Who's the One that Wants to Love me

Who's the one that wants to love me?
When will her voice be heard?
What's the chance we'll find each other?
and I don't know's on third

The temptation is

The temptation is
to change entirely
become what it was
you wanted, learn
a lesson
against myself.

Drop the act
of me
take on a new and better face
fit it on over my eyes,
a reverse-image
of what you saw in me
originally
(that I say I never was)

It's such a close fit,
in any case!

it took you
halfway to forever
it seemed -
to note the distance between
what you saw in me
(originally)
and what you saw in me
finally.

Could I flip that equation
and subtract the difference,
leaving only what you
wanted?

Well,
why not?
it sounds easy enough

for a guy like me

communion

being of familiar faith
and usually one mind,
when we disagree it is
terrible
vicious
who can tell the sense of
betrayal
bitterness
the sudden rush of blood
to heart and head: you
who I love, my one thing
the nucleus to my single cell
I surround you; you rebel and
cast me off, shall we not both
die?

Luckily, we never have
disagreed

we are

mutual vampires
each mistaken that
the other is human
sucking each other dry
and wasting away

how
many circuits
have I made of your veins?
then drawn back into me
and into you
again

the unspeakable unspoken
secretly knowing
- how could we not?
but grown to prefer
this emptiness

to blood

your voice's pull

your voice's pull
carries the song
- and it sweeps,
it is not swept along
by the currents it keeps.
As the guitar dips oars
it pulls taut on the chords,
but your voice is the course
and the shores,
and the deep.

future slips past

my life
has broken in half
there is a future, that I used to see
so clear
my whole future

a crack opened right at my feet, as I
was about to take that fateful step,
and before I had a chance
to do anything but stop,
shocked,
the crack was a chasm.
- and the future
had slid to the side
and gone behind me
the only future I ever really knew
or saw for myself,
or wanted
is gone
into the past.
it's still there
still whole
but gone behind
I can still see it,
so clear

I stand on the edge of a cliff

facing backward

Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your hair?
Why do you hide your hair,
when its sheen should fly free
a wave of silken diamond onyx
strands, billowing glittering
in the wind,
shining in the glow
of thine admirer's eyes?
Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your eyes?
Why wear such dark and chunky shades
and make as if to avert your gaze?
I know your eyes are limpid pools
of green that I'd fain dive into
and swim your soul, from shallow to deep
forever to drown, and never to weep
why do you hide your eyes?

why do you shut the door?
why, when I stand with an armload
of blue and pink and white, a soft
fireworks burst, scented like spring
and gathered for you by hand? Why
open the door so gaily, wide smiles
that fall from your face - were you
expecting someone else, then? I
suppose I'd better be going, but
why do you shut the door?

why do you knock me down?
when we meet in the street,
- a chance encounter! Fate! my
dear, fate! took a hand, I had nothing
to do with it - but when I saw you
my heart leapt, and I had to say
"hello" - I had to! Oh -
why do you knock me down?

why do you kick me so?
I who have done only kindnesses
so many gifts, small things, really
when ever I'm out and I see some nice thing, I say:
"oh, that's for her!" and I think nothing of myself
but to send you it - hand-wrapped in gleaming pastel greys
and white ribbon gift boxes. Bouquets. Candy hearts. In
the old days, this was the way this was done! So
why do you kick me so?

why do you press charges?
yes, now that I've been shown the letter of the law,
I can see I may have run afoul of it, in one or two places.
But surely you can see - love, Love! is my law! - can't
you see my love wants only you, and what is good for us both?
The police say they can't see it, but you could tell them.
Can't you let me off with a warning? Later we'll laugh about this
together. There's really no need to pursue these extreme measures -
- bitch!

why do you press charges?

made of air and indestructible

made of air and indestructible
glimpsed in the trees
she tumbles and shakes
the limbs and leaves
and leaves

and there is calm

and we who are left look round,
catch eyes, smooth wild hair,
and laugh - well, that
was something else! A
storm in sunlight, sudden
and suddenly

gone

I wish I could follow the gale
and sit
with her
on a cliff
when her fit
has flown, and
her eyes gaze out
on a sea grown calm
as the sun shines warm
does her mouth set grim?
or smile at him? how do they
get along?

how does she get along

What Things Want

I went to bed dreaming and woke up
reading a novel
my guitar was already
playing itself
it had written a song that
I can't take credit for
not a bad song for a first effort!
(that I'm aware of anyway - I did
buy it used)

when I went to the kitchen,
the eggs were ready.
They said "fry us! fry us!"
I said "I don't know, guys.
I kind of want a scramble,"
"but our yolks, so perfect..."
Yeah, okay. Fried it is.
Over medium.

Food wants
to be eaten. A guitar
wants to be played
a book, to be read
a dream, to be
awoken from

and lived.

(on) Art's purpose

It's well and fine
to bake and glaze
and paint designs
of ancient days
and perfect forms
upon one's vase
but flowers draw
the oohs and ahhs

Expect from life

we are bound to expect
certain things. We are almost sure
to get them:
a certain amount of misery
a certain amount of discomfort
of diarrhea
of fever
a certain amount of piercing earache
of teeth-grinding headache
of stabbing toothache
of uncontrollable nausea
of blinding migraine
of involuntary groans, especially
a certain amount of hearing
improbable numbers of people say:
"I've never been sick a day
in my life."

portrait

her mouth is a wide
cut, her eyes
pierce
you
can't tell
who is being
and who has been
hurt

Jesus's Champagne Candy

Jesus is in heaven making
champagne candy
for the big after-party
after judgment day

and if you are damned,
and you're very, very good
as you board your bus to hell,
he might slip you a taste

well he rolls it up sweet
with a bubble and fizz
that just tickles your nose
as you suck it away

in heaven, hell, or earth
there's no candy like this
Jesus's Champagne Candy!

