Having beaten eggs into whipped

Having beaten eggs into whipped
and heavy cream into peaks
and molded the crust to a tin, and cut
glistening, arced, fat chunks
of sliced peach, we
prepare for pie. Making pie
is the sweetest of all self-deceits
in that in all of baked goods, bads
peek out: boo! Calories! Processed sugars,
sex with professors, heavy syrups, indulgences,
Martin Luther nailing a paper, heaving
with grievances, to a heavy
oak door and on it: a
recipe. Protestant Peach Pie. Well, Marty,
spare me your inordinate affections, your ex-nuns,
your seven rules for better living, your vitriol and
vim, but I do believe I will have a big piece
of That

pie,

when it is good,

Is an unquestionable good.

others is others

"others" is a box

that all of us fit.

we'd best

get

used

get

used

to

it

I'm nice like a knife. To the point

I'm nice like a knife. To the point
it leaves a cut in my own hand.
mishandled, easily and deft
away from the thumb, always
but
oops - all thumbs

all thumbsed up - what
a fine, keen, cutting scene
this leaves
all over
the cutting room
floor

nice.

damn!

I
left
my orange
at work! I
guess now I'll
have to take one
of these pears. and
I don't think they're
ready. How can you tell,
if a pear is ready? does
it have to give, gently?
and the risk involved! a
squeeze, once given
gently - can never
be taken back.

and should it go...?

love deforms the heart to fit its object
deforms; no, perfects
through union, fit to fit.

A new and altered shape, and one
never to be quite lost, an impression
whose bruise goes so much deeper
than skin

the face of she you love, there
the light comes flying off her skin
absorbed by her, with joy it flings
itself away to spread her out
across the universe,
at constant speed

to anyone with eyes to see
the light deforms to carry her -
her form to every eye it can.
It has taken her on
and taken her in
the light will never be the same

the love you put out, took her form
came back to you, it's useless now
for any other purpose but
to see her smile,
cry for joy
that you can be her cause
of joy

that you can be a gift to her,
who is a gift to you
as if from god.

and love,
love deforms the heart
to fit its object
love perfects the heart
for only one
and loves makes love
so useless now,
for any other purpose
but one.

and seeing her
and holding her
and being hers
to hold.
is enough

and should it go...?
and should she go
and should love go,
should one's one love
go,

the reverse-impression made
upon your heart, by her hard face
in the last time that you see the light
that flings itself from her to you,
the print that makes will never fade
and it's become quite useless now,
the heart deforms its object, love
- quite uselessly, remains.

Proves true

decay is systematic

No seriously
an accident, you think?
or malevolent design
it's how we were meant to fall apart,
and how we were meant to be perfect
but only in the past - when
we couldn't quite see it
then

This is to get us ready for heaven.
this loose skin, mottled and blotched
this long-wisped fuzz of what hair we have left
the gauzed-over glaze of memory, milky
and milkier, like albumen
being
slowly
soft-boiled by years on years,
- it is all to get us ready for heaven.
So that when we die, we cry out
in relief, like tears - so clearly now
I see! So firm and taut
is my newborn soul!
my mind is mine, again, and
I am whole,
am home. Again, and
finally! oh

"Thank God"

amen,

But those who die young,

don't get it.
not quite
the
same way. Those
who die young, they
become

Buddhists.

Another Poem-In-One-Go

When a poem like this
gets set to go
all bets are on
all rhymes combine
all rhythms flow
all words slow down
then speed up, stop
"hey" - look around
"did you bring the map?"
which way is west?
words bunched up fast
directionless
'til one says "HEY!"
"This way, let's go!"
and off they fly
combine, and flow

My love for you is like a freight train

My love for you is like a freight train
loaded
with freight
freighted
with purpose
purposed and directed Westward, where
towns and whistle-stops all along the line
wait, impatiently upon the 7:50 to come in on time
and deliver up to them their allotted packages,
parcels, barrels and crates
of this love I have

Death, But Not Without Honor

Death, yes. We all shall dine at that table.
But not without Honor! Whether Honor be served
as a dish, or served as a guest, if Death
invite me to dine without Honor present,
in some form - preferably, in a place of Honor,
I will furiously decline, with apoplectic spittle
zinging from beneath my curiously accurate
British Indian Colonial mustache - which I
intend to grow, in anticipation of the event.

