The dog fell down

The dog fell down upon its breast.
Her hind legs did a sprightly jig.
She's only seventeen at best;
I fear she'll never grow as big
as personality of hers once loomed.
You will forgive, I hope, the term
of -ality and personhood,
Please be assured: hers
is well-earned.

zipper slid

The zipper slid down of its own accord,
or gravity's, I guess
but - either way
that's a finely-tuned
machine! And I'm glad that it's on,
and that it's scored with best steel
finely-scaled rows of teeth. Because
I heard the zoom-rattling down

and I said:

This zipper holds its worth
in the easy and gliding descent

I've found

Into and out of

With mincing steps, sometimes
I storm the doors
blood-deep in gin and whores
and stride with purpose orderly
inside, where I stand fast,
hold forth
and ride it out
until I'm spent. So topical!
So eloquent, so passionate
I pour it out. Then I
bow imperceptibly,
to all the room
which I might well have
not just done. It was
quite imperceptible! But
thoughts that count
are carried through
in some amount.
And then I turn, as if
with some decision, and
I storm the doors again
- the other way, this time.
It's pull! Don't push,
remember, on such finest shades
of gesture hang
impressions made
just now and when. I storm
the doors, and I go out.
My steps are mild,
mincing then.

envy seed

There's only one girl I know
of all my crushes
more beautiful than you, and she's
just luscious
But dumb as a post. Now
ain't that just
the way it always is?
I confess, I made
that one part up.

Brave face

brave face
sad spirit
heart fearful
body proud
mind vexed
by all suggestion
any of it's not allowed

Stance defiant
Viewset skewed
by all the weight
of eyes combined

Hey, fuck you man
mind yourself
I'm only always
doing fine.

rear-view driver

You want to climb into the rear-view mirror.
The road seems clear, the view more fine
back there. All the boring ugly lies
forgotten in the press

To keep and memorize the truth
and beauty to compare. Besides,
you got through all of that. And so
in hindsight - can't have been
that bad. You just

wish sometimes you
could drive that way.
Your eyes

keep on distracting you
with what's ahead. With what
looks sad,

Or likely to get lost
or stall. Or dangerous
and screaming huge, now
bearing down upon it all
as you confuse the thing to do
with who to be - while obstacle
and opportunity converge,
merging to one lane, too soon
for you to thread yourself
into
by any taken pains,

or swerve.

Can't we climb up in and back
to that bright shine and slightly
cock-eyed frame? Wait, just

a tick

split-sec

It's crooked, isn't it?
Adjust, just so. Fond look,
look back. Ignore
The crash

there

there.
Remain

spike the ball

I dunno I always suspect
knowing what's wrong with me
would be useless information.
It would still be wrong with me.
Hardly impressive or helpful. I mean,
if I find out what's wrong with me,
it doesn't make it "not my fault."
It's still my fault! It is a fault,
and it is in me, therefore mine. Anybody

saying otherwise will be rebuked
for their disgusting presumption,
and their weak-minded daring - trying
to divest me of any part of my own!

Yet I remain vigilantly curious, despite
the likely unsuccess and uselessness. I mean
rationally speaking. Why should there be
anything wrong? Let alone with me. The whole
situation seems arranged to prevent it, or
punish it at least. So I'm curious.

It's no reason not to know.
There is never a reason not to know.
Any info that comes out, count me in
on the know! I'm keen as spiked brass balls
in some murderous beach volleyball pick-up
game. I range the sand in wary response,
unconcerned in victory, indifferent
to points scored for or against
- there for one person and one
reason: to expose the flaws
in my strategy,
and if necessary,
execution.

Sociological approach

Science I think has an inkling in general.
Some inkling. Same thing wrong
with everyone I suspect. Fucking
uniqueness. Humanity's curse
as usual. I mean - of course
yours is different! Everyone's is,
I don't mean yours isn't. Still. Some
seem to notice it more than others, though,
and that seems to be their problem. Those
are the ones who have a much harder
or else easier time of it, excluding
the ones who don't notice it
more than others. Those have by far
the much easier or harder time, too.

What's the use of generalizing, though? Can't
compare apples and individuals. What we need

is statistics. Or at least odds. One
in seven point eight billion and climbing
seems about right. Fair odds, 'cause
we've all got a one-sized stake
in the claim, some skin in the game
- and as Marshall Mathers or rather Rabbit
observed, only one shot.

With odds like that
I always guess what's wrong
with us (or right) can't go
any distance at all
to evening them.

infallible is where you find it

Yeah, I intuited you were kidding
on the murder part.
I always intuit that.
I've an incredibly sharp
judgment of character when it comes
to finding people are kidding
about murder,
most likely.
It's been flawless so far.
100% consistency of finding.
I like to kid
about horrifics myself
as you know. One time
I ate my own eyes. I used
a grapefruit spoon.
But I didn't! I was only kidding,

which anyone could see.

Hunger House

Why is there no restaurant
called Hunger House? I bet
that they'd be always full
of people drawn in from without
who'd suddenly feel hunger pangs
or just the fear of feeling them
reminded by that name most cool.

"We're not Food House" the name
reminds. The people come
for just one cause:

Hunger.

Hunger sucks them in.
Impatiently, they wait, then sit.
Consult their menus, and

are lost.
For all that's on there
is themselves.

For Hunger House
has eaten them. Perhaps
that's why there's no such
name

for any restaurant I ken.
I could perhaps try search engine, but

I don't think I want to, though.
Some things it's best to know
you want to know
before you know,
you know?

Made to blame

If you make me to blame,
I won't
find fault
'til there's nowhere to go
Just here
to fall.

If you pick me back up,
don't mind
the cracks.
'Cause if anything breaks,
I'll bring
it back.

Next time you die

I'm sorry I didn't return your calls
I'm sorry I didn't tell you why
There really was a very good cause
I'll tell you next time you die

Next time you die, look me up
I'll be your date to the funeral
Next time you die, so happy we'll be
or one of us will. The event
will not be dull

Poem-making advice.

Use as much nudity as you have to.
In the poem, it's art. It gets a pass
- the raunchier, the better arguably.
Why pass up such chances?

During the writing process, hey
Nobody's business. Nobody needs
to know, but combine them both

- that poem will be so hot, people

will be like "I do not believe
the poet composed this

nude." It will seem too much
like some lurid and gaudy
dream of pensive flesh

quivering for words

Protest all you like
"Yes I was!" But some critic
will always insist: "no,

this was the work of
a clothed poet. Observe
the lines"

Fair enough. Maybe
you were

maybe you weren't.

Just so it gets in
the poem, that's

the main thing.
And as with nudity, so too
for anything else you put in.

Rain poem? Write wet.
Wind poem? Write tousled.
Sun poem? Write burnt.
Love poem? Write yearning,
or aching, or so fulfilled

you should stop. Writing
a poem, I mean. Bigger game
is afoot.

However you did what you did,
nobody needs to know
if you didn't.

A note to future reader.

Are you - wait, are you reading
this now? Go away! Come back
later, it's not ready.

This

is a note to future reader.
It will never be ready
if you show up now.

Sheesh

People can't even
read, it's a wonder why
we write

things

belong for you

As long as this world has turned,
I've hung on. Seen some beautiful
blurs as I've dragged on past,
always hoping to see my way to home
always hoping to find some place
to last. Some fit to catch

and clasp.
Well I've more or less given up
on fitting in. Getting by's
been enough, and circling by,
as the people cling tight
to some place they've
been
only wanting to stay,
as they wave goodbye. I think
perhaps none of us fit quite here.

And I know I don't,
but somehow you do.

The world found its focus in eyes
so clear, they could only
be yours. And I knew
I'd found mine
for a mile or two.
But it's widening miles
for circles around the earth
since we've danced and walked
and shone. With a roof of skies,
cliffs and trees for walls,
I've finally found
my piece of home.

