an idyllic shriek in the dark night of poetry's composition

The yellow rope became an icy
cantaloupe beverage and was quaffed
by a thirsty zephyr. The moon

stood in the sky, looking sternly
on tides
it had not authorized.

You and me, and I
do not mean you and I.
It was you and me. We

stood overruling under whelming
stars, in a stillness and silence
unbroken by piercing cicadas
and night birdsong, and our own
inward screams of turmoil, over being
simply being,
the sheer anxious clash
and disorientation of being

in this poem, fortunately
over by the time our screams

faded.

casual manifesto of jejunism

I'm not a nihilist, I'm
a jejunist. I embrace
jejunism. "Jejune"
is "devoid of significance
or interest ; dull." Nihilism

Well, nihilism
makes this whole huge deal
obsessing over how absolute
the absence of meaning
and significance
is,

in

existence.

I prefer to see it all,
as it is
more,
or less, jejune,
and I dig that. As a
foundational aspect of
reality, complete
with its own
naturally-suggesting approach
to being, I think it

fits

like the ace bitch in a pack
of dog-eared cards, mussed,
variously marked and
agonizingly shuffled. It hits
the gist
to the crux
of things' cores,

far finer
than anything

nihilism's busted flush
and blank-faced hand
- five of a kind, nothing -

brings.

frequenting

Let us
frequent each other. Frequently,
as resource and retreat,
and refuge. We'll see
such intimates and familiars
as well, but we'll come
to know better than we can tell,
in us. It will come to us, catch!
As catch can. Each one as a freak
lent leeway and lean
by some frequently
guiding hand.

"Christian Movies"

If I
had a Christian girlfriend, and
we were living together in sin?
I would say hey, to her, "Hey,
let's go see some
Christian movies. They make
a ton of them. And we could learn
better how to relate, to almost
lose faith and then never

give up. We could give ourselves
a lot of meaningful looks,"

and learn how to trust
in what's important and real
for us. Through life.

And somebody would pray.
In a crisis designed

to jerk lessons and tears,

and beyond some room in an outside world,

somebody said "CUT!"

and someone cheered

surprise

Nix on the trick trapdoor
mat fix. I'm not going
to fall for that two
bits. One bit's my
limit of chew, for you,
for this, my dear friend
is my new hairdo

Standing oration, in ode of fuck off

"Why don't I take
a flying fuck
at the beautiful bare-ass
silvery light of the moon?
In with a chance to plant
my pole, let my freak flag furl
and stand with a hand on the heart
of things, while below
me a proud and grateful world
lifts its eyes to their feet and cries
and sings? I suspect
anyone struck
by the chance of that
would not fail to respect
the good of it,

if they tried.
Shall I do it then?
Or now?

If you could fuck off
- if you saw your chance, like I
- would you do it? Would you

fuck entirely off,
or just a modicum? How much off
would an off fuck fuck if an off
fuck could fuck off? And are you
the fuckoff? Or just the off?

Fuck if I know, but I wouldn't discount
the possibility, before trying to foist it off
first at full-price as fair wares
for any discerning fucker,
potentially,
of off.

In the end
it reduces to this:
the beneficial off
should be fucked.
But who benefits?"

And he sits! And stays.

The whole room exploded
in inattention resuming the usual course
of their blended and warped, weft
wended way.
It was a social fabric
we wove, and whether we knew
it all
or not,
we were
all the stronger
for the inclusion of such
off and fucking possibilities.

Anyway.

I knew I was.

around the nude

I want to go up the nude
and down the nude
and in the nude with you.
And if we must go out
the nude will have to bid
adieu. But under clothes
the nude is hid and knows
and bides its time. Down front
and up we've covered it. But
we know what's beneath,
behind, and in-between
the parts and gaps
and bouncy springy
backs and laps
we're running out
of reasons not
to run back home
and see just
what we've got

STAR LIARS

Old Ben towed this dewy eyed
tow-headed wet-behind-the
vaporators pretty boy
all the way out to the hive
of villainy and scum. They hitched
a junky ride and from there,
it was history, son. A long time
and a ways away - they blew up
not-a-moon, got some medals on,

but old Ben died. It was not
his day. He's been coming
back since to explain away
the path you're on, and correct

just a couple of lies, so you don't
think too bad about dad and sis. It's
Okay. Sometimes life is just

one of those rides. You didn't need
to be too prepared for this.

the honey buzzle

she's my honey buzzle she's
run honey comb all through
her hair to straighten back
the kink and wave the seas
have permanently laid
there.

she's my honey buzzle and
she knows the bees are citizens
they help the flowers, help
the bears, she helps herself
when she's alone
and I am there.

honey is the flower's ghost
the sweetest scent
has thickened most
and she intends
this sorcery
my means

of our good friend,
the bee.

