Roses Are

See, perfect example. The above has all the earmarks (or hallmarks?) of a "modern poem."

* mostly prose
* novelty line breaks
* subtle if any rhyme

This gives your verse
an incredible amount of loose,
groovy freedom - but

WARNING! It does NOT

make poetry writing EASIER! If anything,
the lack
of a safety net, the lack
of an even force of gravity to pull you down, keep you

able to tell up
versus down, even - the lack

of all that
restraint and equipment,
basically - frees you up to FAIL!

, if you're not careful

Most modern poetry is a perfect example.

Mine, just
right up above
us, there - ? Well,
admittedly, less so. Far
short of a perfect example of
that sort

of thing.

That's the risk you take. Free verse is for REALS, yo.

I just wanted to point that out, because

sometimes people

are like

"This museum piece looks like my special needs kindergartener's imaginary BLIND FRIND took a SHIT on a NAPKIN and slapped it up on the refridgerator like the proverbial asshole sittin' in Pie Corner with plumbs on his thumbs." That's pretty much a cliché,

in the red
-blooded just-us
-folks world

of art critique

, in these days, ever since
hey! they finally gave up
on the sort-of progress that had been
captivating snoots for a while, by then.

You

look at some free-form MASTERPIECE
, and go "SHIT!
I could do that without even WANTING to
."

But it's just as important to note
-
the same thing applies in poetry
! It's
just poetry

never had a chance
to get bastardized by the Modernist
Hijack so bad, because poetry

wasn't in competition with photography
in quite the same way.
(That painting was.) Fine

Arts Painting basically felt itself

threatened,
grew desperate,
freaked out like a SPAZZ
into a corner and
DIED there, trying
to find even one
decent
plump

remnant

wedged into a beveled aluminum crease of a by-then-
long-since way
-too-picked
-over PIE PLATE. And let me tell you!

There is nothing inspirational about the wafting aroma
of the curdles and scrapes and streaks of remains
of purple-pulped pie juice that looks and smells
like it has been sitting out

, in a room-temperature room
, since the beginnings of the ends of days. Bacteria,
mold - you name it.

And yeast
- trying trying to eat
what's left of the sugar, but
there's not even enough moisture for poor little mister
yeast to shit out a proper alcohol molecule
as a by-product! Art,

basically,

became spoiled

and so I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the pitfalls
- the same thing hasn't QUITE

happened to poetry yet, so!

be careful, but have fun.
Just
make
sure you're not the one,

to fuck up poetry for EVERY ONE TO
COME

GENERATIONS

AFTER

OKAY??

There's no

Nobel Prize

for that.

"pass a note"

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, I'm
so

sick a me
hit in on
you
take the shot
Take! the Shot!!
no! you don't even seem to
move. You don't seem to feel no,
impact no pain no
gain
no distortion
catch spark - no flame,
I'm so sick of my poor battered
battering ram
of the skull
to the wall
papered all in vain, not - say,
what am I,
sane?

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, and for you
- not a scratch, not a dent
not a crack! not
a vent, this volcano's blowing over
all the smoke's been spent, but yet

oh, here it goes again. No,

here it comes again. No,
here it comes again and will you even notice
when?

There appears to be some rule
of the universe, here. We are Force Equals
mass times whatever, it's clear
where the object irresistible
hits immovable force - "hey man, do you like,
like me?" Who me? Well,

Sure!

Of course.

What are you trying to SAY?

Speak more plain, please.

(drum solo)

I'm so sick of me hittin on you!
Like a fist
to the heart pound, thump
skip, beaten and through, I'm so sick of me
hitting on you, this is not, really my kinda style of
strict kung fu, and I'm sick of me
hitting on you.
Knock it off!
Cut it out,
man. Even Bruce Lee can't outbox
a rock statue of Muhammad Ali.

Two particularly quite sexy men, by the way, but don't kid
yourself Ali's statue
isn't even going to notice that dead Chinese guy
all...

flailin' at him.

He's just that stoic. Take
a lesson from a poet, or - if you must!
remain in school, and maybe pass a note! Man up,
Grow up, and
pass a fucking note up the row,
or something

Huh?