Death! Proud be ye, and rightly so, despite
what some have said - yet Death, without Honor
ye are but some ghastly stick with which to
frighten children. A far cry from the lordly
destiny of kings and warriors, a pale shadow
of what we know of Death, of what we know
Death to be. So what will it be, Death?
How about a little Honor, then? That
would make it go easier
for each of us.

The Descendants of Cain

Cain should have died,
but God said: "No.
I put a mark on that guy.
And anyone who kills him
gets the business."
And Cain, driven out
from the land, was fruitful
and multiplied. And his seed
bore fruit, and branch, and
set down root - which grows
among us still. God put a mark
on man, when he let Cain go.
And one day we shall be avenged

But not sevenfold, no
We've devised worse maths
than that, for this. And we speak
all one language, we have brick
and bitumen - our tower stretched
its top to heaven, and found it!
Empty. No one home. And nothing we
propose to do will now be impossible,
and this is only the beginning
of it all.

God should have killed Cain outright.
Or at least, left off the mark - that
protection! God spared him, to mark us!
God inflicted that mark on us all. If
even God let Cain live, but with no
mark - spared him, but spared him to
a life of no distinction, marked out
for nothing - maybe Cain would have
just fled to the wilderness then,
ashamed, and died out. And
maybe we could somehow
now be free.

But no. We must walk the earth proud
and win our wives as killers,
with heads held high: see
my mark! The mark of Cain,

Put there by God.

Pretty cool, huh?

Down Wit' the Locking Doors!

You GOTTA be down with the doors that close
and the locks that lock, and the clear windows
that you look through to check, "who's that dude outside?"
did he come here to steal or to sneak or hide?
what's he ding-dong for? what's he knock knock knock?
It's a quarter to half past when, by my clock!
in the ungodly hour people creeping around
that's why when it comes to locks, hey
you gotta be down!

Unlike most Bills

Unlike most Bills, his name was short
for Billiards. His pappy won him
in a game of pool, the first-born son
of a pregnant pool shark
who never should have played that last game.
And he did mommy and pappy alike proud,
taking up the cue at an age when most children
were still asking questions like, "Why?"
"Fucked-up," is how he'd describe his up-bringing,
but you'd be able to tell it's not a complaint. As
he sights along the angles and runs balls like rain
there is a grin on his face that only pretends
to be a grimace of pain. You leave a little lighter,
considering the situation he's been through

poem goes

poem goes RHYME!
poem goes WORDS!
paints a pretty picture
(that's a metaphor, SIR!)
poem pricks ears!
poem makes think!
some poems DON'T, but
THOSE POEMS STINK!

Sleep, now

forgetfulness steals, what
your memory brings back
and a dream disappears
into birdsong and black
take the mask from your eyes
into blindness, arise
you will sink soon enough
in a deeper demise

but 'til then, why not live?
with a shout! and a fierce
thrust of chin at the world
knowing nothing can pierce
what nobody can know,
so no one can cast doubt
live with chin forward-thrust, dear
and die with a shout

There can be no help

There can be no help
for a one such as us
who dispute what it is
just to love, or to trust
or to live, or to fling
seven wings to the wind
in a mad, desperate dash
broken limbs, broken skin
in a heap at the foot
of a precipice,
lies
the remains
of whatever -
we couldn't decide.

