dry almost white corn antenna,
nod tasseled heads to the east,
while red flecked brush reveals
each summer survivor in last dress,
fluttering a hopeless plea.
perfect row combed and dry ocher fields
await braiding, parted
by a long smoke plume,
pointed down to morning’s
chilled dampening chimney.
one can almost smell the coffee.
background fog outlines russet hills
dotted with yellow and orange
pop tops. foreground migrant flocks
river stop, curiously inspecting
the sparkling river surface.
smooth wet slate-lines
streak hillside road-cut,
slow drainage tears glistening
in the early light.
morning mists paint valley floors
with smoky haze
sitting on church steeples.
another huge cloud crashes into town hall,
killing three drowsy flies.
irradiated leaves in mornings slanted light,
send streams of sparrows winding aloft,
laying hide and seek with imagined gusts,
till one asserts the lead and trust
to meet October’s raucous show
when with magnificent bursts
and turbulent rush, they’ll ride each gust south,
a warning flag of winter’s relentless flow.
Life then art,
all these grubby details,
work, the laundry, social lunch,
dinner, end of day blues.
just plain out of steam.
will things be better in ‘retirement’?
I’ll take that, lady!
a second wind for my second life.
I could do the boogie woogie too!
no strife there just
un-tire these dancin’ feet
and let me boogie on back to you.
give me, just give me,
some boogie woogie baby!
cold your dark fisted motor
beating darkened rhythms,
mean and meanly chosen.
spanning each year, this year and on,
standing, watching this fabric dry
and ripple and still no fragmented
thought or memory softens stone.
what strange barricade this architect
conceived, allowing no retreat,
no refuge in your fragile shell,
for errant dream to fall.
the sands continue, cascade
relentless points of imagery,
sifting screens editing
all foreign rock aside.
what counter bridge these pieces
all would cast, span abutments
deep within the channeled crypt
where smoky dreams abide.
remember now, that soon
this membrane weak,
will fluid spill and thicken,
movement next forgotten.
that once this meager frame
did carry joy and cradle love.
now eroding waves, unanswered doubt
rock sleep, dream
and hollow cries do shout,
forgive!, forgive for what?
your strange invented history
that no one understood.
Life then art,
circling the tropical O,
the pilot says not once
but then again,
heat inspired storms persist,
but Tampa, free for fuel,
is a refuge in the road ahead.
I heed a sudden urge,
resolve an inner storm,
circling swaying patterns
toward a hissing flapper.
relief settles in, I’ll reach
Tampa with dry pants
and my dignity intact.
gazing through portholes
at mottled green moss landscapes
the weather hardly looks threatening,
though I’m reminded of another time
circling Kennedy in tight rough loops
the mother of all stack-ups.
with clouds ablaze
immersed in rough abandon,
sinking through white flashed waves
and sleet slashed wash,
no other port to hide,
nausea at each drop and bump
and endless purgatory of mind and gut.
we break through
as storms edge pass
The clouds parting curtain call
opens clear dusk sky
and a sun melt down bows
at tarmac’s distant edge.
Now rising engines
roar and rattle dusk,
a small child, clapping and chanting
the same deliberate refrain,
like some young bird
working wings and call.
the roar mellows,
we climb, top gentle cloud banks,
peer down at road scarred landscapes,
our hopscotch sidewalk to Disney.
CLASS IF EYED
looking platonic, position open,
petite hair, dark, long, red or green.
will call you, sugar pop.
want some encounters,
fantasy beyond experience.
hang out, have fun
with core alternative fulfillment.
chill beyond experience and life.
full figured slave-master,
walks discreetly. she's fashion built,
show her around.
an honest alternative is to join in
simple things, for real love.
race inclined for possible love,
and animals make her feel good!
needs strict discipline
and walks on the beach,
the beach, size unimportant,
long as you can watch old movies,
due to your position. amusement, submissive fulfillment,
very easy. very well equipped,
burley, athletically discreet and totally cute.
bi-curious tv, iso cd/tv attached wwts
hot mwpf straight bi-bm tattoo's mwm d&d free
encounters for fun times, fun times
must be love, varied and employed,
brown skinned, intimate, outgoing,
discreet, discreet, discreet, real and realistic,
like love, like movies, writing, dinning, darts,
lazer-tron pool, hot times, good times,
parties, motorcycles, long talks,
Bob Dylan poetry and more...and more!
CLASS IF EYED-2
Wanted by bodacious blonde,
ports of life reserved.