Cause man? That's childish man. Childish

"Cross your fingers"

If the refrigerator light
stays on in the dark, and if
just through the door,
there's a national park, and if
deep in the center, there's a sacred grove -

if a tree falls by chance on a crock of gold,

Will a rainbow break out, arc and hold in the sky
as a kind of alarm?
Will there be an outcry
to shock us from our beds?

So we rush to the door
- throw it open, grab hold
of the bottle we know
is the coldest and best
for emergencies, now
- and pour.

We have found

that in trouble and doubt,
we have had to learn how.
And at least, we have tried.
Who can sleep anymore?
Since the luck has run out.
Since we looked out, and saw
we've let every tree
fall.

Did the first make a sound?

But how could it?
It had already died, after all
after all,

after all.

"It was not meant to be
after all,"

she lied; closed the book

by its cover,
her eyes on the world, her heart
on the end of the story,

and sighed.

"Close The Door"

if you close the door I will cease to exist,
you won't track me down from the clues I left
all scattered around, you know
they point nowhere now

if you close the door I'll remove my head
and reveal myself as the alien dead,
go back to my planet and report
that love is unsound

but I'd rather be human with you

and you know you make me feel like
I was one

and I want to be new and improved,
and you said you want it too
and then you said you wanted to
run

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?
Thou art sweeter, yet no less savory for it -
and of buns, you require none but thine own.
Of heat and steam, thine is the more wholesome entirely!
You freshen the air splendidly, and all who breathe in it
are wakened to a hunger not merely bodily in nature,
but of soul and of mind, transcending to realms ethereal
and empyrean. In form thou art more delightfully various;
in face, certainly had any sausage a face, we would scream
to see it! Yet upon thee, nothing could sit lovelier
than the dulcet light
within thine eyes,
shining in and upon the song
and the dance
of expression that passeth
in every glance
of the play
of thy face.
Shall a sausage fit
to compare with this
ever be ground, or stuffed,
or hung? Methinks,
fuck no. No fucking way in hell pal
Not too fucking likely.

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES, I CHECK MATES AND THEN I MAKE THE MATES KING ME
IN CHECKER GAMES, THEN I BREAK THE RECORDS THEY BRING ME,
CUTTIN' SCRATCHIN OFF THE NAME OF EVERY HUSBAND'S CONSORT
THEN I WRITE MY NAME IN OVER, THAT'S A NEW HIGH SCORE
AND I'M A VERY GOOD SPORT! AND I SHOOT, AND I DUNK,
AND THEN I FAKE HER OUT HER SHOES, AND EVERYTHING ELSE, PUNK!
AND THEN WHEN VICTORY'S DECLARED IT'S LIKE "SO WHAT ELSE IS NEW?"
I'M ALWAYS RUNNING UP THE SCORE ON YO WIFE, SHE'S ALL THROUGH
FINALLY THROWING IN HER TOWEL AND YEAH, WHATEVER ELSE, HELL
I BEAT WIVES!! AND THEY LOVE IT CAUSE I WIN SO WELL!
I DON'T KNUCKLE, I PINOCHLE EVERY DAMN MAN'S SPOUSE
AND SHE'S LIKE OOH, WHAT WAS THE WAGER ON THAT?

THE WHOLE HOUSE!!

I BEAT WIVES!

Explanatory note: this is the latest smash hit from M.C. Ogynist, a satire rap persona

"A Lucky Man"

He who finds
a woman true
to stand by him, 'til forever is through
She puts his needs
ahead of her own,
and he'll do the same for her,
'cause he knows

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
and all that I can do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

He who finds
a woman fair,
with right and wrong so strong in her stare
For him she'll choose
for better and best,
and he'll do the same, 'cause he knows
he's blest, oh

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
and all that I can do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man.
All I ever do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

And when I find
a woman good
to treat me right, like I wished someone would
For her I'll strive,
and I'm the best I can be,
until she finds a better man than me, and

he is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
all I ever do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.
Oh, he is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man!
Girl you know you made me
believe I was him,
for a little while.
For a little while,
oh for a little while, I was

a lucky man.

reason to

I've been told
there is reason to believe, and I don't
see anything but
I trust the source. Whatever's ahead
could well cut off mine.
But if asked, I will say
I believe. Of course!

