Her hands are soft and gentle, young and smooth,
affectionate kisses floating on the wanton air,
cheek to cheek, touch to touch-
caressing to the soul, a warm fluid elegance,
feminine tenderness- garland and red nail polish.
Beauty prevails most among the low and earthy subjects,
she tells,
nearest to the soil the farmers dirt stained hands bear much in fruit,
and the shepherds tend to their flocks which cannot read them.
Here where moth and dust corrupts-
this is where mankind has shed endless his teardrops and afflictions,
imparting to the world his tragedy and the spoils of human conflict.
These things she adores, these solemn gestures,
these monuments built up out of sand,
crumbling into the sea again and again with the many storms.
Not forlorn is she, she knows more than to suffer or pity for the moon or the tides- and proclaims it absolute and meaningless.
“Don’t forget to keep up your appearance,
text me for a lunch, a dinner, or just to hang….
What are you doing for the weekend?
Remember to call me every other minute.
Don’t forget about your friends and the people who love you…
be careful…don’t drop your Starbucks in the leaves.
Remember, don’t gain a pound, don’t give an inch.”
The flick of her wrist communicating more than your cheap words
and cheaper motives ever could-
turning over your petty sorrows and assumptions-
in a whisper you can barely hear if you listen closely.
Sincere carolers singing solemn melodies,
humbly recited nursery rhymes- exalted epics.
Charming little ditties about nothing,
expressing everything.
The heights of passion-
the depths of pain.
His hatred/ his violence/ his envy/ his lust/
his greed/his war/his grief/ his pride/ his art/
in the corner with his prejudice and devotion.
She smiles peacefully at the chanting,
amused by the ranting and raving,
your periods and exclamation points!
Trying to convince yourselves!
Trying to deceive yourselves!
Better forget yourselves and leave the comedy of fools unsatisfied.
A great wake she leaves behind her,
high crests and deep troughs,
white peaks and bleak valleys,
sunken figures in the brush covered with newsprint.
The frothing and foaming-
lustful men and famished parishioners-
trail upon her heels-
hanging on the slightest wave of her hand,
shaking uncontrollably-
like the cigarette as he puts it to his lips- consumed.
Judas was driven to betray by envy,
an ugly kind of poverty,
and he covets her.
Gravel are the paths becoming of the desolate city streets,
that have been left abandoned-
endless roads and barren corroded highways-
decayed beliefs and desperate believers-
crumbled/crunching beneath her heels the shards of glass
and the coke bottles and the trash that’s been thrown away.
She’s cultivated this landscape.
It’s hers/she owns it-
these dark alleyways and these reckless rendezvous,
beneath the perverted billboard signs-
blown down she redraws them,
bruised and bloodied she heals them-
seekers she elevates them,
the lost she guides them-
a friend of the serpent and the devil- a poet.
The sky is crying with lonesome tears,
The thunderclouds high on the horizon-
the sparks of lightning flashing
and the crackling of branches,
the fowl making a game of flying,
the worms that dig interred deep in the mud.
Listen carefully to the yellow night-
Hear the cans kicked against the bricks,
hear the crying and the cursing-
the despairing of aching hearts.
Unspeakable acts-inaudible sorrow.
Will they still look into you eyes
or will they turn away from you?
Will they empathize?
See you as the freak?
Pointing their fingers at the pain-
somebody must put a bag over that corpse-
its spoiling the digestion of my pop rocks and cola.
Does it make them feel uncomfortable when it comes around,
when the pain comes down?
The freaks who are invisible in their brooding places,
wear their scars fresh on the surface,
burned with the fire- they stood too close-
their skin pulled tight to their flesh-
torn from their bones too easily.
Little accidents of life you call them,
little truths in the flesh she calls them.
Her little satyrs and sinners- the harbingers of the real.
Did you try and step aside?
Did you fear the gift?
Was there an indescribable something?
A long jagged scar across your flushed and plumped cheeks?
Did you hold your comforts too dearly?
Your friends, your prejudices- even your God?
Did it go too far, strike a match in a cavern-
offend your sensibilities-
run the schoolboy out of town?
Man must eat to survive- man must suffer to live.
Wolves will feast, and the lambs will offer themselves-
like whores to the bedrolls-
like Christ to the cross.
Did you wash yourselves of man’s touch?
Did you renounce yourselves of faith?
She wouldn’t starve in a land of milk and honey-
she wouldn’t stroke their beards, or take their calls.