So long
as you're here,

I've decided I will
belong.

these rivalries

The sad you see
and the far I see
do not get along
convivially.
Like the Pharisee
and the Sadducee,
forever bickering
biblically.
The one thinks the this
and the other the that,
and where shall the twain
ever come to meet? Well I
can see far up ahead. It
looks sad
without you there.
Want to come and see?

Please perfect

Please cure me
where I need to be cured.
Strengthen me
where I lift and drive.
Light me where
I need ways and views,
especially inside. Guide
me where I need attitude,
or anything you could see
to improve. Perfect me to fit
this perfect mess
which I was born into,
and order some corner of it
in a gift I have shaped and made
in giving me back to you.

Naturally I

St. Peter met me at the door
and he was jangling all these keys.
He asked me pointed questions
for an awful spell, even
made me go down on knees.
All the while, he seemed
unconcerned.
And he made me recite some
cryptic bits.
Then he said, "Get on up!
Come on in, good boy!"
I just barked, and took a shit.
I could sense it would be
the last time
So naturally I
felt allowed.
Saint Peter just beamed
as if he'd seen
a few stranger things
from this crowd.

"house of clocks"

We pass the time adjusting hands
in circuits none too circumscribed
symbolically attuned by touch
in nicks of time, as we pass by
we've memorized the fast and slow
and understand relationally
just what we need to do to fix
the face in front of us, by glance
at its three nearest neighbors, and
triangulating on towards tea.

projectiles

Projectiles project.
It's what they do.
And when their trajectory
intersects you, they may penetrate,
deeply embed, hooked and held.
Or just bounce off! In which case
it's probably just as well.

style tips on foul

Don't be foul, my love. Be
raunchy as hell, but
be not foul. If you must

be nasty - be nasty
as you please, dear
but foul? That's a step
too foul for your style, trust
me

On your style,
I have become expert
and sensitive to nuance

where your style is concerned,
if nowhere else. Hell

what other style do I need
besides yours?
And mine.

fix yourself

You greet every day with a fresh start, fix
your messed up hair, your face
fix yourself some bite
to eat (of course
it's to eat)
(would you fix yourself
bites to spit out? You
would not) and a thing
of juice, or something hot
or cold and fizzy, and then

you get out of bed
you're a miracle before
you even begin

and then
you do it all again,
for real this time. Some times
fresh from sleep, you have
to lay things out in your
mind. Before it's for real
you decide what you'll find
because it's for keeps.

Two nails

Two nails
sticking up from a pile of slats
under the deck
I had to cross
searching the hidden key
stabbed straight
through the rubber sole
of one Chuck, and I grieved
the loss

But in a flash,
the shoe came off

There was barely a kiss
of blood on my foot. And the holes
were invisibly closed
I suppose
the rubber has suffered
no ill for it.

So it's good

"break in the rain"

You and me found a break in the rain
and we bolted through like a couple of dogs.
We were crashing the surf and sniffing the spray
with the sun baking rainbows out of the fog,
and blowing away. The clouds parted towering
where we went through and the storm bowed out
making waves for you, as you came to me.
And we found what we came to see.

normal eggs

I got normal eggs
at the store, sorry.
I know you said get
the free shit, but I got caught
by suspicious looks trying to
pull a sneak, so
these are more expensive
but they said just as good
for the recipe.

projected inquest

A bit of a bloody denouement
has transpired to cap
our wildest dreams.
- So you play accomplice
- I'll be the corpse
And let us conspire
to taint the scene.
By the time our accomplices arrive
to detect all this wrack and ruin of ours
- unwitting at best, every detail pristine,
they're sure to give verdict:
a natural cause.

Please move in

Please move in with me I'm
in a crucial phase in my life
right now where I need
an in-house distraction
to throw all my focus on
that interaction, and off
of self. I can't go on otherwise
any longer without actually knuckling down
to get my shit together. Please

I'm desperate

Give me a reason
to procrastinate

on evening out and taking stock
on hard looks and decisions just
waiting to run amok, I know it
- a reprieve of weeks, months
or years would be great. As long
as you can take it, I will

overcompensate. And I promise
if you do, I will try not

to blow it.
Or break it
Or even break
through, no matter
the time and attention
it takes.

full coverage

Are we still on for never?
Because, you know. Never's just
forever with a negative twist. And
the twist is this: whichever you're
not into, if you change your mind,
I can change my wish.

gratitude solitude grows

The lonely with nothing to do
sit in houses, cursing and mourning
decisions they'd made, or circumstances
unfortunate, results of which
have played out as displayed.

Now and then one of them looks
around, and spots the house
that holds them in. "At least
I have this house," they think.
A spoonful of sugar
for bad medicine.

for want, of poetry

Poetry is "art," for want
of a better word
- and wanting it,
seeks. Seeks stones
to leave unturned
but turning in mind,
seeks leaves unspread
to the sun, as yet but buds
- seeks things undone
to leave them untouched
and well done
to a turn. Poetry still
has a lot to learn.

by garden gate, a visitor

Don't even

Those prayer flags are fucking disgusting
floating and fluttering prettily in the breeze
in bright blues, whites, reds, greens and golds
- you aren't Buddhist! You certainly ain't
Tibetan, you son of a bitch! - get that saffron
robe off! Quit

sitting all legs woven serene
in your raked garden of ordered
pebbles and plantings and curves,
and lines - really nice job by the way

But totally inappropriate! Get
on your feet, you disgusting fuck! You

oh shit

I'm sorry, I thought you were somebody else
- Is this one one five? Oh crap - I am SO
SORRY, I was visiting my buddy, he just
moved in - your neighbor. He looks

almost exactly like you! Except
you know

a little less Tibetan

Yard security log

On the 27th, all four squirrels were active

A female cardinal was attacked by a crow. This
is unusual and contrary to procedure.

Attempts to interview participants were unsuccessful

(one fled,

the other resolutely stood by its original story CAW)

A falcon was glimpsed on high. No piercing shriek
by the falcon. That was me. My attempt to engage
the falcon in this way failed of success.

The same three sandhill cranes (see many
prior entries) were glimpsed

in their habitual occupation - beak-stabbing
for unspecified grub (possibly grubs?)
down in the common depression. This time,
not coming up the rise to the yard. Therefore
not properly part of our concern (the hawk, note,
flew directly over the yard, or clearly had done
so). As always, striking dramatically extravagant
poses - possibly unintentional, owing to a long,
graceful proportion in lines of beak and body,

I ignored them. Come to the yard if you want!
I will track and watch you closely, then. Otherwise,
your doings are your own. Peace be unto you, tall
cool birds.

A cat, though
came through, pretending ownership of the area
- typical of felines. This is probably a sort
of self-deceit essential to them in the wild,
where area ownership is in any case a nebulous
concept, open to contention every moment. Still,
this cat exemplified the trait. A detectably haughty
grace of carriage and motion was noted. Nothing
actually hunted, but many hunt-like poses struck:
freeze in place mid-stride. Hunker down
with tell-tale twitch at very end of tail
held out mostly motionless behind, all poses
aborted without pounce. I realized
how the cat flowed then paused then flowed
from one pose to the next - an epiphany?

I paid particular attention to the cat,
since I hadn't seen it or her or him
before (mustn't investigate) (gender
is irrelevant to my purpose with a
feline), so naturally I was curious.
Not in a way to kill the cat! My curiosity
is searchingly benign. I seek to observe
nature only, or occasionally provoke it

with poor-quality imitations of its calls. As
a test. Yet

this cat

outdid even the usual temerity of its species!
It had the special temerity to perch and pose
at one point
directly atop the yard security log!
Which,

true to its main purpose,
did nothing. The log

is primarily a deterrent.

It is possible
we need a bigger log

the beautiful result

Remember the beautiful result,
when you knew somehow every step
every move felt ordained.
Every detail shines. Insanity

could be defined

as trying that very same way, just as if
by ritual - under different constraints
and conditions come in - to achieve
(or to try) once again

to get
the best
of all the results
there have ever been. To once again get

you. Or some other result
so beautiful
and/or true.