Brightens As It Destroys

To hell with the cracks
in your perfect façade
that goes all the way down
is that all that you got?

Because that would be odd.

I have something for that,
it's corrosive, it blinds,
yes - you guessed it - it's love

it was all I could find,
but it sure does the job.

Irish Wedding Blessing

Wherever you stray, may you bring them love,
And when you return, bear love back home.
May your fields grow green under gentle rains,
Surrounded by walls of white fieldstone
And may nothing but good ever come through your gate.
Wherever you two lay heads to rest,
May sweet night's sleep be your only dark,
And the light of each day shine on better and best.

maybe soulmates

Maybe all soulmates
are born in regrets:
missed you this time, babe
catch me next

"Pretend We're On Fire"

We have seen the future, and it has passed us by.
And you watched it going - until it burned your eyes
and you can think it over about a million times,
all your life

'til heaven and hell burn alike

We thought we'd burn forever, and never turn to ash
now we can find the answers, but no one's going to ask
and we can rake it over, but all the coals are spent.
All your life

if you could believe in it, again

We could pretend that we're on fire, again
Burn twice as bright as normal life
See the glow reflected in imaginary eyes
We can pretend that we're on fire, again
You and I remember what it's like,
And it will never be, again.
But we can pretend

We were so amazing. We knew it in our hearts
And the world was crazy, but we were really smart.
We could see the future was just about to start,
just about

when everything else fell apart

And as it fell around us, we knew that we'd shine through.
We were burning so bright - and everything was fuel.
Every fresh disaster, we'd turn it into light -
until life

diminished. And faded from sight

We could pretend that we're on fire, again
Burn twice as bright as normal life
See the glow reflected in imaginary eyes
We can pretend that we're on fire, again
You and I remember what it's like,
And it will never be, again.
But we can pretend

We were made for greatness. We knew it in our bones
And the world acclaimed us, in ringing golden tones.
All our dues were paid up, we called in all our loans.
It was time

The future would bloom like a rose

brain like a book

Your garbled plots
so thick and dense and twisty
don't make any sense
I see them spelled out plain as day,
in squiggly lines
on matter gray

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear
you should try to think more clear

the first few chapters
lost their hold when you gave up on
the lies you sold
between the lines I read out loud
to your increasing shame
and doubt,

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.

What if you really wanted to put it out there in ink?
What if you came out and said what you try so hard not to think?
Why do you try to conceal, when it's spelled out plain to see?
And I -

can read.

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.

spice

Regret is a bitter spice, fit only
to season dishes prepared in the past
by the master chef called Spite,
for future consumption cold
during solitary banquets of colorless dolor,
in the impeccable oneness of years to come,
handmade by our own dumb complicity,
as we sit motionless marching through minutes
of exquisite dimness, folding into hours
of powerfully harrowing shallowness
before listing, and toppling listlessly into days
of sameness, piling up into weeks
of plain, dull pain,
until finally

- anesthetized by an endless injection
of the sumptuous numbness of numberless months,
we succumb, and conclude
that in the end -

regret is a bitter spice,
and we ought to find better
ways to season our food.

Here in my heart, and
everywhere else,
you and I always
will have the future -
which we turned
away from years ago
- or at least,

I will. And you did. I know
you had all of that future, too,
back then, when you broke into mine
(it was an inside job) and we built so many
roads and plans, and all different dream homes,
and every stretch, every stitch,
every stick still stands.

You can't abandon a future so dreamed-
and lived-in that you see it in front of you
every day, while everywhere you walk,
you walk away.

it was all

I missed the part
where it was all just a dream.
I guess that it makes more sense
now, though. It certainly was
an improbable ride,
and such a long way to go - now I know,
I should probably conduct myself differently,
as if woken up, coffee in cup, and punched in
but I still seem to see everything
just the same as it's always been.

practice fall

She's got a lot to prove,
and none of it true
- but what do you want her to do? And worse:
what is she going to decide to do first?
It's better, I guess, to plan
for the worst. If you now interrupt,
the process could stop and start over
again facing right towards you,
as the chief obstacle.
How are you as a wall?
An immovable object? If not,
practice fall.