"If Everyone Only"

Hypothetical peer pressure could
be the most impressive force on Earth
if it's real
real
real

Everybody sees so many things
they could tell they should do,
but they missed something
it's a steal
deal
kneel

if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only did
this one thing we'd
be good

if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone else was
doing it you'd see
that you should

The whole system falls in place
at once as we take up positions
in roles and stunts
we play
parts
to wholes

The whole system falls if you don't
buy in, that's why it's so important
start listening, what I say
we say
it goes

if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only did
this one thing we'd
be good

if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone only
(If Everyone Only)
if everyone else was
doing it you'd see
that you should

the motive

It sounds like a masturbation scenario.
I think you look down on women
you don't know, trying to reframe
some way they'd look up? You're close enough
to her, don't press your luck. You're close
enough to her. Don't press your luck - but why
take advice from a snake like me? You only
want a slice, and the cake is free! But trust me.
I don't need
your belief or faith. We've only seen
the lines on the face of the fate we make.
There's a someone for you, somehow.
It doesn't take a prince
to convince her now.
It only takes a minute
to plan this life - but then
it falls to you to pretend it's right,
to dislodge and return the knife. That blood's
not important enough to wipe.

if only everyone

If everybody said McDonald's,
Burger King
would be up
fucking shit's creek
without a constituency,
trying to pop out whoppers
no takers. No buyers.
Crying and cursing the gods
Their stupid American dream
came last. When second place
comes, it's a little too fast
for the loser's chips
and buns, and patties
and everyone
could stop arguing then.
Once we knew who won.
We could then be one
happy nation of fat
and sassy again.

Practice Run.

You came with the weight of surprise
on your side. Made mincemeat
of all my defensive cries,
and at the whole point of your victory

- you capitulate. Sway, and give in to me.
Now what am I made to make of this.
I calibrate, play
and practice at bliss, but
there's only one way
this act plays out.
We shall have to sit back. Suspend
all doubt.

the must

One's love of beauty's
blinding light-to-nil
habitual attire

has emptied out my once
fulfilled and drunken eyes
by trial of fire.

Scorched to ash my prior
dreams and daydreams, fueling
fantasies, all blown away
by furnace blast, consumed
in new epiphanies.

You stood revealed, and stooped,
and laid, and stretched yourself
upon my mind

before my very eyes
could stop devouring you
from behind.

and it was grave
and utmost light
a gift somebody gave
to us, which

now is ours
to only give
and give and
give into

we must.

after you're mine

Who is the you that I once knew, and is she
within me the way that I think so still?
Or is she a thing I've remade in my mind,
by now, each cell, replacing itself
seven years it's been. You're probably
some body else

in time
in my mind, it

will always be you, but you
- really you -
don't really know that guy
you call me

all the time. No you don't.

Do you?

You used to.

Just after
you're mine.

Remember U2?

Remember U2?
A legendary band.
Almost mythic. Iconoclasts - yet
not your classic iconoclasm.

A peculiar kind:
themselves. It was self
-image they selflessly
whacked at with cracks
for kicks, posing richly

for a more rewarding shot.
They got plenty. Not cynicism,

but purest jade - a vain ornament
they chased the warp core of their sincerity
with, never catching either.

The put bono the vox
to edge the guitar,
and Clayton, and Mullen
(fine Irish names!),

I distinguish
as the rhythm
section.

It was understood they were
all-responsible. Anyway

I just decided they suck

and I hold them so.

Will Chuck Will "Plum Song"

i have EAT EN THE PLUMS

that were IN THE ICE BOX, and which
you WERE PROBABLY

SAVE ING FOR BREK FEST

for GIVE ME THEY WERE

DEE LISH US SO SWEET

and SO COLD

- lyrics by william carlos williams
music by me

certain people's beauty

Certain people's beauty
the thing about it is
they do not grow more beautiful
the more they get into your soul
the more you grow in knowing them
the more you see their flaws fit in
the more you keep forgetting them
in light of all the them they bring,
they don't do anything of that.
Their beauty just stays as it is.
What you see is all they've got, but
these are the exceptions, kids.

determinitch

If at first you don’t
succeed, who’s to say
it wasn’t fate? Maybe
you have had no chance,
every step alone the wait.
If that’s so,
you’ll try again
or give up either way, eventually
you’ll learn why not to care.
Except you will,
since you ain’t free.

