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

As eyes go, yours

As eyes go, yours are nice enough.
Brown and warm, like, well...let's not go there.
But you have nice eyes, as I've said.
It's strange that there are not many gems
that color. It's a pretty color, but
what to compare it to?
Who cares about the blue, blue sky!
When did the sky ever touch you? Sink down instead
go on your knees to the deep rich earth, sink your fingers
into the loam. The earth has tones
richer and warmer than the empty air can boast.
Yet who wants to be told: your eyes, they are as dirt to me?
They are as the soil, rich with life and flecked with gold and precious ores?
That's a good way to get your head smacked sideways
by the girl with the pretty brown eyes.

"the Sudden Valentine"

Your valentine eyes flicker,
lashes lashing out
with a flip disregard
of society's whims.
Why should two such beautiful eyes not stare?
Look all you want, you!
You,
with your tongue
sliding over a ridge of even white teeth,
as the spasm of a smile
tugs one corner of your lips. You
with your sultry, sultry gaze, and your
oh so scandalous ways. But oh, so prim
and proper now, are we? Well two can play
that game too, you slut! Albeit, not as well
as you do. No, never so well as that.
Take me!
with your swift motions
and sudden hands whisking, diving,
undoing worlds of inaction,
each flashing moment frozen
as if two lovers
caught forever,
set under glass, were freed
in one greedy moment.
Take me! and rock me!
wrap me in the rolling, naked embrace
of one night's passionate folds, searching
each other, exploring each other's every nook and cranny
as we melt like buttah. Yes, sex
is what I mean. Though I put it in an elegant way,
though I put it in an elegant place, right where you like it,
yes! Right there! There! Yes! Oh! Right in your
poem!

a brush, with

I hung out with a poet once. Not an important one,
- are there important ones? Nowadays, I mean -
but published, at least. Published in books.
And an expert in poetry, one should say.
He teaches it, or at any rate, literature - in Ohio.
His name's George. Once we sat eating Greek:
my girlfriend and I, he and his sister,
all around a square table. Or maybe not his sister
now that I think again. Her absence, rather,
hovered over us as we sat eating Greek, and
discussing a book - not an important one, but
by a prominent guy, at least. I read it later on.
It was kind of perverted!

"Thank God for You, Valentine"

When Christ, Our Lord, reached out his sacred hand
to lift your chin, and look you in the eyes -
forgiveness flowed, and overflowed your heart.
So too, we two were mingled in that gaze.
Our hearts were joined, our thoughts commingled, too -
a love as pure and sweet as marigolds
swayed swimming in a sea of field-green wind -
yet shone their golden faces to the sun!
That, then, was how I knew that we were one.
That we were blest, as only fools can be.
And so, Dear Lord, we lift us up our love,
and dedicate our hearts, to beat in Thee.

A Valentine from Way Over Here

Dear valentine:
we were never that close
and since we started fucking
that distance has only grown
sometimes it seems like I am fucking you from across the room
other times, it's like fucking from across town
that distance between us, well
it inspires some pretty ambitious sexual positions,
but we don't care.
That's just how we do it!

We two were meant for things we'll never do

We two were meant for things we'll never do
meant for being thrown together
like we never were
together, like our lives never were
like we never were complete,
although, we never felt alone
as if somehow we'd always known
we'd end up meant to be

For God so loved us both
that he sent his only son
just to be our chaperone

now sometimes we both wonder
the same thing, at
the same time
but you can't see it in my eyes,
- blinded by distance -
and all I'm left with is a hunch.
I bet you've had the very same one.
And that's a pretty good bet, but
we'll never shake on it

In some fantasy afterlife,
our various ancestral clans
place salacious bets, looking down
fully expecting us to get
together
and they know it's a lock
But it's one we can't pick,
can we?

maybe with some mysterious assist:
- God rubs the dice on his sleeve,
hooting with faux disapproval
as rakish angels with cocked halos
savor our fall from grace

it could happen

you could end up meant for me

wake up! open your eyes: you moron,
you could still end up meant for me

we two were meant to wake up
to open our eyes
to make use of ourselves
entirely

but
I suppose it's no use
to continue in this vein
(though miraculous epiphanies
can happen at any time, of course).
And yes - a miracle can happen,
even after you have given up on it.
but it's no use looking at your watch.

we two were meant to wake up
to open our eyes
to see

At some point you have to
wake up, open your eyes, and see.

you know, a dream that never comes true
can still be true

redeye

time.
stops.
for 5 hours
,
sitting suspense
inside a giant pill.
pressure in your head, ears stuffed
with ambient sound; hiss of air
from a thousand plastic nozzles
letting the air in from nowhere
waiting
looking around the cabin
the backs of peoples' heads
waiting.
looking out the window: earth so bright -
the ground so far below, colors
thinning out into the air,
colors thinning out
into blue

waiting.
the outside window has
(squint)
a tiny crack in it
just a crack
- waiting