Proving vain
in at least one sense,
and possibly two.

balancing unused ways

Sometimes we move in unused ways
- both hands full, stood on one leg
reaching with the other, trying
at the hooked door handle
with the hand less-full, pulling open
to snag with free foot, and

- something happens, in balance.
Slight-to-medium shift, as support goes
near out of line, and the whole world
seems to stand on some brink! We pull

ourselves in, by the door
with one foot and pivot
in our accustomed way

inside. Back on firmer ground,
feeling sterner stuff - for the high,
for the risk unanticipated and won
through. Then we ponder,

how much of our comfort
and competence, our excellence
and grace as bipeds stems

from just doing things
not in an unused way,
but in ways that are used?

And then you may muse,
perhaps the same applies
to balanced thinking. And why

am I wondering this? Come, pull
yourself in
by the door,
with your foot
drawing safely back through
in a win.

sometimes you just have to be the bigger man

You have decided to act

Without my permission, and
Against my comfort. I do not
Approve of you doing this

yet you do. Well which of us
is to rule in what you do? I'm not finished
please! Which of us
is to have say in your doings? You?

Why should it be you and not me?
We are both equal beings, here. I think
you have lost some grip of logic
which is mine, and perhaps need to look inside
me, to restore your sense

of my reason. Otherwise, why
would you do what I do not? Or approve
what I disapprove? Or say what you think,
when you could easily say what I think?

Do not be coy.

You know what I think. I see you often
mouthing the words as I say them, only
you make a funny face, all gog eyes
and grimace pulls as you act me out. Clearly,

you know what I think

and yet you do this. Now, please

justify if you can

yourself. It is okay
speak your turn.

I allow it.

rhyme schemer

A rhyme scheme is
a confidence job
on the public's wits.
They think it tricks
them pleasantly
to steal the ending sounds of words
and swap them round a bit
- while making not a dent
in sense. It builds to something
they expect, what's coming next?
A sweet suspense to drift within.
So both must flow - the scheme
in time, the sense in line,
whatever metaphors you choose
- just so long as they've brought
rhyme, it is no sin.
For if you throw
a curve

that they don't catch, or if
you miss a step upon the stairs
we all fall down, and off
the rails, and over
the side,

there is a splash!
That boat

is never coming back.
A risky ride

without a match.

"finger guns"

Her finger guns go off all bold
in wild shots through bullseye holes
that weren't there a trigger-pull ago

She meant to attach asterisks
perhaps to emphasize the risks
or say "there may be more to this"

What that is, we shan't know.
Because one bullseye's right on-sleeve
Where heart is kept, and shot through
accidentally

She'd have us all believe.

An army of swallows

The army of swallows took the sky
wherever they wanted, and dined outnumbered
on flitting mosquitoes who died in fleets
The army that flies on its stomach
is neat.

wishful arguing

I am trying to describe
a certain anger. It flashes
into ire from jaw-jut dare
and flares and congeals
to tenacity, obstinate
and confrontational
where we disagree. Incredulous
and equally vehement against
the first hint
of doubt another has
that what they say
is true
is true,
and any credulity
the other lets slip
in whatever established truth

the angry one

has a problem with.
It's a problem with sheep
and authority, and confusing
their place in all of this.
They suspect they're the hero,
here, but
let's just agree
to disagree

we wish

The lovely Rachel

No one knows her name, and I don't
but she's not the one from work,
or the one from Friends
I'm just gonna call her Rachel
in case we meet, and it's the luckiest
guess. I could even pretend
that I didn't know! "Oh, 'Rachel'
you say? 'Rachel' is your name? That's
so funny. I once
didn't know this girl
at all, who I thought
would show up at some point,
and now you did. A coincidence?
Or am I a dunce?" She will look
with a smirk, or a wry implied grin
like da Vinci could have coded into
painted skin, or a frown, or a pout
or who knows what else. And she'll say
"How the hell do I know? Ask the elf."

Then I'd look around wildly for elves
and find none. I would look back to her,
and like a faerie realm ninja she'd be
checking her phone, as if unconcerned.
That's the littlest "as if" I have ever
not
quite
yet
earned.

invisible links

The invisible links of inquisitiveness
by which we strive to bind, align
and order the day's doings
to haunt us in years to come
are not literal, nor even metaphorical
but symbolic. And we shall be the ones
who must make signification on that. For those
are the bars, not of iron but spirits,
in which we shall ride our carousal
and debauchery of ourselves, and begin
to drift off to some waiting cell.
Well-watered, well-hung out to dry,
and unwell.

"Head cocked at a quizzical angle"

Head cocked at a quizzical angle
Head Cocked At A Quizzical Angle
HEAD COCKED AT A QUIZZICAL ANGLE
I KNOW YOU MEANT SOMETHING, MAN
I CAN'T HANGLE

Look
here you come hey
hey
how's it up, what's your doing
and I'm like oh yeah,
it's this one. Again. Look
I know you don't mean nothin by it,
and it's "just your way" but
there's a thing called
"sense"
you might try it
no? Not interested oh
here comes more
of your usual peculiar unique.
Quelle surprise!
But I maintain my usual composure
and charm, while my brain sweats
start, despite all this breeze
You gotta THING you wanna point out,
you announce but you don't
you just
keep drawing wider circles around
my throat
If I don't choke, it's just that
the noose is too tangled.

HEAD COCKED AT A QUIZZICAL ANGLE!

Head cocked at a quizzical angle
Head Cocked At A Quizzical Angle
HEAD COCKED AT A QUIZZICAL ANGLE
I KNOW YOU MEANT SOMETHING, MAN
I can't hangle

man, "hangle"
that isn't even a word man
I don't even know where I get that
that's more of your shit

It's HC/QA, man

existential party quest

I am here...

I am here...then I am not here. Many are here
and then I am not. I am there. Must be. But
I cannot see the view there from here. Maybe

I am not here. Maybe I left and no one noticed. Even I missed me
on the way out the door, and I did let the door
hit me. I am not here, but

there must be someone here to observe that. Wait.
Many are here. Still. It does not seem

or feel how it would feel

if I were one of them. I feel much
like me, but gone. Who is observing
that I am gone.

It must be me. And the only place
for that to happen is here, and the only time
is now...therefore I AM

Here.

Hey! Thanks Descartes!

It just doesn't feel how it would feel
if I were. This must be what parties
always feel like. I guess

I forget between parties

"Fade out alcohol"

I'm starting to think the crutch isn't worth
the walk. And if I straighten up, dry out
and step gingerly, I could probably do
as well as I ever could.
Or at least I could talk
the talk more steadily.
And steady on now is how
I want to go. I'm not saying
I have a problem with it, I'm not
saying call the match, I quit -
but alcohol right now
I do not need your glow.
I want to see steady and clear
how things are.
In a light of day not colored by blur
no matter how pretty I feel
where the filters come in,
and the soft smudged
memories
were.

Is is what's left of was.

Is is what's left of was.

Is was. Whatever is, was already.
There is nothing new, just
things still with us. Took
new form, maybe. Grew, changed

and remained. Like you

used to be grains and beef
and sweet fruits, fresh local honey
and mother's milk, and look now how you
turned out. Like me

I used to be hoagies and Cokes
and puppy dogs' tails, and now
I am only the wag.