"never events"

never events
don't even occur
it they did, they
would cease to exist,
as such. They would be

just events. They would lose

their pull, on imagination, and mind

not much.

the law of attract shun

I forget why,
but never mind how
who said what when
or where, but nowadays
lately and my whole life
long, there simply pretends
to be nothing particularly
wrong.

It's a puzzle.

And I intend.

But I know I never will,
more wish,
all whim and fancy
justifications imaginable
- I conceive a possibility
you might want to kill like
now? Right now? Before it sets

in?

If one conceives what one wants
with intention and without limitation,
I have heard the universe responds.

You have to listed quietly
whenever it's on

kind smile

Hello.
Thank you.
Before you die,
- but only inside!
A kind smile. Uplift
you up, perchance
to drift on rising draft
through atmospheric layer's
rift, past falling sights of far
off darkling seas into ionospheres,
and such cold things of science, waiting
for one glimpse

of safe and sound: upon
a strange landmass of cloud, hung out
in space. Awaiting tints of twilight
dawn, for you. Eternally? Await
one glimpse of gate. It's closed.

Come in.

Jump over walls
of pearly golden rose
-white sin. You con, you
shill, you kiss ypu
kill me every time. And I could look
you lethally, into torments
this just one time, I could

I will
step in, this one last

time.

To your defense.

That is,
if

ducks
could bill.

bugger this.

Bugger this
buffed and buffered
by slips
of mother tongues
and another's entirely
hips some twist
of thought on the way
to word. It could have to be ego
if only the only possible
motive
weren't so absurd. Any way
how ever and which, it supposes
itself, these days
: can't miss. I apologize, but
I am always

wrong.

It passes hypocrisy now
to sing
that song.

Except
well, I'll guess

it's true.
Suppose it is?

That would have
to do.

peremptorism

i am
peremptor.
Not peremptorist.
Peremptorism, nonetheless is

my philosophy. I finally
decide. Peremptorily,
let's

just let it ride.

clean miss

this lawlessly fallen world
of caked lies,
awfully sweetly
frosted and iced,
we find by disguise
has been filled with

holes

each one of us fits
in an endlessly
dropping miss

slipping past
each others' souls;
and there are no controls
for this.

No reality
- check this: blank.
You could literally fill
in any amount
you thank.

It is gratitude
makes it real. And that
plus the cost of
whatever you're willing

to give,

you feel.

Which values its worth.

This heart's forcing
howling hormones through
into synapse twitch
and bliss and red
periphery closing
enraged in a mist

which

after the curse,
we never in calmer
moments would wish.
Or see any reason for.
But this.

This

is the undying wish
coming in fulfilled. You and me
against the willed, we are puppetry
at the highest mark
of lowest art

in this middling spill. And we have

such charge
and call,

we can hear. We could have:

to part

in a miss
so near

forbear

The ways your nudity offends
I shall not point
or mention them.
I did not ask,
or wish to see.
And as to want? Well,

you got me.

"free shall"

My shall is free
and unconstrained
its soul comprised
in heart and brain
and every cell
immanently. Who
CARES what will?
I shall shall free.
My shall shall set
futurity
in simple terms,
by options broad
and freely picked apart
with cause I set myself
along the way, in making
shaping drive and laws
to disobey - just for the sake
of wish and whim, and will
I undertake to pause?
Good lawd!
I shall!

Begin.

In all ways why,
and how.

An Impromptu Ode to Specious Disapproval.

They called him King Tut-Tut
his pshaw was Egyptian
in finest thread counting
of cotton he’s Philistine,
Christian, or frankly
just missing the point.
Tsk-tsk! He’ll hiss fairly
all out of (and all through
the) joint.

exceptually

Her made-up words make
up the gap, between what means
and she can say. She won't
be satisfied with less
than lightly held
and spun aloft
to toss between
in practiced play
perfecting individually
each nonce and neologism.
She tests and tries them out
on me. I'd say they're good
enough for him.

palming doorknobs

A
particularly-rough order
of house dick, you might
guess. You'd be right. I
travel from floor to floor and
hotel to hotel eventually,

palming knobs. Naturally,
any
trouble
arises? I take it
in hand, and sure enough,
work it over. I give
trouble the business,
vigorously and thoroughly. It's
my business, and I'm the best

as long as I get paid. Otherwise
unfortunately, I do it for free.