Annoyed, you look up
you reach up,
twist the toy nipple shut
cutting off the air (that blasts your eyes for a second)
button click
turning off the little light.
grasp at the handle, pull
down
push
sliding the window panel down,
shutting out the light.
The light comes from inside now
brown, dim, like a paper bag
with a flashlight inside
dim enough to sleep, but
not enough for you to sleep.
There are
books to read,
and magazines, and
this safety card.
If You Are Seated In An Exit Row
but you are not seated in an exit row.
you would like to be seated in an exit row
it would be nice to have some responsibility.
your book seems to have petered out
right in the middle of a sad chapter.
Sad,
but not sad enough
to want to keep dragging through it
with itchy eyes, and a neck
that kinks when you shift your seat

now you are a little worried. you always are

you wish this poem was over, already
safely over! Well Over
coming in smooth and graceful, with that rubber jolt and bump and rumbling roll
letting you know "OK! Even if
the wheel struts snap - we're already on the ground now,
and the fuel is spent (mostly) - and so we'll probably all get out okay"
(mostly)
but
the poem isn't over.
It's going to keep dragging on

dragging through the thin blue sky
in a high white arc
til the clouds go dark
in another couple hours.
til the clouds go dark,
and the wheels come out
and time restarts.
For another couple hours,
waiting.
you reach over, pull
push,
open the window

- just a crack

My love for you is smarter than it looks

My love for you is smarter than it looks
it sizes up its opportunities
seizes them, each for what it's worth -
its sneakered feet sneaking round corners
spying upon you for your weak moments -
devious in its sly insinuations, whispered
sweet nothings, nothing-definitives,
nothing-you-can-proves. And yet -
despite, or in spite of, or perhaps
out of spite, to spite itself -
my love for you
loves you

My love for you is unable to take your call right now

My love for you is unable to take your call right now
if this is an urgent call, requiring immediate assistance -
if you are unable to await the return of my love -
please contact either my indifference,
at extension twenty-one fourteen
or my ire,
at extension twenty-seven seventy.
Otherwise, please leave a message.
My love for you will get back to you
at its earliest convenience.

my feelings for you are aberrant

my feelings for you are aberrant
they can be picked apart, let slide
under a microscope, characterized,
classified, but we both know
what the lab result will be.
We know what it is we're dealing with
here, and what to make of it:
love.

To My Muse

To My Muse

My muse took wing
and drifted off
a feather in
the wind

And since I couldn't
follow that, my
inspiration
thinned

But since she flew,
I've never missed
her whispers
in my ear

Because her whispers
from before
are all
that I can hear

"Sweet Potato Fries"

He won’t eat them. He turns his nose
My husband doesn’t like sweet potatoes
Preheat oven to 425 degrees
It’s one of many veggies
He turns his nose up when I mention them.
So the other night, I whipped up a batch
that he just doesn’t like.

Oven Baked Sweet Potato Fries
Preheat oven to 425 degrees
Yum! Two kinds of low-fat fries
made a batch for he and I.
with dinner . . . perfect.

Did I mention that
my husband hates sweet potatoes?
Okay, just checking. That’s important.
See, you can imagine my surprise
saw me plating the food and asked for some
he ate the whole handful
I plopped in his plate and
declared “not bad.”
High praise,

ate a bunch.
These were really yummy.
He asked to eat them.
Of course, I couldn’t say no
when I wanted to eat them all myself
How can you say no to that?

Perhaps better than requesting some,
High praise, ladies and gentlemen. High praise.
I plopped on his plate
and declared “not bad.”
High praise,

Of course,
I’ve tried to make sweet potato fries before,
I hand cut mine,
Preheat oven to 425 degrees
but they never came out as tasty as these.

Oven Baked Sweet Potato Fries
sweet potatoes, olive oil, kosher
salt, paprika, cinnamon

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil
Peel the sweet potatoes.
Cut into strips

Plop on his plate
and declare "not bad."
High praise,

Christmas Isn't Christmas, Without My Christmas Poem

I'm such a Christmas sucker
I love those Christmas lights
I love the decorations
in greens and reds and whites
in silvers, golds and tinsels
on garlands and on trees
I mix my famous Egg Nog Grog
from secret recipes
and eat my ham or Christmas goose
- whatever feasts may come!
I snatch up Christmas cookies,
nibble dainties by the ton
And every year I write a poem
a Christmas poem, each year
except this year, it slipped my mind
oh well. They're usually a little
on the depressing side, anyhow.

