or won't-we deals
that keeps us tuned in,
for year after year, in the midst
of whatever else action-packed,
mythos-advancing or scare of the week
the writers work in,

until things peak
popularity-wise, and a trend
towards descent eases in, at around
the fifth season, or so

as a stunt, all a sudden,

away we go

"Third Law"

I have such a heart for you, aching
with fine and romantic yawning,
I mean longing, it's
yawning up from behind
to close on my mind and leave everything
void enclosed in null. Except for
the sparkling wine
of consciousness, dawning
suspended in nothingness
less what's left after all
I know. After all I have tried - my best,
so beautiful, bold and wise,
and to such effect,

for all my lies

- I have not tried my best.
Just what passed for it.
I've mislaid every bet,
distracted by hits
as luck piled up I would count
every card
'til the shoes run empty, along
with the till.
To hurt til it fits,
broken-in and worn.
To have come up
cold. Like a hypocrite,

I will say I have had my fill.

Let me not be reborn.
Let the universe go, off and away
on its final stretch,
and let me stay on,
and grow old

with the rest of this emptiness.

finish.

This velvety Cabernet
Sauvignon
comports itself
in a gay cabaret of cavorting
notes, and trills, and

is gone.

lost in the backlight

you're standing right here,

and I can't see you. Your face
so beautiful, traced with mind's eye
from a thousand and more goings over
of times when you stood

Right here.
I could reach out and touch almost.
Now you're here,

all the background shines
so much,

from a host of foundations and frames
we've sketched in so deep,

the perspective recedes in traceries thick,
constellations of stars we've each placed, and named
, and hung

so much light, years off now -

it is still coming in
on us. What
comes next?
I will stand here, so fully and over
exposed, while you
stand here drowning
in halo effects, and your face

your beautiful face -
I can't see

for the light
coming off what we used
to be.

the horror

We have so much potential, around and in us
- supernatural acts are superfluous

Thanksgiving for days

Leftovers are best
when you've planned for them
and you've made ten times
what would have sufficed - because where
would have been the fun in not? You've got
so much more
to be thankful for

than just enough
could ever come close
to cover. And isn't
it nice? Yes it is.

It is plenty. And plenty is good.

In fact, it's one
of the best things there is
in this tumbled garden, and I assure you
this: you will never get anything good
to anyone
by a rejection
of anything good
that was given in gift.

Quit rejecting the good
within reach, in a twisted penance
against how horribly
the world outside, on your
doorstep, breathing and scratching,
preys on the conscience you have
so pain
-stakingly
jerry-rigged
up from concertina-wire
execution-style font
of those strident and earnest
accusers
you read with such avidity, and support
in spirit,
so many times

you recuse yourself

from open embrace of what
you've been so far too lucky
to face.

Grow up, and accept the things you can fix.
If there is any good, accept the gift.
You do not bring comfort, or aid, you do not
succor
or assuage
anyone suffering
by pretending to join them
in righteous and loving embrace, feeling
as fetish, for ribs so thin

You feel you must live for this.

Disgraceful act, to reject
what is good. Unless of course done
for a selfish cause: like girlish figure,
beach-ready bod, or to support the appearance
of a claimed allergy to some common food substance - otherwise,
disgraceful. To reject what is good - and especially if
you insultingly, unconscionably pose

in your striking way, as if doing so helps
those desperately in need
of the good you reject, oh! Right-on!
Ye righteous symbolist,

Spit
while you're at it,
in their empty bowl, you
cretin, you hypocrite, you monument
to vanity, you
disgrace to this world
and everything in it! Everything bad,
and everything good.

Or better yet, don't, though. Instead, come back,
repent, come in - it's Thanksgiving for days
in here, wash out that bowl,

and fix yourself

- as you so easily can, it would be shame
bordering treachery for you to pass
the burden by - this bowl, new and heavy
with freshly-hot plump, thick turkey
juicy shreds on soft thick mattresses
of gravy-laden stuffing, and sauced
with cranberry sauce, of course. What else? This

is what we call home-made. You can't take

anything in this world

this good

by force.

You can't even pay

So much gift in this life,
you know,

it would be a sin
to live
as if you too had none.
Have you had? To share?
Were there any in reach?

Did you give?
I gave. You
are welcomed
in. You're the only one
I could reach,
for this. Please
Take all
you wish, it
is free. It is good. It is better
than free:
it is

it was
a gift

share alike

Hey. Check it out!
look at this

it's ridiculous! I knew
as soon as I saw it "I know EXACTLY who

needs to see this thing" - you're going
to love it

Oh
wait.
You do? Like that? oh,
you really think so, really? How so?
Oh

Well
yes, I can see
I guess,

what you're saying, there. Not quite

here
where I am,
but from where you stand,

which is easy enough to see
from here, for me,

I get
where you're coming from.

