grassy knoll

there are places

from which we can never

find a way home

sitting in the sun staring up

lying about images we see in clouds

paying no attention to the motorcade

or the ducks as they sup upon

the trail of breadcrumbs we left

behind

the fence men discuss

god sized holes

in each any every

the difficulty glare created

before the miracle of polarized glass

and the way pain is mistaken

for a final destination

tree swing tethered

to a recollection of orchards

and a past had by none

candy bracelet

how dare you
make me feel loved
(tears drip onto blank page
memories of a big girl singing
jazz a cappella in a back-lit
brooklyn walk-down summer
night hazy from burning flowers
the clear voice a conviction of
the spirit wrapped in a candy
bracelet given sanctuary from
persecution in the holy cloud
mortal cloud the way all things
ultimately point in one direction)
i was numb and liking it maybe
like is too strong a word but content
no that is apostasy maybe just numb
with an attitude that approximates life
(red-headed smiles cut through the
bullshit holding his hand while it was
still his to offer and the voice rings
reverberating echoing bouncing about
inside the deep longing the soul near
starvation the tiny ship cast broken
upon the rocks of a desperate shore
barren save for the sea shell madness
fragmented piercing her flesh the soft
tender the exposed belly and throat)
i could live happily were I some one other
were I able to leave my heart to rest here
forever

damocles’ ceiling fan

i have a ceiling fan

which i never have

turned off i believe

it to be the lynchpin

for this reality of

time and space

(there are little rifts about

the place seams come

undone corsets after the

closing time arias are

sung

she admires

certain cracks

more than others mostly

measured by their ingenuity

mimicking faces of

saints and other

historical figures)

i slept directly under it for

a whole summer daring it

to fall

but clearly that never happened

although one night

i heard the neighbors fucking

in the back of

his blue pick up truck

and i guess

that counts for something

(she has determined that

lemon drops

the ones dusted

lightly with corn starch

the ones her father’s

mother liked so much

are truly wonderful)

but i won’t shut it off

either way

just in case it is more

than just

a silly feeling

i may not believe in god but i have seen dogs smile

you wield sorrow

like a cudgel

it makes me feel safe

(she sips her tea and

considers all of the hats

which clamor for attention

sitting in an alienated garret

with a view of nothing more

nothing less)

so very russian which

alone

can be frightening

but i have a continent

to protect me

although i find no

other use

for middle america

(prague weighs heavily

in her front pocket

the chaffing an old friend

whose welcome worn thin

insists upon being)

it is a flavor of sadness

without a hint of defeat

and i enjoy that

as much

as it troubles me

(the other burns

flowers

in pursuit of her

desire

to eliminate

desire)

tapestry

i see each thread as they cross

the color of joy and anger run

back upon sorrow and mirth

until the tapestry is hung several

hundred years before i was even

a thought the beast pierced and

beaten raging against the inevitable

capture circled by the intentions

of men and the slack-jawed

swarming about the splendid

curiosity

(the echo off of the walls the

stone floor absolute marking

each heel in concrete terms

she stands amid the din the

laughter of the children hands

pointing at the blood on as it

flows from the side exhausted

she falters slightly and places

her hand just below her throat)

so primitive yet so alive the hand

of the weaver still moving passing

the shuttle to and fro immortalizing

the terror in the eyes the torn flesh

the horn bowed in defeat as death

becomes a reality even now in its

faded state safe from everything

except the gazes we add to the

picture with our own lust our desire

to possess beauty

(there is a hint of a cologne she

recalls and dismisses as olfactory

hallucinations are precedent for

further disturbance the fire-place

behind her long cold and chairs

upon which she once sat are

guarded roped off from the

people eating dreams from

small plastic bags which make

crackling sounds resounding

the call of the hunt)

ocean

put a splash of yellow on anything

immediately

will to live is supposed

but i much rather remain

right here imagining

sun upon my skin

my shoulders my back

my legs push my feet into

sand warm

uncovering the smallest shell

a soul conceived in deep

blue which colors it all

atmospherically glowing

preposterous skies knowing

everything gets dark

dumpster lid closing

feet now in motion

away from the ocean

which i alone perceive

all which has gathered

between toes and glances

back toward sodom the

land of the dead

(the coffee is strong enough

to kill she closes her eyes

allows the heavy steam to

rise filling senses long-lost

in the last war of angels)

i approach sincerity with a stick

unsure of vital signs deliberately

losing keys and their meaning

the improbability of safe harbor

the inevitability of paying the

devil his portion and look just

fabulous doing it

(there is a necklace she can’t

throw away worn to the bit of

bone upon which the glyphs

were painted it hangs with

a string of pearls from the

agean which began as an

irritation)

i close my eyes

i possess

all of the kingdoms

and riches

of the world

the crystal palace

the golden throne

the water the

salt

what i lack is temptation

the invitation to sin

the nights spent in perdition

watching storms roll in

over a delinquent sea

(she stops herself cold and

cracks her neck and fingers

one by one slowly the sound

comforting release

become kinetic for

an eighth)