She belongs to the waves, and to the alley, and the night,
and doesn’t fear your eyes or your entreaties,
or your lust, or your pride, or your grief, or your pity.
She belongs to the heights and to the distances where no man can travel.
You can be the witness of the moment-
realizing a fragrance in the air,
you can smell the sweet perfume hovering on the breeze,
taste it upon your lips, and then- gone.
Your bed still warm and your dreams rambling.
Behind the strip mall, with the smiling faces on advertisements-
and the colorful array of unknown blondes-
are the trashcans filled to the brim with the latest editions-
and the incredulous speakers converting with firm, unwavering, uncompromising, defiant, courageous, proud, righteous, honorable, loyal, dutiful- statements.
The music of her body in motion falling on deaf ears-
hurriedly and refined, perfectly balanced,
the instruments crying out-
the springs snapping like dry branches.
Dancing fireflies by the light of the candle,
all the players dead upon the stage, of life-
the swarming of gnats-
many thousand glittering motes-
gathered greedily together in trembling circles,
swirling around a central conflagration-
all desire to feel the warmth-
a first cause, a prime mover,
the candle which feeds the flame with itself, of itself,
with or without, convinced that it danced for you alone.
fly away and become as women-
seductive and selfish-
shining outward in odes of joy, in tears of tragedy,
in silent rages, in fits of infamy,
always laughter in their hearts –
a plaything for the short winded elations of men-
never captured, never attainable-
you can’t bring the sun with you in a brown paper bag.
Running at the horizon doesn’t bring it nearer;
you’ll run out of breath with your hands stretched out-
a beggar and a fool.
Therefore light your hearts ablaze you fools,
and become as women,
let your souls dance upon the wick.
She dances for the charmers-
for the lonely, for the many, and for none.
With a wild woman’s wisdom- a self-propelled wheel,
a first movement- love in a cruel uncaring world.
They…cannot… touch her…
though they can sense an exception from a distance.
Down the street their needs follow her as she leaves them all behind.
On the street with the freaks,
and the brief case carrying office workers,
whose aspirations and thoughtful(thoughtless)-
invitations she steals away with her into the neon night-
the fleet footed patter of her feet dancing underneath the stars-
their hands stretched out like so many good-hearted gentleman callers-
the doors swung wide and held without needing a request.
She steps into them/over them.
Carefree and careless,
she enters with one great leap-
allowing the room to notice-
She doesn’t need to hide, she slinks by.
Innocently as a child, knowing like a woman knows,
admitting the straight lines made of chalk,
admitting even them in their narrowness.
With wishes and praises, the gods and monsters both,
admiring her wine with a secret appetent sip,
a sample of the buds, the aroma too thick.
The mythical beasts wearing horns embroidered with jangling bells;
slippery serpents and wet eels-
slithering, their bodies frictionless over very small rocks.
She glides frictionless too.
And falling in love, you, at one unintended glimpse.
His head is greasy and cropped.
His pant pockets frayed at the edges-
Mangled up like his crispy hairs.
Smoked with dust, bogged down in his mind-
The room spinning feverishly.
The small charred remains, like grey puffs of cloud,
struggling into a picturesque sky.
She,
roving like a voice roves over the treacherous highway,
coming to and going away.
Untangling the weeds of the dregs-
performing Beethoven in jaunty little movements.
Boundless and bewitching-
the commandments of a judge dismissed by the gavel clap,
and the universe brought into service by the sound.
Fleet footed manipulator of his dreams,
fleet footed servant of the flood,
performing in her music the most wonderful scenes;
bewitching the spell of his dreams.
Shrouded in her mystery,
he dare not turn around.
Wishing by the omnipresent sound,
that the pretty bird would settle not nearly so close-
yet not nearly so far.
Princess of the clouds,
exiled to the ground,
she smiles kindly on man’s square peg and the round hole.
A despairing king, spying out her cumbersome wings,
shoots at her with a bow, climbs up the cliff with a rope.
Presenting his steel words and steel ladder-
he attempts to bluff the sheer face into submission.
With vengeance and betrayal in his eyes,
and a pitiful weakness in his heart,
he digs his crampons into the hard rock.
A comic sight for a skylark, a man as he struggles to fly.
Mangled corpses at the bottom of the ravine,
swimming in the pond waters, she, a swimmer,
reveals all sorts of madness.