And praise you
for your unique

view
-point

um

aspirational

I wish I could use smaller words
in bigger ways, sometimes, and then

I try, I do

but it doesn't feel right
- when you know the right word,

the perfect word -

to eschew

get along, now

Remember how happy we always were to disagree
on things like politics, and
religion? Yeah, me

either, but you
have to admit, we took
and sometimes still do take
great pride and satisfaction in

agreeing to disagree. Those agreements
of ours

to disagree

were as thorough and successful
as any agreements ever seen

in the history of reason, since the

Tweedles -dum and -dee,

as I hope you observe
and appreciate,

see?

Stuffing.

Stuffing or dressing, it's really
quite filling. What I don't get

is cranberry sauce. Does anybody
actually put it on stuff, as a sauce? Maybe
it's just my upbringing, but we always

kept it to its own spot on the plate, and
tried not to let it get on anything. It

was to be consumed pure, for its own sake,
once a year. Mostly

for the associations.

Whereas stuffing, hey

I would eat that every day. The only thing
that stuff's stuffing for

is human beings

with a beautiful view of what's missing from it

The sun has moved on,
and the view's gone inside
- but I thank you, for all
of the good you advise

Too late,
you told me to stay

warm in the sun. Well okay,
you told me on time, but I was late
hearing you. I should have paid
more attention. Instead,

I have paid the price
of retrospect, where you told me so's dance
around my neck, like the scratchy scarf
I am bundled in.

But of course, you would never tell
me them. Those told-me-so's. For one thing, you
didn't know that I wasn't listening.

For another, by now I can see
it myself. For another thing,
you've not been disposed
to gloat, not nearly enough,
which I suppose
is nice.

Meanwhile, I am here. Back in. Too late
to go on, too far to come back,
with the heat seeping on
and my scarf flung off,
and an aching back
where I used to be.

I sit with the view
in retrospect, and warm
in the memory
of where I should
have stayed.

It's gone
all cold, there
now.

But I feel like that
could

have been delayed

make / believe

If I couldn't pretend,
it would be a shame
since we just make-believe
so much of our lives.

But if it were a choice

that you
gave me, between make or believe,
I would not even think,
or hesitate

- I'd be lost

so fast, so far, so deep
diving in, into every
whatever that it could be, that we

would make,

just so we could see.
And together,

we'd know
which path we took,

and agree.

deniable plausibility

I've gotten better
at secretly meaning
nothing. Letting on
reams of rote
implied and seeming
emotion, directed at what,
we don't know - but so real,
so felt, an abstract vividity

- there must be something
there concrete, correct? Something
deeper, or at least
specific, actual.

Well,

it
would seem

so, or should so
seem. Secretly,

though,

nope

nothing.

Nothing underneath
the fraught surface, just
another attempt at evocative
effect - and if so, well-done

right? or wrong,

I figure
at worst, at least,
at last, you wouldn't
have asked

how much it hurt

objective means

There is no
objectivity: they say.
No viewpoint
with the subjective viewer
(and its bias) subtracted
out. It can't be attained, or
so they claim. Thinkers
used to strive
scrupulously for lifetimes, to scrape
and excise, identify
and omit all traces of their own

"subjective"

from their observations
and conclusions, seeking
objectivity. They found it

hard, and declared it
impossible
by definition.

This is called "doing it wrong."

You don't eliminate subjective taint
through a harsh, disciplined process
of purging and cleansing one's personal
view of every subjective impurity. Even if
you could do it that way - who's to say
what you've really achieved? No, we get
to objectivity - objectivity actually, objectivity
quite literally - a view with all purely subjective
individual bias subtracted! - and easily,
even. It just takes two

No, really: better three, better yet,

us all.
Depending on how
important it is, a given
observation, we have the
means. Everyone available
with eyes to see,
and a mouth to report,
- or functional equivalents
thereof, keyboards, fingers,
other sensory equipment
taking different measurements
of the same thing between - and a brain
to compare (observations and reports,
others and/or one's own) or rather: many
of them.
We have plenty,
in fact. We have more
than enough

to use
to subtract.

Because reality isn't perception. It isn't
in the head. It is

what lies between us, that provides content
for perceptions
of each, which all wind up
transformed and absorbed
in variably altered form - the key term
is "variably" - in each individual everyone's
head. What we call perception

is not reality, but a
by-then multi-generational copy
of it.

Of reality. Of the same
thingy thing
that just happens to exist, right where
each of us has it, right between: there to measure,
detect, assess, take in, like so:

through eyes, for example,
up optic nerve, dump
to visual cortex, filter out
from there
to wherever such content is used
and goes, and then becoming (instantly):
memory
memory
memory,
writing,
reaccessing,
recreating,
new thought, cognition,
interpreting,
selecting,
reinterpreting,
comparing,
classifying,
reperceiving

- not in that order,
necessarily,

Perception.

Isn't reality: it's

the director's cut. One greater-than
IMAX-sized single-person audience
wide release version, for each of us.
A highly-processed and packaged product.

And meanwhile, reality

continues to lie
between us,
as it always does, scattered all
over the infinite and observable
cutting-room floor, which

we all often enough go back to
at will, to resample, remix, and explore.
From original ingredients,
fresh, local, organic
or modified, each as they are,
available to all to make anew the dish
from scratch, by as many recipes
as we've all improvised, or
learned, or deviously hatched.