in feet of snow

in feet of snow
on wings of miles
by travelling
I found my ways
to be with you
in hearts and hearths
on Christmas Eve
and other days
and when the dark
comes gathered in
and spooky winds
blow candles out
I cupped my hands
about your ears
and whispered soft
to still your doubt

Untitled Poem by Anonymous & P.V. Mann

the sweet bitter flavor of lament and regret
is all that you get - it's all that you get
the songs of summer's sweet salty sweat
the beat you keep, the words forget

in a cove on the beach where we first met
though we didn't know then, that's where we fell
into an abyss, caught in the net
and the surf coming over our heads as well

the sound of the surf pounding over your head
is all that you get - it's all that you get
the deep wet thrum of a drum miles wide
the beat you keep, the words forget

with your hair in the sand as the seagulls spied
though we didn't know then, that's where we fell
with the clouds burnt red as the sunset died
and the surf coming over our heads as well

the sweet bitter flavor of lament and regret
lingers long as I savour it on my tongue
the songs of summer's sweet salty sweat
sound in my head like a giant bell rung

in a cove on the beach where we first met
on the rocks and the sand, skin suntanned
into an abyss, caught in the net
we willingly lept, blindly hand in hand

the sound of the surf pounding over your head
lingers long as I savour it on my tongue
the deep wet thrum of a drum miles wide
sound in my head like a giant bell rung

with your hair in the sand as the seagulls spied
on the rocks and the sand, skin suntanned
with the clouds burnt red as the sunset died
we willingly lept, blindly hand in hand

Hallowe'en: You Should Be Thankful

When I was a child
- uphill both ways through the snow -
trick or treats were canned beans
or frozen pot roast or
if we were lucky,
an apple
or if we were really lucky,
it had a razor blade in it!
We would sterilize and collect those blades
and sell them back to the scrap steel mill
at cost plus two over 11.
It was one of the many ways of getting by
when I was a child

Big Number Nine

Big Number 9 ain't got no problems
Nobody gives him any.
He walks around like he owns the place
like maybe he does own the place
like he knows who owns the place
and maybe it's him.
Yup. Big ol' Big Number 9.

All leaned-back strut
with his chest puffed out
like a big ol' barrel
in a tight white tee
and a big red 9 on it.
And who's going to mess
with that?
Nobody's gonna mess.
Not with Big Number Nine.

it would burst

I'm so in love
with this new girl I know
and she was telling me how
the sun would get big
and red
and explode
and that would be it

and I said damn
what rotten timing.

"too much fucking mayo"

and as the world fell
into a predetermined pit
because God knew too much
to put a stop to it

and as wherever you where
at that moment in time
one last thought of me,
sadly,
flit through your mind

and as I, at that moment
attempted to frame
all the thoughts in the world
into one cracked pane

- but I gave up the poem
out of general malaise
when I looked at my sandwich -
too much damn mayonnaise.

Safe

surrounded by things
I should not have kept
and I feel hemmed in
by happiness

in a cramped tight space
with so much of my own
that I can't quite fit
but I don't quite know
what to keep
what to shred
what to burn
what to toss
'cause it's all I have left
but it's all my loss

in a cramped tight space
with too much of my own
packed into the space left
by a heart that's gone
and in the space left
I keep what I've learned
I have packed it with lessons
too hard to be earned:
don't trust her
don't trust her, or her
or you
but my heart will come back
in a box, postage-due
and as soon as it's back
it will squeeze back in tight
and squeeze out all those lessons
even though they were right

I was crying at the liquor store.

I was crying at the liquor store
and they didn't even ask why
I guess they get a lot of that
or maybe they figured, shit
"I am not a bartender."
Well damn it I don't like sitting in bars
unspooling my boo hoo tale to some dick
excuse me, or dickess,
for tips and applause!
I am not this evening's entertainment!
No, sir.
But as I open up my empty home
and set down the heavy paper sack
I take a bow

Rehearsing This Speech Forever

He's been rehearsing this speech forever -
"The only advice I have to give you is never,

Never give up on your dreams. So many times,
as I went through the valley of the shadow
my life had become, I threw hope aside,
and gave up on myself. But something
always came back to me. All the people,
famous and admired, the only advice
they could ever give me was this: Never

give up, and never turn your back
on your dreams. And as I sat there
squinting at the television, I made that
decision. I made that leap, I took that
advice to heart and I kept it to heart, I kept
that advice, and I learned to persevere and
to try twice as hard, and

I believed in myself and now look

look where I am

today

today"

today

he stopped rehearsing.