Like us

We used to be
something that was. And now

we are only two things
that are. We are

what is left of us

double almost

We are almost almost there
Not almost there, but almost almost
Close enough to see the place
from which we'll see
the place to be,
We're almost almost there
Just hang on tight
and don't hold fast
We're faster than the finish line
Just over this horizon
or the next, we're right
on time. This time,
or the next

Trying out both to tell between

This difference between a trampoline
and a kaleidoscope is, the kaleidoscope
shoots your vision through with shards
of tumbling colored stars and blacks
your eye when you fall face forth
with one eye closed while bouncing

on the trampoline.

the shed

The shed

sits way back in the side
of the yard looking all

one or two slats askew

there's something
sinister
about the left-hand slant
of the second slat
the way the light shines through
in the sunrise

like last night was hell
and this morning's purgatory

look for limbo towards evening
inside that shed
the cycle continues endlessly,
maybe. That shed

is ready to go out in horrid glory.
This shed wants to become
a horror movie

starring the shed
as the horror. It doesn't plan
to come to life or anything

just scare the shit
out of people for ninety
going on a hundred twenty minutes
crisply-edited and minimally scored

until the surviving cast members
are like "Fucking hell! Enough with this
fucking shed" and burn it down

Done.
Over.

Depending on the coming business

(stunt-shed, suckas)

(Shed II: Same Shed, Different Day)

Clean your plate

Clean your plate
then medicate
then wash it down
- you must hydrate,
don't hesitate
to lay you down
to sleep. Or stay
up late to keep
the watch - you might
as well now, dear.
There isn't much
to do down here

eyes as close

I find the nose
interferes with eye contact.
You can press as close
as you can - two noses
squashed flat! Still
eyes cannot meet.
Only feel feathered breeze
fanned by each other's lash
as you blink out in code
some message, secret
and sweet.

cathartic sea

Maybe I could cry an ocean
or an inland sea. I never could
have cried a river. Freshwater tears,
too pure for me. I'm not that pure,
I'm not so pure - despite you say,
and we both see - and still and clear
and deep as we agree, I'm never quite
so pure. But maybe
I could cry a mountain.
Hard as these tears rise
and swell, as pressure builds
and bulges out as if
to vent the fires of hell,

It finally does erupt in waves

As wide as tides and cold
as salt. And when mist
clears, a mountain rise
with oceans running
from its fault.

escapade in full

Look out
some one
from the world's gonna
stop you someday
if you give them their way
they'll take yours, look out
some one from the world's gonna
stop you somehow
if you don't
look out
now
pores

dilate and breathe
as adrenaline curls
through the bloodstream's surge
to a river that spins
the world

Look out
some one
from the world's gonna
spot you if you run that hot
that fast that hard
watch out some one
from the world's gonna drop you
if you try to step up
your game
if you drop your guard, watch

your whole war get blown
to pieces
as calm cool heads
cold quiet you down
watch out
some one
from the world's gonna miss you
when you're gone, way off
into sunsets dressed
in your very best
evening gown

and that, as they say

We were in the midst
of living our lives
into insignificance
- heroically, for
our part - when suddenly nothing
unusual happened, except to us.
In a sense, and by our arts
of innocence, adroitly
turned: we fell
in love.

And nobody noticed,
Nobody cared, while for us
the world burned.
We commenced to push
neverendingly for
the coming of shove
- with all it entailed.
In a private conspiracy
of one, which we sooner
or later became, we flailed.
For as long as it took,
from try to err,
we failed 'til
we failed
to fail.

relative lawns: a detailed survey

On the other side of the fence, the grass
is always greener - assuming the lawns
are in fact identical shades of green.
The perceived boost into and up
the greenscale of the audiovisual spectrum
(in the case of green, purely
visual - green is a silent color)
is an optical effect
caused by the fence,
and your relative position
on one side.

If you were sitting on the fence
- but you can't. Not forever. Anyway,
you would observe green here, green there
and conclude: the grass is always greener
on the other side of the fence, but not
in the middle. From here we can see

green has established a mean value
between the prior less green here,
more green there assessment. This

(among other things)

forces us to regard perception
as unreliable - but if we do, we're
FOOLS. Who cares how fucking green
lawns are? I mean yeah, nice effect
nice color over there, but I'm not
going to make a salad out of it - and if I did,
I bet a blind taste test would reveal
zero difference in green, by taste!

People get hung up on these perceived
differences, when in fact, most of them
are assholes.

police blues

police can have unintended consequences. For instance
you obey one, you obey them all - and suddenly
a gang bursts through your door yelling contradictory
orders, firing discriminately. Thank god no one was hurt
but you! Not all cops, true but.
Yeah. It happens. Or else, you're at a demonstration
all perfectly legal, high on ideals like everybody
present, and the next thing you know
you've stripped yourself full-ass nude
to the bare skin and crying, with all these cops
in the shot looking macho - even the girl ones. They pick up
the toxic aura of power implicit in the structure. Not all girl
cops, true but it's there for the soaking in. Some do.
Or you end up
shot, set on fire
and torn in half by one
huge, head-swinging bite from a police dog
the size of tyrannosaurus rex, who
picks you up bodily and flings
your sundered halves in separate
directions! He didn't hate you! He is
- or she - just a bitch, arguably - and so, she.
Animals love charging people who are on fire, they love
fire. Animals. Now the last example arguably
never happened. Not specifically, but from the fact
it didn't happen specifically
we may decide to conclude
it happens generally.
In that case, watch out. Police,
though, also smile
happily in Norman Rockwell tableaux, drinking
milk, eating pie, friendly as hell, guns
drawn, firing joke shots
at the happy customers also
sitting at the same happy counter
in a diner straight out of circa whenever.

Was this

a real scene, often witnessed, back then? Or simply
a romanticized con job pulled off with equal parts
schmaltz, charm, and a chocolate malted? Probably

half is true. We can only believe half of what
Rockwell painted, and none of what I paint.

Even in words, folks, even in words
the responsibility is always on you.

Well, except in cases where without due process
or just cause, some cop waltzes up to you
(literally, waltzes - watch out for this)
and plants a big deep tongue kisseroo
without so much as a by-your-leave!
That's sexual assault, or at least
one of the bases has been stolen
without basis. What they did

is not your responsibility. But
what do you do? This is not
a police state! They are not
hired to run rampant! Yet we must admit,
charily or otherwise, that police
do seem to be a permanent part

of this state we're in. I say
treat cops
the same way you'd treat anyone
with a gun, and huge massed forces
of buddies hanging on the call
to come running. There are good cops
and bad cops - and if you ever get
in the interrogation room with one
of each? My understanding is you're in
for a dramatic treat! A real double act,
with tart and tough-boiled dialogue,
compassion and respect extended
and pulled back by one or the other - unless

the good cop is a virtuous and dedicated
public officer, and the bad cop is "bad"
not in the sense of the badass who tramples
on the spirit of your rights while toeing
the line on the letter and getting spittle
in your face yelling, but maybe just "bad"
in the sense of a pretty hapless, incompetent
cop.

It would be pretty cool to see that dynamic
play out, too. Good cop/lame cop.

Better advice might be keep out
of situations like those, and if you can't help it
maybe keep saying things like "I demand my right
to shut up until my solicitor tells me what
the answers are!"

beach sand is

beach sand is not like other sand.
It's romantic sand. It gets in
everywhere and sticks and clings
wet - to dry into so many tiny
souvenirs of sunshine and salt.
Sentimental value to fall off
in showers, when you next pick up
those Chucks, that towel. You must
shower off yourself, too now. But
not too soon. Let the sea curls
of your hair cascade and crash,
let the grains of beach sand
on your skin
stick and cling
'til after we're done
remembering. Then wash it all
away, down the drain, beat it
all out the door, let floors
be swept clear - but let trunk
of car congeal in gray patch
too worked into carpet fur
every time you lift the hatch.

reason to rue the day

Whoever loves what's going on in life
has to justify to everyone why they think
they're so hot shit, and that's fair.
Because the rest of us, fuck. What are they
blind? The amount of unconscionable, twisted
up bull shit that confronts us on the daily
dares explanation, justification and anything
else you can throw at it and it's still
indefensible! You can't countenance that
shit. Let alone with your dumb ass mooning
and doting fond and smiling face, loving it
like it meant your life. You son of a bitch
fuck you! You will rue the day,

or we'll know the reason why

the evening out

We've worn the evening out. At least
we've dressed for dawn and glorious day,
so let's wear on through dark of night
until the twilight brings us peace
and renders outfits apropos
and fitting to occasion's
glow. We've worn the evening out,
but not ourselves yet, no.
Let's head towards beach
and face the East, prepared
to bathe
when hours hence
this rounding world
delivers us, amazed in rays
upon arrays.

between boats

His head reeling from the sea
he hadn't shaken, he rolled
uneasily in unsettled step
towards the weathered clapboard tavern
where it all began. Again
his weathered eye caught the rudely
carved and painted driftboard plank
that served the place for a sign,
letters rough-hewn hacked out and whitened
against washed-out grey: "SKIPPER'S
LAST DIVE." Heaving a sigh,

feeling temporarily settled,

he rolled forward
and in, his hips listing
with the effort of steadying his head. Adjusting
to the dim realization of the interior - which
unfailingly disappointed - he saw
to his distressed satisfaction
that Margaret, yes, was on duty. Good,
relatively. He could handle this all
at once. Or possibly
not at all. Her eyes

had already met his,
before his had even focused
and adjusted. Her face was white.