"How Sweet"

It was a figure of speech,
but I would take you at your word.
And I would put it where it counts,
if I heard what I heard.
And you could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

If I didn't mis-hear,
If you're really sincere
I don't make promises much,
but I would kiss your butt -
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

It was a figure of speech
but with a figure like yours
from my lips to god damn
I would freely explore
if I could kiss and make it better
that's hard to believe
if I could kiss to make it bad,
that'd be alright with me
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?
'Cause you could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this:
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

I'd never kiss it goodbye

You could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?
If I could kiss to make it better -
that's hard to believe,
if I could kiss to make it bad,
that'd be alright with me,
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

windows

I see the world in your eyes,
and I am outside.

But if I let you close,
I can see myself

Reflected in you
at least, part
of the view

A secret
so big,
I was sure
we both knew

But the eyes
are the windows, they say -
in this cell,

I know your eyes are. And outside,
I can tell it's a beautiful world,
but I can't get in. I can breathe,
I can see, but as long as I look

I will never be free
again.

to go order

Whip up a frothy cup of yourself
and say, "I do believe it's hot,
I do believe it's sweet, I do
believe it's good, I do" and then
taste carefully and see. Sometimes,
you have to be your own mocha. Sometimes
mocha is not what you want.

little white loves

instead of lying about
your hair looks good, or
your outfit, or the dinner you cooked
is great, honey - why not pick specific
aspects to honestly praise? this part, this
one thing or these several
things just need, need
to be mentioned, captured
your gaze and your breath away
as well, and make love

to the highlights. Love is

loving someone for the best they are,
anyway. Oh you love all they are! regardless,
because

it is this person. You love

You've been converted.
Convicted. Have courage, then
it is no longer a critical concern
- the whole
damn wonderful is
great! But when asked

about some smaller aspect,

No need to lie. Just lead
with the best, lead with what is
striking, lead with what's remarkable. Isn't the best
simply more remarkable? Yes
maybe it is a little
dishonest to blind them with a truth
about the minor good part, such that
they forget you've perhaps not offered
your rounded view
on the whole.

It is
a little misleading, maybe,
to lead with the best. To leave them
with an all good review, of only part
of what they asked, that makes them feel
great - but so what! what's
more dishonest motherfucker!!
Tell a flat out LIE? that
the thing "is good"? Fuck that!
I MAKE PEOPLE LOVE THEIR FUCKING DAY with this shit
and meanwhile, all you do

is rehearse to deceive

and practice to have them swallow it.

Swallow it, while you smile
and say it's good,
it's all good.
Your little white love

is a lie

ornament

However I live is stringless gift,
I need neither wind, nor string
nor tail,
nor even kite,
to generate lift
- or at least I hope,
and at most I'll fail.

I'm not the kind of puppet
to dangle from strings, or hang
from rope, or at least I hope.

I'm the other kind.

The kind with wings,
and an infinite arm
stuck up my behind

Say Hi.

Your headline was long ago.
It's taken you down this road
and nobody really knows -
what's become of you?
But everyone just assumes
that things move in courses smooth
and everyone's going to get
- what they're going to get.
So why not you?

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Taking a lonely meal
fixed you your favorite one
the cutlet is underdone -
could be bad for you
Taking a lonely walk
so tell me, what else is new?
At least it's the final one
it's been so long!
We're almost through

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Say hi to the executioner.
don't you take it out on him or her
he or she is only doing their job.
It's not their fault.
You can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but there's no need to be rude to anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Sit in an empty room.
The mirror is all 1-way
and nobody's on your side
just like everyday.
The words of a long-lost prayer
remind you of childish things
if I should wake up,
before I die -
from this falling dream

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

like you different

the different thing you're doing with your hair -
I like it like it
the dress you've got I've never seen you wear
I like it like it
that new tattoo - hey when did you get that?
I like it like it
since last I saw you, it's a brand new act
I like it like it

your - hey, oh, shit - wait
sorry!