She’s romantic in a Miata,
with sunsets and classy
class intelligent art.
chill beyond experience
with red green hair,
and core alternative fulfillment.
share, card, hang out,
include fit and fab
public radio fans.
frog thinker wanted
for a no good dirty blond.
She’s fashion built,
a full figured slave master
and animals make her feel good!
player-hater need not
desire co-stars and cream.
check out Chippewa beaches
and handicapped bowling bars.
as long as you can,
watch old movies.
She’s going passionate,
amphibious and learning sightseeing.
likes love, likes movies, writing, dining,
darts, lasertron pool, and times,
good times, parties, motorcycles
and long talks. Bob Dylan poetry and more!
Will call you sugar pop,
bi-curious, tv, iso attached,
wwts hot, mwpf straight,
bi-bm tattooed and d&d free.
for mister right. and through my transmission,
I am curious, enjoying, even preferring
computer kissing for a long term relationship.
I love Slim Pickens,
a Billy Joel plastic heritage,
Again just ordinary culture,
petite jewish hugs, oriental ads,
and first time college aliens.
COMMUTING TO LOVE
night flies by these twin shine orbs
and a yellow spine flows below my humming beat
in rhythmic crest, through powdered scent
and cry way fleet.
past branch nest tunnel,
light side revealed, proceeds this dawn’s
love swept commute.
skin damp, buzzing heart plows my ribbed cage
and a hand swift gesture on night smoked pane
tapping code in stepped repeat.
tense loins strain to meet the soft echoed answer,
till entries pass and quick embrace.
In feathered chamber then exchange
perfumed emersion’s guiltless seed,
heat froth moon breaks quick engagements,
whispered acts wake racing dawns rude comment.
let me draw the lines
that entice my mind, engage my eye
to see the beauty of your quiet pose.
let me shade the contour of
your hand and arm
and trace, with porous charcoal,
the gesture of your moves.
in the pattern of your time,
let me roam your fields
and fly your breath
and sculpt your spirit free.
with brush and tint, that speed my blood
wash your body, gracefully.
I’ll paint the room you walk in,
the textured carpet, with it’s great colors
and fine stitched patterns.
I’ll paint your kitchen, pans hanging,
herbs awaiting the broth.
the intensity of your face , your familiar hands
chopping chives and crushing garlic.
I’ll paint you on the terrace,
deep in reverie. I’ll watch the sun
split tree limb with leaves in hasty departure.
I’ll paint you in your studio
tearing paper and bending wire,
questioning your use of collage and paint.
but I can’t paint you in the bedroom,
where I know the texture of you skin,
the feel of your lips and the curve of your breast.
gray plastic salad scoop,
modern dinosaur of green munchies,
grabbing mouthfuls of vegetables
while dripping white herb saliva
from its snaggletooth smile.
it chews its way around the table
insisting on our healthy diet.
forging through dense roughage,
it dreams of french markets,
fantastic encounters with ravishing
peas, sweet carrots, endive and chives.
they tease, promise clandestine romps
through vinaigrette and salad nicoise.
awakening at the bottom of the salad bowl
it fears its detergent destiny.
of a now distant time,
place, smell and taste,
arouse no passionate beat,
but somber sadness
for lost opportunity and missed embrace.
remembering night amusements
on saddled motors,
in night swept halls.
Later under cold protective quilts
we fit like sculpted molds,
jealous lest and breath of air
part tight embrace.
we rush, tangle fluid arms and legs
as warm lips and hot breath
press tense partings.
images of recent encounters,
your eyes closed as heavy breezes
tease salt mist and course sand.
while I consider returning
my head to your thighs,
parting hair with moist breath
and eager lips.
we caress now in warmer beds
where distant rivers quiet pace
resists the destined salty end.
imagining your wonderful ass,
my prick swells in anticipation
of musty wet aromas.
pulsing a slow and sweet homage
to your tender cunt.
please put it into a well padded crate,
along with other choice
and lovely parts
and send them air express,
as soon as possible.
we stay the night,
what does it mean?
behind that door
unflinching, mean in look,
tense with anticipation,
cruel and cold mocking,
insistent to control our fate,
know its cold heart.
insist the kiss
that chills the night
and begs our hostile task.
and still my chilled heart will
wallow in this shallow pan.
the juice seeps through,
dry grain consumes the brine.
JUST BIG CLAWS
with quick claws
the cat rejects
the petting hand
flying Lizzy home
with a cat-like cry
to be the excuse
for its bad manners
or maybe it’s just been
a bad hair-ball day.
the cat however
disagrees, and only
wants us to remember
that we haven’t yet
attained equal status
or the right
to take her for granted.