This was remarkable
as she was full-blooded Bantu.
Their eye contact was no longer voluntary.
Her gaze was flying ahead of a mounting storm
within her, and he knew as much as he'd needed to come,
it had been a mistake. Her eyes made a line
that held in time with his as they crossed out
of the world's currents, into a breaking storm
on a sea of their own. They were between boats
dangling over wind-whipped water, holding
a line between them, each torn between
the other's changing and unknowable intent,
unsure whether to rescue
or cut.

He has about to get either
the strongest or weakest rum and Coke
he'd ever had in his life, and he wasn't
dying to find out which.

hypothetical world

If I were a self.
And I am - you know,
one of those

things.

with the eyes looking out
and the senses combined, drinking
beer, eating
chicken wings, I would

do what I could -
but not what I must. Just
trust me on this, this life
runs on trust

more than justice or hope
or science or faith, or
language or math, or
truth or mistake

if the trust in you breaks
it can't be repaired
except by admitting

your stupid mind
got it wrong again, bud!

Which is always a pain
right in the ass, but you
would also be right
to break down
and admit you were right

to care,
and right to doubt
and right to judge
- so far as we know -
the second time 'round,
and with eyes now sharper
and wise for the next
as away we go.

long for this world

We are all
not long for this world,
you know.
Yet we long for this world every day
we live. We long for all this world
can hold. We long for all this world has
in it, especially what we cannot find
and especially who we cannot find
to give.
Who would want what we have to give
- in blinding moments of glee fulfilled,
or mutually hanging around entwined,
supporting each other's growing old.

We want some of this, or all
because we have to. And if
we can't find this one,
there is no cure for the longing,
then.

We have to but can't. We discover
our need was only want, and when
we do, we want to be rid of it.
Because want, if it's something
that we can't get, so it must
be something that we don't need
- then want is no fun. We'd read
and believed far-flung reports
of what all can find, and all deserve,
well - give it a rest. That argument
has run its course, on foot
after corpse upon corpse
of dead horse, and spies
in the distance its
waiting hearse
and a plot long-planned
to remain unblessed.
By this point at least,
it will be uncursed.

stars across

From Bangballycock, Sopwithshire
she hailed. And he was from Precipice Bend,
Wyoma. Each of them in different ways
were perfectly suited to meet and match
and mate - she loved the green and sky,
and the seaside breeze of her late-lost
childhood. He was in love
with sunset-laid layers of rock
exposed by upheaval and wind
and rain, for good
and wearing away. And they each
felt a space in their heart
of bewitching specific shape
that ached with lack. But it
being 1930 back then, they settled
for someone handier, and went
to work making lives intact.
Compensating with strengths
such as they'd found, for whatever they
could not have or find. Shaping
and making themselves to fit. It's
a pretty good life, with dumb luck
for fate - and destiny's eyes
left mercifully blind
to what isn't there
to weave into it. One day
too late, on the internet
they met in a chat room devoted to
some chance intersection of interest
they shared. They each caught a glimmer of
long-lost shape of perfect lack
- but being both in
their nineties by then,
they each put it down
to imagination's gauzy glare
over years they'd not trade
for anything, from the days
that would not be coming back.
They decided, without agreeing,
to care. But not too much, since they each
knew the other was soon enough gone
from this world we share
too late, or too soon
for the load we bear.

hilarious friends

hilarious friends aren't comedians
and typically, they can
not be. They're funny
because that's so them, or
that's so not like them - oho
they were kidding! I knew it - or
because they're true. Like "it's funny
because it's true." Hilarious friends
excel in these ways hilariously! And also
because they're always cracking each other up
and it builds infectiously to a pitch
where you're practically dying. And such
interactions become the stuff of callbacks
and in-jokes, an arsenal built of moments
you had to be there.

None of this shit translates onstage, okay?
You don't know this person. You don't know
what's so them, or so unlike them, or
they're joking, or they're true. Maybe
by the time they're famous or a cult fave
of yours, you do! But unless you were friends
with them before they got big, you're not going
to want them to. Get big.

You'll find no reason to.

Hilarious friends aren't comedians.
They're considerably better and funnier,
in fact, but it's all in ways that don't

translate to an act.

Strategies for dealing with writer's block

The whole thing's thick
and featureless and dense
and close. Impervious
to guess, conjecture,
measurement. It hasn't
any more or less of true
dimension than a thought,
but no thought can go in
or through. It cannot truly
be described. It takes up
all the room you knew
was once so airy, dancing
light! We picture it
rectangular: a solid block
or box - but if the latter,
then the lid is locked. The
door's invisible, the key
is lost

in thought, and angled where
it's dull and solid all the way
right through and through. Without
a hole
or hollow space
to squirrel away the wondrous things
you thought were true - had spied
at times, could place in mind,
and set free effortless on wings,
to follow
on.

It's just

this block
has filled the room
you used to work
for want and wish
and all good things.
That room, once filled
is gone. You know

this block quite well,
by now. Perhaps
you should try
just one kiss? Try it
just to see, maybe.
Maybe it runs away.
Perhaps, it melts
into the throes
of ecstasy.

Prognostics

Trees are stored in wilderness
until they're needed for the mess.
Buildings, boxes, furniture. Books,
paper products, sure. All of it
stored variously, until it's needed
for the trash.

And so the cycle ends anew,
that once began in cold hard cash.
Nature is a funny beast
that moves us to our benefit. Powerfully we
progress, adapt and overcome
in spite of it.
One day we will go too far.

A sentence will be passed by fate:
the same damn thing forevermore,
in permanent mistake. Too late

"another plan A"

I love my baby but we can't
see each other. We go through
life blindfolded, by feel,
and pass through our lives
like ghosts but real. We're
saving money to move to a tree
in the woods, and once we're moved in
among the roots
we'll agree to take
the blindfolds off for good.
And you will bake lemon slice,
and I will put out shoots. We will steal
water,
light and air,
and every last meal.

little business

I want to start a small
concern, over which people would feel
no concern, maybe. A small business
of some kind that they
would get used to seeing the sign
as they drive by, but never
pull in. Who knows what we do?
It's called Hardware Taco or something
sometime, stop in.
You'd be surprised,
so would we. It's true
we could sell you anything,
anything we've got, except
an explanation
probably.

wrong completely

I was completely wrong
when I said where we were going
when I answered your question about stars
when I said how long to boil corn for
when I told you wait
hey, wait
when I asked you what you didn't want
when I held back
when you held back and
I didn't notice
when you kissed me
and I didn't notice
well I was sleeping
when I was sleeping
I woke up in a panic
in the dream
I was completely wrong
and you were gone

dumbass ugly

When I see dumbass
ugly people whose ugly
fuppin' faces and bodies
do not accord with unrealistic
body and face paradigms currently

prevailing over hearts and minds, I say

you dumbass
you uglyass dumb ass
people

get out of my face
get out of my sight
get out of my dreams

get into my HEART
where you'll always be

you see
I have an ugly
dumbass person
inside of me.

in my heart at all times, because

it is me

this is how
I can sympathize.

and you thought I thought
you were ugly

well

we both are dude
grow up

unlucky fortunes

I seem to be unlucky with minor things in life. My left
pinky finger, my knee. The tie
that snapped
spilling my bag and breaking everything
you gave me.