hot rondo a’ la rien

i never do that

begin with a coda begging

hold me as you wrap it all

encompass me in the devil’s

signature while i body surf

the waves of achromatic

scales ascending with tidal

rage moving me beyond

three dimensions into a

realm where understanding

is exposed for its own

ignorance

(no amount of discipline

is left in the cupboard

filled with cans empty

of all but irony and a

picture she keeps

secret from herself)

a turtle practices yoga

in the wake of other futile

efforts to orient the soul

legs flailing amid the steady

eighths disproving gravity the

elevation of spirit in spite of

this miracle metastasizing

deadly patterns that travel

eternally

internally

(deciding to remain silent

she dons a mask of dire

complicity in the assault

upon the peace and quiet

the neighbor looks up at

the window as she packs

children off for the day

certain that all of the cans

which she possesses are

filled)

 

and points north

philosophy is the luxury of people

who have energy left after subsistence is met

it is also the last stop on the train to being spent

there aren’t any middle class philosophers

even though there are bars and boardrooms

filled with the ersatz

carefully staying within the lines

beauty exceeds boundaries

truth was absent from school the day they were taught

nothing teaches as hunger does

it has been days between stations

and i have no choice but to accept the sun’s rudeness

the unholy glare some mistake for angels

pierces me where i sit in motion

i am a projectile moved beyond will

considering the facts as i know them to be unknown

uncertain

obfuscated by the blinding white

i release the belts designed for our safety

and comfort and become untethered

gravity cares less to hold me

and i float

to see enough is to see too much

above the train i see birds clinging to branches

clinging to trees clinging to earth why would one

not fly if one could i have my purple crayon

and a bad attitude waiting for a duck to color

sitting in a field of daisies

both of us

the duck is not disturbed by my visions or voices

the unparalleled universe has no need to compromise

for toes to be webbed

flowers are already abstractions

unreal testament promoting public nudity

and copulation candy coated and dripping

with the very words the holy

omit

travels are endless until the train stops

conductors never smile in their knowing

each curve

each bump

each cross road crossed off the list

along with the names of imaginary friends

and lovers whose faces scrape along windows

and you can see it in their eyes the words that

catch in the back of the throat

constantly editing text and removing sentiment

with little meaning other than the wonder of their

sound

vibrations that fade and become memories

and memories become thorns

and thorns become wrapped around our must tender parts

our petals bright velvet vulnerable

trembling in the wind from the trucks carrying us all onward

away from all of the miracles which have no conspiracy with power

toward the graven images which should be

at least six stations behind us

occam’s garden

words crawl out of the grave

seeking more suitable prisons

they dry their wings in the sun

sitting upon angelic pretense

flapping melancholy rhythms

syncopated against the binary

backdrop red curtain heavy

with all of the lessons learned by

wrote or otherwise it matters

so very little if knowledge steeps

or makes its own sauce in a

moment frozen so distant from

heaven’s redemption birds

nesting in coffee cans and

flowers exposing themselves

where no flower should grow

(all the things she once believed

fertilize in their decay composting

with irony and love lies told in the

most sincere faith she turns the

soil in keeping with her peasant

blood as a harvest is expected

bitter or not)

crying only salts the earth but

the denial of tears has a greater

price joy once dried will leave on

the wind broken seed casings

mimic open-mouthed monsters

screaming as the sky fades to

blue-black swirling thunder and

it all catches in the back of your

throat aching the thirst for soft

lap repose fingers laced in hair

and soft kisses the ones that

live beyond passion and the

reproductive mockery of love

(songs are sung which cause

stones to dance deep and low

requiring no voice no verbal

acuity or acrobatics as the

dead take flight mistaken

for stars)

no, mike

will i allow you to speak

to the bright lit primary

colors hiding behind the

doors locked with minor

keys

will i allow you to invade

with laughter and roses

bright eyes glowing with

love lies and rhetoric so

appealing

will i allow you to touch

me there your throat to

mine hands dancing lost

in an ocean of flesh and

flatted fifths

and if i should

and entropy inevitably

plays its aces

and all we are holding

is each other

(she contemplates a second

pot of coffee and how close

she came to escaping this

mourning robin redbreast

requiem at first light there

are habits subtleties little

tics and bouts with both

marginalized on a post-it

note on the mirror)

and you have come to know

that i am my own worst enemy

as you have come to know this

sadness for yourself will it be

enough will you raise or fold will

you jot on the calendar the

date and time that the silent

orchestra which played for us

only us

left for vegas

or will it pass with the low steady

rumble of a distant storm that can

be seen but will never get you wet

(inappropriate laughter mixes

with the second pot and the

unruly jazz of parker rising

wet dove slick between

side a and side b

in the sweat and smoke

she nods her head aware

of the look in her eye

how cold it is)

love doesn’t die slowly or quietly

(she faces north and bows)

i rejoice in the life i have been given

(the south)

i rejoice in all that i have lost

(the west)

i rejoice for all that has been eclipsed

(the east)

i rejoice for all that will be

(she sits)

and i apologize

(she laughs)

but i just don’t want

to date you

mike