Which some people just can't
seem to understand, but I
can. That's why I do. I make free

with my hands

on those knobs. Racking up
a hell of a reputation in
the underworld, if you know

that sort of thing. What
it's like. You wouldn't criticize
intelligently if you did. It takes
it out of you. Look,

When wrongdoing
and shady deals go down,
I don't authorize
that.

But they damn shan't be
found
out
as
crimes.
Sorry, coppers
and silver-tongued devils'
advocates, plus all the iron
judges of Law, but

The house doesn't want trouble.

That's why I'm here.

Whether they hired me or not, who
knows, cares, dares? I do!
It's pure technicality, and
I'm the official loophole.
Who cares if I'm hired?

No house wants trouble.

In every house I work, though
there sure seems to be no
lack. I see to that.

That's what I'm there
to solve this for.

Not a job, it's
a calling,

and once they've had some

nobody wants more.

life's work

All my life
I've been dragging this corpse around,
but one day I know
I will lay it down.

turnaround

remember, every man
you've ever met
has always loved
somebody more,
except
for me
and you're
not sure if I'm
the one you'd settle for

alarm box

Shuffle another puzzle piece
hoping the changing picture holds
the keys
to unlock and comprehend

the contents of this shifting box
of alienation

each of us

is locked into,
from birth. Yes

let's pretend,
to force some sense
to it. Each of us
is locked in such a box.
Alienation. Otherness. Square
sides walled in matte black-painted
tin, with just a tiny few and scattered
holes punched in, in shapes of stars
and moons, and tiny birds
like shuttlecocks -
to just let through
a light and sound.
The only points
of light

we ever really knew, but
all around. They always go,
but rarely stop. Beguiling

each other.
We are some
light show.

Sometimes,
when stars align
through tin, we catch
and glimpse another’s dancing glow.

We press up

close somehow,
between our orbits wandering
chaotic, somehow wrong but

yet responsive,

ultimately

now

we guess, we know
- if we both press,
we might reach through
by fingertips, to touch
- to mock at least, what we
can't have or trust, or do,
or take for keeps, what we

can't drop. Because
we never held at all,

in all this time
that was or
is to be.

It aches,
what’s in humanity.

And finding some ways now
to share, or then
to understand that ache
- this is the only thing
I find. The only thing
I ever knew was there, or real
or nearly strong, if only
fake: to care,
to press, and to release
it, stubbornly in us. And in
release, the ache

is good. So

good. We take
our mess, and let it
fall into array. All wonder,
comfort, trust, relief -
all joy set free
in song and play, and ceasing:
peace. For drawn-in moments.
Just enough, you could

find pause

to weep
to stop all clocks,
and make them know their
wrong. A quiet, glorious
and deep. Like

all the sleep
there ever was.

the particular tree

If I had to be
a tree, I think,
I would be spread
in canopy wide, with
reverse-canopy of spreading
roots, underneath and out
to drink
and dig,
and hide.

I'd be good
for several things.
For hammocks, if
there's a neighbor
near. Good for swings,
for somebody's kid.
And in the Spring,
I'd bloom big clusters, large
white petals - a second Fall,
appears beneath my canopy.
Drifting in piles upon
the last of Fall's still
crinkly, dusty bed
of me.

My shed and lovely
lungs, my dry and decomposing
leaves (apparently, nobody rakes
around here): a warm deep falling snow
of bee-kissed petals instead of flakes,

to reenact and memorialize what seasons bring,
lest we forget, eternally.

I'd pile me deep
in cast-off selves,
a blanket to keep me warm-pretend
in this fake-winter Spring I send
myself, these lovelier days
without end. (Oh, let me
pretend.)

But I'd never fruit,
because I can't think
whether any fruit-tree
has blooms like these,
with which I do slow
magic show
to amaze.

And I'm not the sort
to say "Let's see!" No

I'm not the sort
of tree to go
fruiting confused
and ignorant ways.

Girl

Girl
is the human being with
the wonderful part
and unknown
mystery, universes
within her
and for some cute, coy
or otherwise
reason, prefers
to be addressed

as mademoiselle

Perhaps
she is sprightly,
vigorous, or lithe
and
prerogative is hers,
ultimately. As a woman,

she is wise

to the fact this
is something she gets
to tell.