Which I had looked forward
to treasuring. Guitar strings, and
heartstrings. It is not enough
they be pulled for some reason.
They must be pulled out
by the roots. A minor
thing, in key A minor.
New ones will grow. And
spin out into the world like
spidersilk, catching and pulling
taut again, as if no prior lessons taught
could take. It must all begin anew,
a fresh start for everything ruined. Minor
wounds healed, minor injuries accumulating
like painted broken body parts
in a glass menagerie
look

a bird

how did that get in here

feathers everywhere
it's broken everything

again

Tales of Troll Bridge

The bridge is stretched
of substance sound
and views abound
on either side.

It doesn’t matter
what’s beneath.
Clip-clop hard hooves
across, and ride!

That low down troll
can’t get your goat
unless you’ve brought
such offering.
If you’ve a goat
that’s vulnerable,
perhaps best stay
at home, and pet
that thing.

Goats are sprightly,
jumpy kids! Their human
-sounding bleat is weird!
A baby goat’s adorable -
But grow up, please. Your fool
groan goat is not a thing
you need to fear.

Your goat is big,
and gruff and stuff
CLIP-CLOP, CLIP-CLOP
- hard cloven hooves
on solid planks, with
firm, plain stamp
say quite enough.

And on we move.

talk about the bright side

They talk about the bright side
and looking on it. It seems to me
a light source is hard to miss.
I don't see what the big deal is
Turning towards the glow. Yeah,
hey bright side you're looking
good! Tell us something
we don't know.

new pink skin

I grew
new pink skin
under the scab
where you clung
so long itching

gaping whole

A man has a gaping whole
in him. In fact it is all
he seems to be. He thinks
that a woman can fill,
somehow this loss and
lack of unity.

If he thinks about it,
this lack, this want
isn't sticking out
so much as in.

But there is no doubt
hers is one part
of the hole
that he feels
as it deepens
inside of him.

We are more than
just holes, and
unfit parts
that we sometimes level
and charge us with.

But that's part
of the role
we need to play,
that needs to play us
if we want to win
the bliss

The risk
is that we cannot trust
ourselves, for one thing.
Not to begin with. Nor
can we trust someone
else to the end.

But I have and I shall
have trusted you,
my love. You have been
my unjust
friend.

In the sense of "not just."
Which we have to be,
I think. Unjust,
and concerned in self
not just to be free,
but bound as well.
As it pleases us
to be of some help.
To be of some use,
and dependably so.
So desperately our duty, our word
calls us to perform
what we tell. It's a huge mistake
if we give into it
but grudgingly, as if

we know we are sacrificing
for benefit. It's a bet
we place, or win, or at any rate
show.

empathy aria

Kisses and wishes and hopes and prayers
my baby has belly with ache in it, and
I just found out on the internet
why is the world such horrible shit

"systems of caring"

We don't know you, but we care about you
because we can. We've worked out how
to care without knowing. Thought about people
a lot, and what they like. Designed systems
up from scratch according to plan, and we hope
you'll use them to find some joy. Some peace,
some way to connect with those - who we also
don't know. Because we can't.
But because we do, we care
that you chose
to connect with them
through this means of ours.
A human endeavor, to justify
relate and share
in unnatural ways
all the natural and unnatural
things with which we dot
the sky like stars,
and hook up constellations by
to steer and guide so many lives
who'll never know how much we care.
A thankless task, you're welcome though.
We do it not for praise or thanks, but
simply that we care so much
for you who we won't have
to know.

starfish aim.

People are not baking in the sun
for my saving hand. When I look back
down the beach, I see

one set of tracks. And not a single
starfish
to pick up, and remark thoughtfully
to no-one,

"It matters to this one."

The punchline to a story set on a beach;
I am sure you've heard it. I have no goal
about the whole beachful, even if
they were human beings, and stranded.
I just intend to pitch all day. The ones
I can't help - well hell! It's a dang metaphor.
With people I would never pick one up and pitch!
I would simply offer. "Hey." "What." "You need me
to throw you in the water, or what?" "No."

Transaction simple. Transaction done. I
have starfish aim, and it means I consider it
a great gift of existence, out of nowhere
- to fit some need for someone. By chance
you were there! Or, they knew what you could do,
and actually sought you out? A great gift
of existence! "It matters to this one."

But ask first. Some people I don't know
they might as well go to the desert. That's
a "bathing" suit, right? A "swimsuit"? Well
it's bone-dry! When was the last time
it was wet apart from laundry! Get some
salt tang into its wet, clingy folds! You

can't assume what others consider help. That's
on them. The times you can, though - can help -
make up for how haplessly helpless you are overall,
with so much suffering in the world - yet seemingly,
none in your range or skillset. It's fine

I can't help all.

I never conceived an ambition
to try to help all. Ludicrous idea!
Humans are wiggly and cool. I love them, but
I am only one of them. I don't pretend
to have all the answers. Well, no. Sometimes
I make a fierce face like Jack Black, running outside
to declare "I have ALL THE ANSWERS!" But it's pretend.
I know it is, and also: it doesn't work at night. Point is:

As much as I love the chance to give something
needed or appreciated - seeking that crap
out seems bizarre. The goal to fit
cannot exist prior to the gap,
the need.
The lack.
For me at least. And I don't want
people to need! I'm happy
they generally don't! I'm glad
as hell though, to have been there

when they did. To those whose opinion
and being I well know, who know me,
or complete strangers - total bonus
chance out of nowhere!

It matters to this one.

But you don't head to the beach
wishing thousands of starfish
onto the baking sands, way
more than you could possibly help
just so you can pick several of them up,
gaze at each with a peculiar thoughtfulness,
and give it a great graceful heave into the surf
hoping for someone to amble by and ask
what the hell you think you're doing,
do you?

That's not starfish aim.
That's some sick variant

hygienic brotherhood

We are blood brothers
like parted flesh of palms
or thumbs pressed, let
each of us course into
the other one.
Metaphorically
I guess

pining moon

You are the sun upon which
my fixed orbit swings, and
the thought of you is the moon
upon the pines

headache but soft

You've given me a headache
as headaches go, it's
extraordinarily soft
and behind one eye. Still
it takes up all my attention,
and the world is softly split.
I wonder what's in
this headache, and where
I can get more of it.

the cocktail brides

The cocktail brides
have dropped their names
and taken on their favorite drinks
- 'til death
do us party, or partly
at least. They're getting too bored
to say what they think. But
here come the cocktail grooms!
And they know
how to clean up quite nice, and charm
and commit.
They're liking their odds
in this chic to-do. And they all
I-do derringly well, for a bit.

deliberately dark

I've been enjoying myself.
It's the only thing left
I have.
Except for a thing
or two I have left
behind,
but nostalgia like that
holds a limited use and appeal,
I find.