I stunned a bug

I stunned a bug
and it fell in my food
and I didn't even notice
until I chewed

I Need Somebody ~ or ~ Rumble at the Jahva House

I need somebody
on the bongos sometimes,
to go with this latte and my overall chill
it's turtleneck weather in my soul
though no dark night, no
but the hard bright high
of noon will throw
harsh glare everywhere,
on top of black shadows
as my eyes throw smoldering coals.

In your direction.

- and in your direction:
I can see, there you are
you're even cooler than you are
and it rolls off my tongue
'cause I've caught your name,
just once. And I haven't let go
though I haven't really tried
why, you daughter of a hound
you quit yappin' around
at the bad moon I was born under last night
And sometimes you wonder:
was it better to wonder, or to know?
And sometimes you don't.
And sometimes, you know

But we consider contact
and we eye contact
and we both blink first
from across the moat
that divides this space
which is walled with books
stacked like close-packed bricks
set with coffee stains.

And we each choose one
- we deliberate,
and we're fine with what we get,
but we didn't take pains.

my heart said thanks

There's a feeling in my heart and it said
"hey" "what's up head?"
and my head said
"yo, heart - how's it hanging down there?
way down in the ribcage
that's some prime location right there, SON
very well-protected" but then my heart replied
"that's where you're wrong, BUD
I get all kinds of damage in here,
you don't even know about"
and the head was like "yup.
I heard about that, about how that can happen -
tell you what, heart - I will write a POEM
for you. Get those feelings out."
My heart said "thanks"

soon to be blue

the moonkissed fluffy whitesilver clouds
sink into bluesilver
in the lingering twilight, just before dawn
arrives
there are stars.
still out
as the redsilver light
yellows the brightening Eastern sky
against the mountains
the mountains hold
the dawn, back
and fuck
ain't it pretty?
a whole crowd and procession
of clouds
all different cloud creeds
and cloud races
the puffed-out big round guys
some bottom-flattened with tops like cottage cheese
and little bitty ones like pulled-apart cotton balls
stuck here and there with long cotton tails of steam
trailing off in different directions
and high arcing wisps, wafting across the top of heaven
made of ice
there are
a few odd ones - big and big around,
like a thick fat slice of tornado,
a section of funnel, sliced right from the middle
but gentle, though - minding their tempers
amidst this mixed crowd gathered to meet the sun

but at first, though! You could barely see them all
wallflowers, shying, waiting, not wanting attention yet
merged as they were into the silver backdrop, all of the sky
squeezed into one distance
a surface of infinite shallowness

then, just beginning to pick out the shapes
from the highlights
as they
- their faces,
begin to glow, they
begin to stand out,
against
the sky behind them
brightening
from bluesilver
brightening
to yellow
brightening
to rose
and soon

to be blue

ah!

here it comes

Don't Breathe a Soul of This to Anyone

I can't begin to call you
on the telephone to talk
about this - to explain
the threat - because
every single phone call
is being monitored
by sixteen rooms that don't exist
scattered throughout the country right now.
Maybe it's seventeen now. More locations
to serve you.

So I'm telling you this way. This way
is safe.

No one will see this.

CIA Headquarters. Langley, Virginia.
Fully half the rooms in this building
don't exist.

Think about that. It's a huge risk.
For the structural integrity of the
building, if for no other reason.
But I'm not here to talk about that.
I'm here to take you inside
one of those rooms.

One of those rooms

that don't exist.

This one does. And what goes on in there -
they will deny it. But I can describe it to you,
Perfectly. By means of remote viewing.

"remote viewing"

HA

- big joke, now, right? In this day and age? They
spent millions in black ops dollars, back in the
heyday, exploring the techniques and potential
of remote viewing.

And then, when too many people caught on, they had
to publicly "pull the plug" - claim it's a dry well,
that it didn't really work, a bad intelligence investment
- no more to see here.

Well, like about so much else that goes on in those
rooms that do not exist - they lied. They had to turn
Remote Viewing into a joke, because of the danger
that might happen, if too many people took it
too seriously. They might not find it funny at all.
If the methods became too known, if your average

unknown

citizen

began tapping and developing that ability within
himself,

or herself,

without the benefit and sanction
of government training (and containment) programs -
that kind of power in the hands of the people!
That would be no joke at all.

So they had to publicly shut it down. Pull the plug.
Denigrate. Make it safe. Make a big joke out of it.
Because

they couldn't take the risk

of people like you and me being

in

on

it.

But that's exactly what's happened.

Because I've tumbled to their secret techniques.
Because I've unlocked the ability within myself.
And I have looked
inside
one particular secret room
at Langley Headquarters
in CIA, Virginia,

- and do you know what I found?

Do you know what they're doing in there?

Remote Viewing.

That's right. The bastards never stopped.

I don't think they know I know yet. Whenever I check,

they're all sort of...

looking the other way.