Sir Poesy & His Beloved Entourage, Upon The Occasion Of A Gay And Stately Traipse

Sir Poesy, Ms. Whimsy, Master Wit and Miss Whim
went a-walking a primrose path so prim
down the shadiest lane, lined with rosiest rose
Whimsy whispered to Wit -
and away he goes! ~
Poesy posed dainty queries
but Ms. Whimsy declined,
paid in ways so demure
Poesy's poser no mind
'til Miss Whim whispered in
Poesy's only good ear
and ~ his face flushed with color ~
he flustered, "oh, dear!"

THE MORAL OF WAR

WELL, IN THOSE YORE DAYS
OF TIMES PRE-OLDEN
SOME KNIGHT DREW HIS SWORD
AND HE CHALLENGED A GOLDEN
DRAGON WITH HEAVY, MASSIVE EYES
AND A TONGUE OF FIRE
THAT TOLD SMOKY LIES
TO A GAME OF WAR
WELL THEY CUT THE CARDS
AND THEY EACH DREW QUEENS
AND THE QUEENS, THEY CHARGED
AT THE HEAD OF THEIR COLUMNS
OF CARDS, FACE-DOWN
AND THE KNIGHT PULLED A KING
AND THE DRAGON, A CLOWN
WELL THE MORAL OF THE STORY
IS: WAR'S NO GAME
FOR THE WICKED OR STRONG
OR THE HALT OR THE LAME
IT'S THE SHUFFLE OF THE CARDS
THAT DETERMINES OUTCOME
AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO
BUT SEE WHAT'S ALREADY DONE.

Throw words my way

Throw words my way
straight, with a curve
to the pitch and roll
of their arc and yaw
they will stick stuck fast
in the target, at best
whether bullseye or wall
if you know how to throw at all
they will stick, stuck fast
with a point
make a hole
with a good solid thunk
as the word strikes
home
or as words clatter, off
struck the metal wire line
that divides black from white
they rebound back, fall
to the beer-sticky floor
so the thrower steps,
stoops, bent forward
and laughs
half gathering up
half fumbling
all those heavy, pointed words
watch your fingers!
ouch hurts
suck a punctured
(throb!)
thumb,
as you straighten up
dumb
-struck,
fumbling with math
as your eyes play upon
the enigmatic target board
the concentric-circle scores
as you count up where your words
scored another few points

it's a close game

who's winning?

My Highly Conscious Rhymes Flow On Beat & On Time

NOPE!
Was the part of my last thing
so what's the dilly-o
check out what my rhymes bring!
power to the people but the rhythm isn't equal!
This ain't no prequel!
Phantom menace me? You buggin'!
I'm medieval,
this, my rhyme is what I barter with!
I bring to marketplace
trade you for a dozen eggs
BAM! In the pan, for an omelette
with onion!
What you couldn't reckon with -
no you didn't reckon on!
No I ain't no serf, ain't no peon
I'm a monolith!
In the desert stood two vast and legless trunks of stone
with a sign that said: "Ice Cube's a Pimp!"
Pull out the pleasure!
Time to mix in the business
I take the streets and then they call me revolutionist!
I'm not a terrorist
check out what my rhyme flows
check out where my mind goes
your rhymes are just so-so!
You sucka m.c.'s tryin' to act subconscious
but listen to the words comin' out of your conscience!

Pitch Me A Picture

A fine, fine thing it was and is
to see the winds come rustling
to hear the trees fall, forestly
where no-one's there to see me see
and in those ever-darkened glades
the elven-wings wing place to place
to see the blanch upon the brow
of Chamomile, the Wizard-Face!
as Umpteen Mompas rumbled up,
"To battle!" cried the Duke of Woe
as played by one Keanu Reeves
his agent told him it's a go
the action figure revenues
alone would justify the cost
of his inclusion in the cast
that's how it goes, alack, alas

Love Beats All

Love beats us all at its own game
we can't be in the same place
looking at each other
under each other's second skin
so close, our hearts have traded cages
leaving our ribs confused

you for me, me for us all,
the world versus both
so we flatter ourselves
so easy we die, so hard
come back to life
we pick out our paths with
our backs to the light
we live for reasons we understand
but can't explain
Love beats us all at its own game

the importance of clear goals

I've got my guitar in my hand
as I type this
I want to destroy the world
with my guitar, if possible
and in its place -

who knows?