Love and Chains

This love and chains, take them off of me
I get love letters in the mail, sent to my attention:
"Resident," and I know someone out there loves me,
even if I don't know how to signal her back
And she's flying across the attic at night
scattering stars among the beams of light

These chains and this love, it's bound to some
big bunky ideal in the back of a truck
tied with bungee wire, with a red flag flapping
saying "hey keep back, this thing could snap - "

Yes I have a highway love permit officer
I will show it to you if you show me yours
alright, that's it, out of the car
and we all do the stance, the interpretive dance

always glad to be here at the drunk tank lockup,
always an appreciative crowd, thank you
I'd like to say hey give yourselves a hand now
you know you didn't have to come out and be here, tonight
but I appreciate you taking the trouble, take a bow

So I was looking at a product label the other day,
and I was flying in an airport bar, what is it
with these commercials for brick walls and spotlights?
these little things are funny because they are so not true

and now, a song, I think a
song. Perhaps someone from
the audience has a request?
Ah yes, I know that one.

Mi mi mi mi mi:

"Shut the fuck up, my lover
shut the fuck up, my love
you've wearied my ears from hearing too much
I'll weary your mouth, if you don't shut up"

Thank you thank you, for our next act,
a violence exhibition from Rocco and T-Bone, here,
local boys, they'll be practicing on a dummy,
yes, yours truly you guessed it.

Okay I'm done.

Runaway Parade

I told you keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to let it go careening around
keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to see it all come crashing down
down the street, the wrong way,
paved with colored balloons
see the helpful barricades
see it run straight through
with a boom and a snap
the sawhorses giddyap
they go flying to the sides,
tumble under and crack

it's a runaway parade
and the people line the way
as they panic back, they're sorry
they showed up so very early

and they staked the choicest spots
now they're wishing they had not
they have far too close a view
as the runaway parade
comes through

Ghost of a Dog

yard's haunted
nobody knows whose dog
people lived here before say
they never had a dog

or maybe they never played with it

poor thing
you can hear it
out there, nights
you throw a tennis ball out
come the morning, it's all chewed

won't come near you though
scared, I think
sometimes, you hear a whimper
sometimes, a whine

you know she just wants love

you throw a treat out there
come the morning, it's untouched
that's how I knew - it's not raccoons
plenty of 'coons out here, but
they don't go near our yard

scared, I think

it's too late for a treat

yard's haunted
poor thing out there,
whining and rustling at night
never barks

called the church, exorcist says
they don't do dogs
goddamn papists
bunch of bureaucrats, I swear

you know she just wants love

I want to love you honey!
but how can I do it? If you
were corporeal, I could find some way
coax you out where I could see you
love on your matted and smelly fur until
you knew you could trust me. Let me
give you a bath, feed you up
strong

you won't come near me, though
can't keep keeping me up like this
honey, what's wrong? who was it
chained you in this yard?

I know you just want love

Welcome to Apocalytropolis

we live in blown-out hulks, scrabbling
for the last of the canned goods
and making up art and poetry
to describe the modern human condition

the normals call us mutes
they live over there
see that gleaming dome?
inside they say are trees

they fly over, drop
care packages
but we won't eat that
it's pre-packaged
some kind of nutrient dough
probably loaded with pacifizole
forget it

we grow our own
from what's left of the loam
and we roam in packs through
burnt-out zones, metal detectors
searching for a secret cache

last week I was out with a click, I
found a shelter! Cracked it, pulled
four people out - still alive! and one dead
kid (embalmed - crazy to see) They were
hysterical, insane to be pulled out
but you know they had the mother load
of canned goods in there

got me a promotion. Sheila
thinks I'm going places and she's
a great girl and all, but I think
I'm staying right here.

Yes Yes Yall More Dope Ass Rhymes #2

I want to drive a Porsche!
to my yacht and eat borscht!
on board with the Lord,
as we sets a new course
straight forward! halfway
from starboard to port
I batten hatches and bitches
no wait that just slipped out.
when I rap sometimes I blame
my influences for it
a little bit sometimes, misogynistic creeps toward
on the conscious flow,
as we see, so we go,
in for example the word "bitches"
- which I'd know not to throw, not to use
to describe women. Whom I all value deeply
and stuff! just got all hype from the beat, there
for a minute.

Sorry.

Where was I.

Oh yeah.

On the yacht!

I speak a hundred languages

I speak a hundred languages
not well
not as a cultured native, and
not even as a well-studied visitor, no
but more like a thug
Like one who spoke
his own language,
but with contempt
with a twist in his face
at home with it, yes
- but like one at home
with squalor. To whom bitterness
made truths of lies
I know not why.
The words come to me
like strangers,
and I use them. Full-knowing
how to use them, but not knowing
what they should have meant
if better used.

my gift is a curse,
not as in some great cosmic burden, no
I mean simply that profanity
has a peculiar
fluency.
From my tongue,
spring tongues of others
as if I - a medium, by they possessed
- am entered into, by spirits
not foul, but certainly uncouth
I know not why, or who, all
they leave me is their tongues
and the words to swear by
they died, perhaps,
without cursing the world enough

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