I thought you were somebody else

I thought you were somebody else.

That's awkward, but
I don't take any of it back.

"giant monster movie"

She's a little bitty girl just a little bitty girl not much to look at
She's as sweet as can be, it isn't easy to see that she could stomp your world flat
She's no mutant at all, it's just that she's got a natural knack for havoc
You think you might want a piece, but you won't want it where she's
gonna let you have it,

She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo size
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie

And there's no early alarm ain't to time of a month she just can't be predicted
And don't be fooled by her charm, you push it over the line your scales are gonna get Richtered
Yeah if you're in her way, better evacuate, find a stampeding crowd and blend in
for your own sake, if you're in her path she's gonna flatten that ass
hey do you wanna be pancaked?

She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo sighs
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie
Guitar solo
Drums solo
Bass solo
Explosion!
She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo sighs
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie

reveille

As another dream dies, another day dawns. Let us not mourn the night
until evening comes, and the day's hope proves to have died once more.
So to sleep, so to dream, and perchance

to snore.

look the part

I'm adrift no one else even knows what I'm doing. They only know
the things they funnel my way, and that stuff
once funneled never, doesn't ever come back. I need
to start dressing more ominously in black,
and speaking in clipped sentences
with a subliminal hint of menace.

loved & lost

oh
how
good it is to see you!
You're in my eyes - everyday and oh,
how
good it is to know you
'll never go away.
Never go away, you
taught
me
so much of what love means
love
I
never knew before
love
I'll never know again -
what'd you teach me for, then?
what'd you teach me for?

Is it better - is it all better?
is it better to know me?
is it better - is it all better?
was it good for you to?
is it better - is it all better?
can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

before
I
didn't know what I was missing
now
I
know it through and through, I can't
unlearn what you have given, and
I know I shouldn't want to. I shouldn't want to!
if life
could
be that damn amazing
you'd think
that's
a thing you'd want to know
but I can't
unsee
the heights you've shown me
I'm still falling from them,
since you let me go

Is it better - is it all better?
is it better to know me?
is it better - is it all better?
was it good for you to?
is it better - is it all better?
can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

Have you lost everything?

All the love you ever had
All the love you've made
What if you could find one love
to leave them in the shade?
Make them seem ridiculous,
inadequate and small
That's the love you taught to me
what'd you teach me for?

Is it better. Is it all better?
Is it better to know me?
Is it better - is it all better?
Was it good for you to?
Is it better - is it all better?
Can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

talking to you

talking to you is like waking up
alive inside the mind of a bird, the taste
of the juice of a drought-sweetened peach; how
a sudden memory can astonish - like remembering
how you smelled as a baby. In Australia,
do pineapples roll uphill? It couldn't be true,
but it must be so. Gravity is what sugars the stars,
little ones and you'll know
when the dawn comes: flowers
open up in a tremble of birdsong
and for once,
it doesn't need to make sense

and does
anyway.

use of memory

You'll be walking along and then
something happens to you.
Maybe it's wonderful!
, but either way, you write it down
right then, you draw it out
in colored chalk, on and along
the bumpy cobblestone curbs
and surfaces
of your shade-dappled sidewalk mind.

So that years,
decades later,

it's still there.

You're not sure now what street or town
- except, it's summer.

It always seems to be.

Why is that?

Most every rough draft
of your memory, it seems
to gravitate towards those days
of hot, red blood,
mostly from stubbed toes
- leaving your poor toe with a jaunty hat!
of a skin-flap, still attached
but throbbing, stinging
and cocked at an angle. Later,

running over more forgiving ground,
the bay shore sand
sticks all over, a scab-sand composite
making a gritty bandage - clotted
and covered,
clean. And your brother, slapping you
smack across the back
with a live jellyfish!

flung sidearm through the air without regard
to possible consequences for his own
poor hand! And
mosquitoes. Not even worth
slapping at. Not in those days.