Become as Women
Dancing fireflies by the light of a candle,
all the players dead upon life’s stage,
the swarming of gnats-
many thousand glittering motes-
gathered greedily together-
around a central conflagration,
all desire to feel the warmth-
a first cause, a prime mover,
the candle which feeds the flame with itself, of itself,
convinced that it danced for you alone.
Forsake the tragedy you insects,
fly away and become as women,
seductive and selfish,
shining outward in works of joy, in selfish glory.
Never captured, never attainable,
you can’t bring the sunset with you in a brown paper bag-
running at the horizon doesn’t bring it nearer.
You’ll die gasping for air,
with your hands stretched out.
Therefore, lights your hearts ablaze you fools,
And become as women,
let your souls dance upon the wick
Like a Dog Waiting for His Master
I have waited for you, hour upon lonely hour,
Like a dog waiting for his master.
Coffee Shop
I fill my mind with hope that we may sit together-
And I reflecting on the future,
With the thick, full, coffee bean aroma,
Could calm my thoughts with safest feelings of,
Happiest friendship.
Safety and calm- your kindest gift to me,
Acceptance and clarity of soul.
You, who are a smile of inspirational cheer,
Casting out my death, or my heart laden fear.
Your voice like youth to rebuke my old guards,
And bring forth my highest hope.
Yet, I cannot thrive within that friendly cheer,
Without something more substantially near-
To allow me to substantiate myself, before you.
I don’t have the courage to be a failure before generous eyes.
You are a beautiful bright light,
near to a guarded dark space.
A rose in a bed of darkness-
A bed at night.
I would be pleased to sit forever next to you,
within your gaze-
and listen to how lovely everything becomes,
in your voice.
And also how everything you do,
Moves everything which is.
I fear the moment when you must go on back home-
With the taste of left over coffee,
That becomes bitter from long drinking upon my lips.
You must understand when you walk back to your door,
I am dragged back into an abyss-
from which no thought escapes.
And the dark were never such a thick full darkness like this.
I will never have an equal gift to return to you-
For how beautiful you are to me.
Better wait until I’m feeling much more courageous-
Or substantial enough, to lose you over and over again.
Katherine’s Poem
Katherine was sixteen years old at the time when I met her, I was twenty-one. She was a vibrant teen, who was a little naïve, but full of energy. She wanted to do remarkable things. She confused me greatly because I had a
very real affection for her, but she was too young to return these affections. She was tall and slim, dark haired, and we had some good times together walking through the downtown art festival. I took her to dinner with me once at an Italian Restaurant, and while we walked around she referred to me as ‘honey’, as if we had been long in a relationship. It felt good to be referred to in a loving way. I told her that I was ‘mad’ for her, which was quite true. We lost our friendship years ago when I became angry at her for no reason at all and left her some mean spirited messages. I have only one poem I wrote during this time, and I wrote it around a year after the event, sometime around 2008.
Katherine’s Poem
Disturbances in the night, I write,
A symphony of the solemn notes.
They spring from the calamities of night,
When one is alone-
And the shadows under the yellow lamps,
I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.
In one so young, I sense the gentle touch,
Of poetry, which does invigorate the soul.
Never to be abused by the touch of man,
To curse the delusions upon the yellow air,
With the dust which lingers there-
And I know so well.
Her thoughts were speckled within her eyes,
Which first were brown and changed to blue.
She looked at me with such tender love,
An innocence I never knew.
She sought something I couldn’t offer.
When parting I begin my symphony to the night-
And the shadows under the yellow lamps-
I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.
Her stories were no labor as mine,
on her misery she danced.
The broken hearted children do not recognize calamities.
On the sidewalks through the youthful choir by chance,
I was inspired-
for never had an angel consented to dine with me-
Or consented to call me honey,
Or sat on the steps.
Her freedom was young and she gave her number out willingly,
And took idle chatter and scraps of paper, gleefully-
From preachers of scientology- or even libertarians-
Or waiters she called by name.
I am also touched by those yellow windows,
Writing my poem to the night,
In the dust which gathers there.
I wanted desperately to share my voice,
And saw the reflection, when she by her very choice,
Did take a few words of mine as her own-
And she regarded the children as she-
Although it was hard to see, I knew what she meant.
I was in consent that children know not the tragedy-
Which lingers here.
Writing my poem to the night, with a proud delight-
Selected Poems (2006 - 2012) Page 5