I've put out the lights
as each one fails. It only
has proved that each was vain.
How many enlightened selves
would it take

to screw in a bulb or two?
For shame

broken leg massage

Care can be torture, you know
- under the wrong conditions,
when it's unwanted, it's no
help at all. You lie there
under the ministrations
of some kind or kind of
caregiver, caretaker
taking such pains and giving
more, and you wish you were sure
they weren't enjoying it

ephemera

I feel like I could give you up
at any time, despite the fond devotions
I continually express. Despite the things
in which we share, which mean so much.
If it turned out it had to be, I'd
disappear so easily. You'd wonder
at the vanishment. "I thought
that I meant more than that," but
you do. How much things and people mean
is no obstacle to me becoming ephemera
at a moment's notice. I'm gone - or
anyway, I could be, so easily.
Accomplished: it is done. It makes me
wonder about my fond devotions
despite I know they are more real
and true than almost anything else
about me. Yet how strong can they be?
Even though they make and shape my life,
if I know I wouldn't insist on them? If
I know I would give up without a fight
- and I would. Fortunately

you don't know. And if experience
is any guide, you never will. I've had
this feeling all my life, after all
so far and I've never had to disappear

so easily.

interested party

My interest in this ends with yours.
What I would want if you want too
extends indefinitely entwined.
What I would want if you don't want
is none at all. If you don't mind,
I don't want anything you don't.
I think we're quite imaginative.
I think we come up endlessly
with things we'd like to share or give.
So why not focus where we join?
Why not find where we combine?
Why not explore more where we both
desire to? Why ask for more?
Why seek to go halves on design
so someone's always sacrificed,
and someone's always giving in?
I'm pretty sure that we have worlds
between us to get lost and find
each other in.

fried donkey hands

The man with his hands spread out
over altar with price tags on everything
sold you his soul by mistake
now he wants it back
but it's

jacked

somebody peeped it in your bag
as you passed them by in the
library stacks,
and they stone cold

stole.

That soul you bought.
Slipped their lithe stray index
finger down in, caught
it,
snagged by the hoop -
dragged it out

gone. Vwoop!

Then the man rushes up,
pained face and breathless with
your money.

Telling you sorry
there was a mistake, that soul

already belongs to someone else.
But you look in your bag

and it's gone.

You show him, your face

pained as well. He sees
from your eyes
that you're not pulling tricks
and all color drains
as realization sinks

it was done by elves
or who else, who knows.

There's really no
fixing some things. And this

is one of those.

Financial scare

The financial scare derives
from uncomfortable fact: money's
a made-up thing. It only works
'cause we've all agreed
these fairy dust blips
and wizard scrips and charm
tokens we coin shall be taken
as true, for use at need
and otherwise. To make them
add up: worth hours-packed
weeks of labor, worth taking
in trade for real goods
and services - which we
ourselves have to have
anyway, don't we? We've heard

About the barter system. That
won't sell - we don't want
to reduce to hoarding eggs
to buy cars with - especially
when we know, the car loses
ten thousand eggs' worth of value
as soon as you drive it off
the lot! No go. We want money.
That's
what we want, aw, money. That's!
What we want. And we know it's made
up, but it's made up of dreams
- all the real goods and services
this life means. Oh, yeah okay so
life means more than just that. But
no one can seem to agree what more.
Agreement is power and currency,
you can go your own way
- but you can't set store
and stock by what you'd find.

Not going that way. In money,
we've found the golden egg
that doesn't decay into sulfurous
ooze. It sits in its shell
backed by full faith and credit
of our common confidence, whether
we in or lose our stake, we're
convinced that the stake is
real. Is valuable. We are gulled
in a sales job upon the global trust.
We know the deal. We know we
are fooled, but we're taken in
and shown all the prizes and
stuff we must. We don't need,

but we must. And for tinker-bell
we clap and we sing "We believe!
We do! We do believe in money!"
And just a tantalizing golden glow

suffuses the bug-winged beautiful corpse

now covered in some ancient juvenile
Peter's goo. The shame of Pan

is ours, it encompasses all
and we shan't grow up, for
there's no remorse. We clap
we believe, for everything good

as we drain every drop we can
from the cup

that has runneth over our course.

"codefensive"

I'm wondering
are you on my behalf
right now? Could you do
something in my stead?
It would behoove you to
I could make it behoove you,
it that's what would do it.
I am a consummate behoover
of others, but
It's for their own sake
that I do, I swear.
We are in cahoots.
Say it. We are! We
are always on each
other's behalves,
behooving and doing
whatever incumbs
upon us, for the moment

the trap is sprung

And that is
our ulterior purpose
in this. To catch
and to trap, each
separately in the other's
catch and clasp and click
it's for our own good
just wait you'll see

"That Was Us"

Look back now
on our story. Don't wait 'til
the end comes

'Cause we see
where it's going. Unless we
rewrite some

We can both
see the ending. It won't be
a bad one,

but there's no
use pretending - that it's happy.
'Cause that's just dumb.

You with your innocent act
and me with my conscience intact -
that was us.
That was us,
missing our chance, forever.

Could we be
more mistaken? I could be
if I tried

But I'd only
be faking. And you'd see
so why lie?

We can both
see what this is. It is what
it is love

And that's what
we both wanted. Or was it?
What held us up

You with your matter-of-fact
And me with my sensitive crap -
that was us.
That was us,
missing our chance, forever

You with your holding it back
And me with my plan of attack -
That was us.
That was us,
missing our chance, forever.

There it goes
There, it's over. I love you
You love me

But that's far
as it goes, dear. Beyond that
we can't see

I will wave you
good-bye, now. And hello
tomorrow

Every day that I see you
Is no cause
for sorrow

You with your stars in a line
And me with my "perfectly fine" -
That was us.
That was us,
missing our chance, forever

Me with my holding on tight
And you with your fading from sight -
That was us.
That was us,
missing our chance, forever.

You with that light in your eyes,
and me walking smiling beside -
that was us.
That was us.
And it's going to last forever

...

Look back now on our story.
Don't wait 'til the end comes

one piece

She threw her leg over
the fence, then her arm,
then her head, then
the rest. She slid,

and fell down without harm,
landing in one piece
on her feet.

And she grinned
and looked round

and she treated
herself
to a leisurely-beaten
retreat.

scream-crying

I haven't been scream-crying
in a while. And I hope it's
a long while more, because
there's always too good
a reason for it. I can't
stand such reasons. The moment
you see. Hear. Realize
it's all too late, you're
filled up from toes to heating
head in a moment and your beating
heart keeps growing from the inside
like a white-hot lead balloon.
The only thing to keep it from

bursting

is the tightness of your ribs

And your knees give way,
and you fall, hit, curl
in upon yourself and writhe,

and you're scream-crying
scream-crying again

scream-crying
scream-crying again

and your knees give way,
and you fall, hit, curl
in upon yourself

and writhe all over the world

scream-crying again!
yeah heh heh
aw yeh heh heh yeah scream-crying

Here comes mister melodrama
singing his one and greatest hit
wallowing in flopping flail
ululating keening wail
all it needs is power chords
all it needs is sleek keyboards
all it needs is boom crack drum
all it needs is everything

we just realized is
gone

and gone

and one more time, now one
two three
four
gone.

towards hypocrisy

I do as I say
not as I do. It creates
localized paradoxes in logic
and space, but I
time them
and parcel them out
just so, so reality
doesn't implode.
Just the odd mind or face,
or temperament, or even
the even ones, now and then.
I don't make a rule, or abide
or observe for that matter
- which sidesteps
the break and bend.
And so far, it's
a decent reap's worth
of dividend. Especially
given my so-so sow,
but you must take the good
with the bad, or you're
doing it wrong. That's
the way it does not
have to go.

against hypocrisy

Hypocrisy doesn't
matter to me, since
I don't take truth
on authority.
If a practice is good,
then to preach it's fine.
Regardless of how you spend
your time, I will know all the good
of the practice in mine, and figure
it out in being and mind.
So whatever your prestige
position is, however you walk
the talk you give -
doesn't matter at all. Since
I don't obey. I embrace
on merit, such as it is
- not on someone's say.

Hypocrisy is the complaint
of those who cannot own right
by themselves. So they go by
costumes and clothes, and medals,
awards. Certificates, doctorates,
brands and scores of symbols
and reputation marks. To certify

this

is a person of trust, and that

therefore

we can trust what they say.

Ad hominem much?

It cuts both ways.

big to be.