Even if the old suburban wives'
legends about them
sucking the itch right back out
with the last of their blood meal
(if you leave them alone)
wasn't true, you secretly loved
to scratch the welts. Ah,

your own blood!
You used to be such close
friends with it. And memory!
Memory,
a popsicle. It could never fail
to shock, and usually
in a good way: so technicolor cold
; at first your lips stick, your tongue
sticks; so cold
you can't really tell the flavor, only
the color

because you saw it. In this way,
we learned what colors taste like.

Now you suck blind on a memory.

You'd unwrapped it
- hoping for red!
No. Damn: grape.

Still good! (Anything but
green) Soon,
with sucks, slurps
and licks, your mouth pulls
all the cold off, and
your tongue (your whole mouth
!) starts to taste
the bright
, artificial flavor
that had been trapped in ice
the whole time.

And is now released.
Icky,
sticky sweet
dripped and rubbed
on palms and fingers,
and fingertips, dripping rivulets
through and between and off them
off you,
to fall in space, first drops of rain
from a storm that could only have
blown in from Oz: Purple,
or Red, or Orange, or
- green, god forbid. The sidewalk
behind you, drip-dyed as you walk.

What color's your tongue?

You know full well.

So you write it down
Right then. You write it
in memory, because who can be bothered
with pencil? Pens
, papers? Homework
In memory, it's summer.

Use
colored
chalk
.

"Let go. It's time"

I will never
let go of the past
for as long as I live.
If it takes the rest of my life, I will keep it
always. It was beautiful,
and true, and so other things I'm sure
will be beautiful,
or true. The past, even broken
and scattered beyond all repair, is

the only reason I've seen to have hope

in what life can be, and I am bringing that
with me.

notes to

This is one of those
self-referential poems
about the process of composing
one. I will include

No prose, but a strong
simulated unmetered, near-
rhymed lyrically mono
-tone, female and male feet

traces of old terminology,

notes to self: don't forget to come
back later, and change the part
about her titties
to something less obvious
about her eyes,

for instance:

how they bounce, which is
by far to be preferred to
that time in that boxy Chinese
restaurant back East, way back
, back then? With the saucer
of superhot Chinese

mustard (not a metaphor for anything
but those dry crunchy noodles you dip
into it), and with every single meal,

you bring her here for
the sticks
like white rice,
and the complimentary eye roll.

Do not.

Do not.

Attempt to reproduce

that fake so-called accent
you'd use. Not to self:

Not to anyone else, either. Note:

it was not what you think.

alibi, anecdote

LOOK OUT

In California today, winter
is so close you can smell
the snow that will never fall.

And in the glow of the encroaching dark
that suffuses equally well through clouds
and off smoke, directionless light
that stays, not out of love
for what it barely bathes,
but because as it very well
has always known, there is very soon
going to be nowhere to go. And I am
out,

out of all of the people you know,
who you've never brought home,
the one

to which we can readily refer,
in case of question
or comparison,

out of all those left
out in dark, out in cold,
who has felt it least?

I am the one.

Having had more warmth
bled out of me than whoever we're luckily
going to bring, pulled out of the crowd
to take a quick bow, and thermometer-check
for comparison, the result:

Is known.

Thank you, sit down, a big hand,
cold as stone for you. I was numb
once, but I have long since learned
who the number one is.

Possibility exists of one better than me,
than even me, at even this - though we haven't seen
the last
of me, or the first of him, or

her.

Or her, most like.
Let me be most loathe, if you will
I will be.
I'll at least leave room,
in case you'd like to try. I'll wait

'til then, and see. I die
to be crowned with that wreath,
my friend. Having by then surpassed
all conceivable odds
any fix competition can pitch,
by God. From the pistol crack,
to the ribbon, the end. In the matter
of numbness

I will be so crowned, the numbest.
I wait out
far out in the crowd,
even now in the cold.

The number one goes
out in all kinds of weather
just as long as the forecast is rain,
sleet, snow,
or in vain,
or otherwise. He neither waits,
nor strives to find his two.
feeling less than that? It could be

just you.