Maybe just a smooth flat space,
extending endlessly

towards you

This is one reason why

This is one reason why
the term "poem" no longer
carries any distinction:
because it doesn't mean
anything
anymore

Every now and then a noose

Every now and then a noose
slips from the sky and strangles a guy
right before he can say the three
most important words of his life.

Now, when that happens - as his feet
kick out sideways and he's lifted
hovering a foot off the earth,
twisting, trying to make gurking noises
("gurk! gurk!") eyes bugging out,
neck straining, head back unable
to see the rope, to see what it's attached to -
what is going through his mind? Is it

"Oh no - no! Not now! I did not get
the chance to tell her: 'I love you'?"

Fuck no. It's "Get this fucking noose
off me!" I mean, let's be real here:
Love is a luxury you can only pause
to consider
when you're not in the process
of bring being choked to death
by
a
mysterious
airborne
noose.

sunset / coming to earth

The glint in your eyes sets the sky on fire
I watch as the red golden light from your eyes
catches flame, travels back up the sun's warm rays
'til the sky burns - blushing from your beautiful gaze

As the plane tilts in towards the falling sun
as the wings throw their glare through the round window
as we drop like a graceful stone towards the ground
I drink in your glow, and the light turns rose

I know that you aren't the cause of it all,
that science decrees it's the sun makes the light
but if science were here, in the air next to you
it would judge twixt the two, and declare you more bright

We are hung up like stars, suspended like clouds
our lives lie awaiting us down on the ground
we could peer out the window and see them almost
so tiny and far, like the ghosts of a ghost

but we'll step back into them and bring them to life
once we get back to earth, leaving heaven behind
and it has been a heaven - to be by your side
and to wish on your kisses, and dream in your eyes

you and I and the sun are alone in the air
the three of us sinking, so steadily down
when we reach steady ground, you and I will get out
and step back into earth, leaving heaven behind

With my eyes shut tight

With my eyes shut tight
I can see your smile -
the image etched in
by shining light.
You are lit from within
and I close my eyes,
and I walk to you
and you are my guide.
You are lighting my path.
Just the memory of you
pulls me on, draws me in,
though I walk in the dark -
I know I am safe.
You are lit from within
And I keep my eyes closed
'til I find your embrace.

The End Needs A Little Work

My day is gray
and dim and drear
inside my head
without you dear
even though outside
the sun is brilliant,
bright and cruel

I look around
inside my mind
from memories
to future times
cherished moments, future hopes
unsure - but no less true

the sky clears out
inside my head
the clouds dissolve
from white to red
the sunset bursts
the light regains
its color and its glow

I see you here
inside my mind
you smile
and the knots unwind
the tension clears
my thoughts stretch out
to punch you in the fucking mouth

aw hell no! Wait, you know
I'd never hit a lover, I just, you know
sometimes you get mad
towards the end of a poem
when it doesn't work out
right

I don't have to describe
everybody
knows that pain

revocable

cancel everything
all fond words, all silences broken
take back all understandings and misunderstandings, hints, glances
brushes of hands
(as the stick was passed),
clinks of glass
to toasts made and to toasts unspoken - to wishes too dear to speak
aloud (lest they never come true, as we all know a wish will never come
true
when you tell!) - put it out of your mind. Roll it all back.
Take back everything.
Unmemorize.
Forget.
Live life. Act as though.
And then, when I see you again -
suddenly see it all rush back in - as if no time had passed
as if you had been there all along - just waiting for me to turn around!
and it all rushes back, with no hint of surprise
just like never apart
see it come rushing back
coming in like the sea
in your beautiful eyes.