The planks and struts and pilings
of boardwalks and piers are
what trees all dream
of growing up and growing
big to be.
They fantasize
of being cut down
and ripped and sawn
into great boards, or left
as trunks
and pounded in
by waterfronts
and salty shores
so happy seaside revelers
can tromp across in hordes. Now,
that makes me sound like an asshole
with a very untreeish view, but
perhaps I am. Perspectives on humanity
gang aft askew.

I remember as a child, going in
and underneath to a rowed and ordered
forest that was mystical as hell.
The trunks all smelt of creosote
and shadow-darkened tar. We went
beyond belief so easily and well,
down there. With the beach outside
so bright, while we with basement
eyes glittering played such shadow games
as never could be named

now, we've gone so far.

Crap, what's with the nostalgia moan?
It was TAG. We played tag, and things
equally dorky, but it sure was spooky

and cool down there. In between
the pilings, roofed by bolted
boards and the floor
of a haunted castle. Well,
haunted castle and amusement pier,
technically. Directly above would have been
the pizza place. It sure was spooky
and cool down there, especially
when you'd clamber all by your lonesome
down the huge rocks' slippery jut
and crag and slope, to wet sand
and through the pilings,
moving always back up and in.
Towards the back of the pier, where
it met its end in darkness. You could
climb in
and hoot
and make echoes, then. I mean,
you could before, but this
was ideal. Or just let the surf
make its own echoes, more
professional and assured
by comparison with your childish
owl-donkey noises. Or you could just sit,

because you could see the whole world
and your life down there.
If you chanced to figure
anything out in that solitude,

you would remember it forever.

combat immortal

There are dragon's breath scars
inside our hearts
and holes poked through
with lances and shafts
It's nothing to do
with you and me,
these storied conflicts
that scathe and blast
but we're locked in a narrative
not our own, and we play out our roles
in combats brief, and in aftermaths
devastatingly long. This sword
cannot seem to find its sheath.
And your fearsome claws
forever extend.
Brandished like spears
to ward and defend
while I charge to our death
'til we part past pain
in this combat immortal
where we were slain.

miscast

I cast you my spell
and I caught you up, and changed
you around from your mind
to your toes, then put all
the finishing touches on. I did not
so much as change your clothes;
they were fine. Everything inside,
I worked
my subtle and nuanced workings
on.
I have made you
my puppet, my masterpiece.
Only problem is, it had no effect!
I was wrong
it seems
in some small detail. You have
to get everything right,
these days. Otherwise
no one notices, no one
cares! You cast your spell

it was incorrect.

rapproche

There was a man
with a stern, sour face
sallow lines cut deep
in sepulchral cheeks,
and he had a complaint.
It was not for me,
I declined. He persisted

I laughed, pointed something
out. He laughed. After that,

we got on fine.

Questions for men about panties

Men. When you hear the word "panties"
and imagine it
Stop. Freeze the image.
- are they empty, or full?
I mean, are they worn?
or brand-new, fresh
as blooms - now focus.
What color are they?
Are they scanty
or cut quite full?
Are they fabric
or made of cartoon?
Whose panties are these?
Do they belong
to an idealized abstraction
of woman (or "girl"?)? Or

are these someone's panties
you know? And if so

Who is this person, and why
are you imagining her panties

particularly?

with secret loves

With secret loves
the world's shot through. She's
yours

but no one ever knew. You're his
and he's
the other one's. With so much love,
so little fun.

You cannot crow, or celebrate
- not openly. Love's not
like hate, which who can say
is wrong. Just so

you hate the one
you really know.

the promise like that

Everyone knows what a promise like that
is worth. So you make it

with gravitas and in deadly
yet living earnest,

a vow. You will bring it true
if it kills you somehow,

and it wins. You convince

they believe in you.

The promise

is not like that.

It's true.

harmless

I have to look away
from my eyes in the mirror

When I walk down sidewalks,
my eyes swim ahead for the next

innocent one

who could think I'm a threat,
and I swerve or shrink
preemptively

in body
and head.

And it usually works

But sometimes they cross
to the other side, just in case

- trailing a dog that could rip me
in half, probably

it's rough.

There doesn't seem a way
to try hard enough

help check

On all they ask
you give your best
they'll take or pass
it's not your test.

details subtract

And everything new
that I learn about you
lately takes away
from all I knew,
and thought was forever,
and stable, and set.
These details don't fit
you, but if they don't,
then who do they fit?
Slowly but sure, I begin
to forget.

Burn before reading

The letter I wrote you
I'll never send
replete with confessions
you'll never condemn
epiphanies bristle
with smack pow sweat
impossible now to describe
or forget
except

I have.
and it helped me to write.
But it wouldn't do, reading such things at night

if not for us

It wouldn't be me if it wasn't
you, in these encounters. There

would be two

other people there.

Shuffling awkward,
gazing wayward
haphazardly around,
but forced
(pretty much)

to stand there the entire length

you and I were happily, eagerly
and easily only getting started.

It wouldn't have worked
if it was them. If it wasn't you

and I.

Well for all I know, they would've
clicked like kippers in a wool sock
and caught fire! Fuck

Any two people can click. I don't
know. Can't say it wouldn't work

with those two. Shoot.

Point is,
it wouldn't be you
and me. Now, that works

Maybe modesty

No one can see so much
as a part
of all that she's been,
she's shown,
she gave.
She's stopped giving now.
Oh, not so much stopped. She's found
her reserve,
and poured it all in
to save. To keep.
To measure it out -
or for now,
do more measuring in.
So sweet
to have nothing to give,
to show,
to slip.
In peace and control
is the way to live.

To have nothing to have to.

Well,

I loved all your fierce
and showy ways,
the exposure you gave
every side of your self.
The flip of your ire,
the crack of your gaze
But you know? Maybe modesty
suits you well.

I like seeing you at your ease,
and if
there's so much less showing,
I have seen you full. I can fill
in the gaps of the picture
with this: the glow
of the all
you gave me to know,
the pull
of all you've put inside me
of you.

I have so much of this,
I will never run out. You can make
tiny gesture, I'll fill in the rest.
Correct me if you've any doubt.

Secret City

Three million people live here alone
all the highways in
dead-end in woods
there's a special way you can flash your lights
that opens the way, now you're here for good
and you find a place
so far so home
maybe rescue a pet,
keep you company.
There's enough to keep busy
and entertained. In the city
without a name
you're free.
Free to wake up
go out, come back
Free to pass by
all the passersby
Free to be innocent
bystander, after all
what happens here stays
here sir

"Reusable"

You get what you want
and you want what you get
but you don't care a lot,
you just say "what's next?"

You don't sort it out
you just kick to the curb
for someone to pick up
with an unkind word

You're happy enough
you suppose, but you're wrong
'cause you don't know what
you just missed out on

You think you can use me up
and throw me away
Well that's a big mistake, 'cause

I'm reusable
You don't have to throw me out, oh no
I'm reusable
You've got me to kick around

There must be a landfill
filled to the rim
with the guys that you dumped
on a moment's whim

They loved you enough
so you don't give a thought
You assume they're alright
but it's not your fault

Well I'm telling you
of the stuff I am made
my love won't wither up
or biodegrade

So don't let it all
go to waste after just one try
I'm guaranteed for life, and

I'm reusable
You don't have to throw me out, oh no
I'm reusable
You've got me to kick around

I'm reusable
Don't let there be no doubt, at all
I'm reusable
It's environmentally sound

You say you're just using me,
that's just fine
You can use my physique, you can
use my mind

Use me all up, you can use me
all down
I'm at your disposal
just don't stop now

You can take me for granted
I grant you that
Crumple me up, and I'll bounce
right back

Still got my respect and my pride
when you put my in my place
my favorite place, 'cause

I'm reusable
You don't have to throw me out, oh no
I'm reusable
You've got me to kick around

I'm reusable
Don't let there be no doubt, at all
I'm reusable
It's environmentally sound