"Were She Self-"

Were she self-
congratulatory at all,
we'd have to admire her taste. But since
she is modest, and given
to praise, not boast -
we are forced to deflect
(not bestow)
compliments.

"Insidious Influence"

Somewhere someone
you passed on by
today, without a word
or eye contact
- you made their
day. Just by
the way
you passed on by!

turnaround

I dreamed I was on the final page
of a screenplay unsold, as yet,
unmade, and with no guarantee
any deal would be struck
- let alone find its cast,
or shoot,
or come to its final cut,
or ever be screened.
It felt like the end
before a beginning
had even been made.
Like an alternate life -
not real, not art
- just something supposed
to become something great,
if we found the support.

It's become too late.
We can look up and see that, now.
We put pure, beating heart
into this mistake.
No act left to play.
Our read-through winds down,
and you stand.

For your part: you await the line

that perfect one line that the world would quote
to express all this wrenching and glorious hurt,
in the moment of terror, with all at stake -
the joy of a life made real
in a play of one act,
that only we two can make.
That only we two
ever need to believe,
and feel,
and you wait.

For your part: you wait.

And the pause draws out,
and your eyes say it all -
all you're willing to hear,
all that needs to be said above all,
one time, in that perfect one line

which was left off my script.

I will fumble my part as well
as I can. I won't cry over it, and if
you laugh

- I will certainly understand.
Maybe this
was a comedy, after all. And my part
- the role of a perfect life - neither real,
nor art, but a perfect life. Or at least,
half

trip in time

Miladylike ladylove
traipsed through rows of bellflowers,
out the garden gate, to the belltower, fell -
in love with all her own
small reflections
in the buttons
of the cobblestone path,
colored glass
-pebbles blown
to resemble hearts and olives,
eyes, or strange celestial spheres -
done in pink, done in white,
done in amber,
done in blue - and
each one of them distorts
magic mirror tiny faces
of miladylike
ladylove,
who looks like
you.

the natural thing

All this "let it happen naturally" is the
hardest thing for me,
I've ever done in my life.

But still we made it - did it, didn't we?
Waited 'til the fates agree.
We don't have to do that bull shit twice, we are

gone through all the courses,
of obstacles and forces,
this courtship's come in.
Let's never do that again, I wanna be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
that's only natural, woman.
Woman,
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
Woman,
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing,
'cause if we mean it to be -

It's meant to be.

I've dealt in certainty, ever since
you kissed me back. I have married you,
a hundred times, behind your back
- with a thousand vows, that I have kept -
that you never heard
Don't tell me that's rushing in
I'm no fool
don't be absurd, I'm gonna be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
it's only natural, woman.
Woman,
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
Woman,
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing,
so supernaturally -

We're free.

I am tumble-tongued, language lost
make up the words, only all of them
can't explain. I'm digging myself,
even deeper in, and covered in
all of this dirt. I can't excavate
what's in the stars, but to try
wouldn't hurt?

I'll always be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
it's only natural, woman.
Woman,
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
Woman,
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
Woman,
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing
- a touch unnaturally?
Works for me.

Woman,
it works for me.

'Cause if we mean it to be,
it's meant to be.

Uncut

My heart, it breaks
in tiny ways the blood cannot get in to seal.

So it remains in crazy cracks, all over pain
makes mute appeal

- and all that it can feel is ache. The only thing
that could fuse back and cauterize the miniscule,

but deep-sunk wounds that torture me -

is if some one could come along
with lightning-crack, with back-to-life,

and make of me

a greater fool.

marine layer

In the sun,  

right now - rising
somewhere. Setting

somewhere else,

too - a glow of rose-gold 

is hung, suspended in straps
and bolts of cirrus and stratus clouds, 

over the ocean on a cool blanket
of wind and spray: a hammock

for us, or for anyone else. There,

Always,
even on the cloudiest days
- rise higher! Up and away
it awaits, stretched from each yesterday

to every today, hung still
in every dusky morning,
and as each night dawns,
swung,
flung,
held

in the restless,
motionless thrill
of your sleeping form

in my aching arms.

Or
if not, then still:

a dream of someone,
asleep in a bed
of sun.