There's something that's there, between us which
subjective treatment and subjective distortion
cannot distort, for a very good and simple reason:

With an ever-larger sampling, whatever veers off
from what's actually there
will average itself out
of the picture.

Each observation is a test
of perception - each person's. The standard
is one that everyone holds and can refer to. And
the more observers, the more observations: some true,
some less true, some grossly flawed, but

since only the truer observations converge
on what actually was, really there, to be seen
that we saw, and that
we all can still see, if pointed out - we will
increasingly find

that the more "subjectives" we add, each with
its own unique little quirks and flaws (or big) - but also
each with its own more-or-less accuracies

(which even the worst of us do really have)

- of all those more-or-less accuracies, the
-less veer off, and the
more- veer on, converging strong,
along lines and points that match up
to the plane or the sphere we're on. That are
somethings we all can see, if shown, and often
just spot by ourselves, on our own. But even if
we miss on the first past by, they exist
to be seen if you lead my eye, or if I
lead yours - except and unless
your eye or mine

are defective. And even that
is no reason to despair, or
guess.

Defects

all cancel, by averaging out.

Defects

of individual perception - from
whatever source! Defective equipment,
an eye, or brain, defective conception,
insanity, auteur theory

- each of those "off" results net loss, because
whatever defect may be their cause,

they all wander off. They tend in so many ways,
away

from reality,
and so are
lost.

Just so, the accurate signal nets gain, gains strength
and strength, combined and accumulated sans defect,
coming in from every which input combined
that doesn't distort or divert
from true point
or true line. By each degree it does
divert, the noise is lost, the signal
heard. The accurate signal - of which everyone
gets at least
a few - accrues, and that's all
it can do, because it agrees
with the only thing everyone
together has between them,
to see.

Perceptions that run true to what's really there
reinforce themselves
with each other, they come in
ever more clear, come ever more
verifiably correct, reality
comes in gangs
and throngs, and so
bearing each other out

of subjectivity,
these points place
and welcome and fit
everywhere where they
really belong.

So the purely individual
purely subjective view ("purely"
because unsupported for real)
is subtracted out, and we're left
with nothing but what they say
we can't get:

Objectivity.

Objectivity is a mass project
of Venn overlap and scrutiny within,
of repeated test, and it's easy,
you know. What's hard is to close
one's eyes and mind, and pretend
that truth
is something impossible
we can't do. That we can't
see or know, except
as a weird and distorted guess
at best.

Heck no! It's easy,
and we do it all
the time. Objectivity
is real, everywhere sufficient subjectivity combines
to give the attempt so much as a token try, and

we see
what's real,
what lies between us,
which is nothing that's only in any
one's mind.

As everywhere one's subjective view
fails to converge on what's really
there to find, on what's there
observable,
- and so observed
between us all,

all points converge on truth, except
each peculiar and defective view, and every one
of them runs away, and off
on its own, so presenting no obstacle
to you. And me, and we who know
quite well, that reality isn't only between
one's ears. It's between one's friends
and foes, and everyone who is here. The only people
who think it's just between ears
don't tend to have much else they
can fit in there,
it's clear.

But it's no concern. Don't sweat the fact
that yes, we all have
this or that defect, within
our subjective minds, or eyes,
or views, the peculiar perspectives
or frameworks of ours. We don't ever need
be afraid of such skews. Truth
has powerful effect, where light is sufficient,
where people have sense - which is acted-upon
by it. Observations add in, and magnify,
those that correspond with what's actually
real increase in grasp and in confidence
- while running away to all sides
go the false and the wrong.

Even our own.

Mass subjectivity
converges powerfully
on the real, by averaging out
every point of variance. Every point
where perception
converges on truth - these accumulate
and combine, reinforcing
one view
of what's seen: the accurate one,
the one by which senses are actually
acted-upon. While each point
where perception goes off, swerves out
and away from truth, to peculiar
degrees - whatever their cause! Subjective effects
of defective perception diminish
and eliminate themselves ever more, the further away
they sink or soar. Individual slant, individual
tint, individuals willfully blind
can rant - but input from everywhere will reinforce
what is actually there, when we really look.

With enough of us looking, subjective is lost.
Because it is merely unique.

It is only unique
and defective perception
that tends
away,

in any
and all of the ways
it can possibly steer - each veers
and swerves on its own little path,
or in flocks of like-minded, inculcated sway, but they all
wander off, effectually, the same: away.

They all make departure
from what really lies
between us all,
that we all can see.
They vary too variously to add up
to obscure the view of what's really

what. Of what really lies here,
between us all: all which we can see
however we wish!

- but with enough input, enough
tests run through, enough subjects
come back comparing results from that to this,
and looking again at the substance, whenever
a doubt comes up, we're left

unable to agree in anything

- except in what is.

Which is easy
and good,
convenient in fact,

once you can accept.

Objectivity does exist,
all around: it's a commonplace
thing, but with so much depth. It is that
in and through which we all connect,
much more than perception: it is

reality

Check.