summer then

summer
hot
the sticky tack of asphalt

floating
heat
breathe
stink hot
sunburnt lips from earlier

bed, cool by comparison -
still hot.
darkness
crickets
fall slowly asleep
fall slowly asleep

pine -
whisper of needles
- smell of pine
close
stifle
eyes open
dim silhouette - needled branches, over
a dark dark gray square
night
here comes
a car rolls by outside
tires fade away,
sticky
licking the street

I never understand your eyes

I never understand your eyes
they tell me things that can't be true
I guess I'd say "too good to be"
but no clichés apply to you.

Your smile is a mystery
so when you smile, mine is too
since even though I don't know why
I cannot help but echo you

subtleties

the subtleties
of what I mean
are far too subtle
to tease out
although my meaning
should be clear
you'd never hear it
from my mouth
there's some connection
missing there
between the tongue
and scrambled brain
and only one thing fills it in
by kissing me
you've made it plain

Scratches and Claws

I wish that what I had to say
could find the words itself
it makes as if to claw its way
straight through my chest, and leaves my mouth
without so much as one good word
to start a proper, pretty speech
a string of words such as I often toss
without a thought to each.
How lightly do they usually go -
like pebbles skipped across a pond
the dappled surface lightly grazed
by dotted line - the depths unplumbed
but no such words come to me now
I'm moved by heavy, leaden things
that make as if to claw my heart
as all my words lie locked within

faith, love

when life goes, love
will not linger after.
There will be no music in the heavens
to waft our souls skyward; we, our hands
clasped as we rise, gazes interlocked,
will drop like stones into the grave
and wither ever after. You know this.
Whatever I may know on the topic
is neither here nor there, really.
And anyhow: "know" is far too strong a word
to waste on hunches and puffs of whimsy
such as I was brought up to believe in.
Still,
I love you.
I believe in love,
and

I am glad I was born

gullible.

fecklessly

such music in your laugh - who was
the artist who composed the tune?
who taught you how to make that face?
who put the you I love in you?
you light the room, but from within
I sit just wondering awhile
who strung the stars that light your eyes?
who hid the sun inside your smile?

the stopper

your heart has had enough of love
it won't believe a word of it
and as the hurt fades from your eyes
you see the truth in what was said
but don't believe a word of it
your heart has been through floods and hells
and though it can't take any more
your heart can live on nothing else

Slung

slung in a hammock, not swaying at all
contemplation takes on new meaning
as the mind empties, empties, empties
of all the,
of all of the,
the whatever it was, that was in there.
Blue, invincible sky
between the blades of tree leaves
shuffling and whispering together,
idly wondering "what are the names of these
two trees, that this hammock is slung between?"
Am I idly wondering?
Or are the leaves idly wondering? I admit
it's become quite ambiguous

nature:

nature:
implacable, relentless;
hates us all,
equally,
with a blind passion
indifferent to our uniqueness, our loves,
our needs.
But we win in the end
by saying to nature
in the end:
"it's okay. I loved
you anyway."

Requiem for Big Joan

I have lived life too large. Experience
has crushed and crashed in waves.
I've been joined at the hip,
with souls unknown. Thrown
from the decks of dry-docked ships.
All of life's lessons learned
too late.
My life has been epic and tragic,
and useless.

Won't you please?

When I say "be mine" - I mean just that
I wish to list you among my possessions
Right at the very top of that list. This
is not empty flattery.

I made the mistake

I made the mistake
of giving you that hat
that looked like a pillow
with the stuffing knocked out. Black
on top, and a floppy black brim.
and in between black, like a letterbox screen
of a beautiful bruised morning sky - blue,
white, purple and gray. As stupid as it seems
after all these years - every time I see
a piece of sky that looks like that,
I think of that hat
and you in it.
God,
I loved you
in that stupid hat