But if she prefers
something else? Well,
woman,

I kind of prefer it
myself.
Whatever you
do.

Not vacillating with
whatever I prefer - no,

discovering it.

in you,
in she

in her.

shamus

My reputation stank
as a private eye.
It was bad luck for business
'til she walked in,
and she laid out the case.
It was just my style.
I asked a couple questions
on time and place
and people and details,
and where to begin. It
took her a while
to bring us to speed.
I sent her out looking
for a bottle of gin,
and two specific clues
- which I thought
we'd need, which
she brought back cold.
She said "Let's hit the trail
now, before this gets old,"
so we did. She asked
do clients typically
come along? I said
it all depends
whose side
your on.

abandoned banks

We plan to rob abandoned banks.
Break open vaults.
Cart off ghost cash.
Leave notes of thanks.

beach days

We rode in on the wings of storm
that probably accounted for
the lovely sparseness of the crowd
in this begotten beach town. Oh,
how loud they weren't, my bathing trunks!
And how yours kept so nearly on -
in pounding surf, stayed by your hand
despite my watch and jinxing warn
- it's good, of course your suit
stayed on. I really wouldn't want
defeat of modesty in such a lass
by such triumphant surf, so perfect
warm and free. And so complete. We spent
two days in that small town. Came once,
and were drawn back again. I cannot
separate them now. I keep misplacing
key events, from one day to the next
and back. I'll only say, I'm sure
your suit stayed on. Except
for one brief flash

- but that's the way beach days
should be, should go, should blend
so seamlessly between the next,
the one before - and days to come.
One hopes for more.

her sovereign bow

She takes
the stage with sovereign bow,
and arching back
and forth, she'll go
a-slaying sovereign hearts
at will, she's gone
a-maying, out amidst
the daffodils. Each plucked
and breathed, with nary miss
and chary kiss goodbye
to each, perchance to grieve -
each cherished in her heart
and taking place on sleeve,
in ordered rows. A record
of such pluck she chose.
A record of each arrow's
flight, each point
shot through, stuck
bolt outright in
victory - to quiver in
its newfound home.
Each swearing to her
fealty, forever
nevermore to roam.
Each halted just
mid-beat, stuck fast -
an instantaneous repast
of steel and shaft
no heart could stand,
except to fall,
then beaten,
beat again.

To feel again
no more - except
for her; no game, yet
caught up in the score. Each prize,
collected by the glance,
by ease, at will - no chance
to still the trembling
transfixing still, of her
departed darting lance. This
arrow has
already killed.
It will go on.
It will not end,
unless - some cruel
and merciful pale hand
should weigh, lay hold,
and brace, then strongly pull
- and draw
it forth.
To beat
some other day?
Perchance? No,
here in hand
lies victory. With
feathered tail,
and slender shaft,
barbed tip,
and heart,
and all
aghast.

unanimous mutiny

I am driven by a need to pursue myself in you
in a sort of finding and opening and sliding in
and mindlessly pounding with mindful and
mindlost force, with a purpose that is
at once
yours,
and mine: hard,
ruthless pursuit
of joined pleasure, but honestly
mine, most of all or it feels
like mine - and with you
the giver, and yet I have hopes
(or afterwards, will)
it will be your call
as to whether and was
it good. Oh I should have
been bound like a gentleman
to a gentleness, by compassion
in every cue or coo of your
unleashed breath - and I was,
I guess? Your reacting and active
and venturing touch, your reflex
and form, in gesture and flinch
- taking everything, I am sure
all such cues shall suffice
to guide, and guard, and warn,
and entice and grow
a voracious awareness of mine
to turn the pursuit, to all means
and ends of yours in such good use
to let two selves go. Yet driving
such need, I cannot be sure
whose purposeness is whose,
anymore. Plus the need of my ego
released off-leash, to run -
is my drive to give all you want!
To impress and fulfill even myself,
by impress and fulfill of you,
or it was no good. I probably will
run to ground, to basis, to premise,
proof falling apart, without knowing
or skill, as all everythings I've
ever learned are coming unmoored
in an overwhelm. I can't know for
sure upon whom I shall then
have bent all my will, in such artless
and natural art, where two captains
have taken the helm, and let the ship
steer to shore or to see, absorbed
in a course of their joined
and mutual good,
on the bridge,
for pretty much all
the crew to see.