Long nights and echoed ramblings
of never to be spoken pleas,
resonate within this fluid chapel.
set time adrift to meet
another time, vaporized time,
releasing perfumes of what passes for memory.
warm days and soft beguiling,
the smile, release warm breath,
the touch, polite kisses,
warming sighs and unrelated words,
another touch, another breath,
essences and half embrace,
hair before your face, streaks of amber light,
and ports to mix our souls.
suck wind and relax until the next attack.
hold back and pay our dues.
new beginnings, soft again the smile,
the look, the sudden embrace
and searching lips
exchanging breath and promise,
exchanging interlocking thoughts
and cryptic meanings.
morning welcomes more,
always searching for more.
bodies taut, moving close the dance.
arms faces and too much space to share.
swollen love not close enough,
swollen dream and heart.
parting again except for hands,
damp with anticipation,
meeting out that pleasant pain,
mind reveling in sensation
and mixed resolutions.
Merging minds and soul
Proceeding the warming soul.
Visions of delight, of curled embrace,
Of brushing lips and parting lips
Of holy warmth and silent awe.
Never to be forgotten dream,
Sipping tender gifts and new embrace.
More dream, more heat, more tender gifts.
sitting, feeling pleasantly stunned,
hit with inner light that
short circuits time and resolve.
undone with coffee and quiet
acquiescence, unhurried acceptance.
now whispered thoughts,
unresolved needs and endings,
never to be forgotten ending,
impossible ending, impossible….
It will take a revolution
to change your mind.
give me a lightning bolt
to break you heart with
or fifty football goons
to trample your affections.
see how you like it!
i should ride a large elephant
through your living room,
destroy your furniture
and pompous art collection
until you notice me.
pay attention! I’m here
under your rug!
can you see I need your love?
but what do you care,
your life is full,
wall to wall lovers,
relatives and friends.
the whole megillah!
well don’t come to me
when your charms fail
and your teeth fall out.
but forget that.
alright now pay attention!
at least you can return
my dignity intact.
star mist summer breeze,
damp surge press radiant mouth and cheek.
dark pedals, vibrant in moon struck dress,
sail soft message on powdered wing,
extending moist fragrance, reduced
softly with wine, solutions of love.
on night wings of fleeting thought,
rejected tendering, awakened longings,
crest new image and fantasy of love.
slow paces, hands touching, small talking,
time holding, warmth rising, heart skipping.
these powdered wings conduct the pulse
and subtle covers tingle.
painted patterns froth the air
expand the night, caress our lair,
redeem past joys, reveal our beat.
warm surge, heart skip, eyes share,
moon watch, skin touch and touch
and a kiss, a soft amazing kiss.
now sweetness and surprise.
hands meet, arms entwine,
lips tease nerve endings
and taste the pleasures of the night.
a kiss, a long awaited touching,
searching dream and treasure.
dark nest relenting to
the taste of captive myrrh,
and heady throbbing fills the night’s sky,
embracing time, till planets sigh.
a kiss changed path we walk,
new ways unknown, untried, alone.
Feeling somehow cheated
having found the muse so late
In this precarious bubble
we call life. the result maybe
of a poor education
and a misspent youth.
misspent in that it lacked
on the other hand
better now than not,
like a babe born late
to fill some lone abyss.
Yes, it's true, I love you still.
And more somehow.
It's what we learn when it's too late.
The loss of an arm or a leg over mine.
The comfort of your warmth,
assuring calls before sleep.
The smooth ease working around each other
as we put together some food,
It felt so right and I felt a part again,
part of the human scheme of pairs.
And I'm surely stuck with that,
not quite with this life, without it.
It was for me in some way
a kind of resurrection for my spirit.
t so right, I thought, it couldn't
possibly go wrong
in spite of early warnings.
We had started something
just too good to give up.
How sure I was of you too.
sure that you felt it's strength,
and like in some sci-fi film
it would overpower your demons.
But it didn't happen,
and I miss it deep inside,
a gut level weight.
I think, what can I do to win you back,
have you appear some night
in my bed, listen to your breath
and smell your hair. No answers.
So like the leopard, I pace,
retrace my thoughts
and await deliverance.
I feel like a pizza,
kind of crusty tonight,
although I may be
a little bit acidic
which probably comes
from that Chinese food
i gobbled down at lunch,
but don’t you hate that takeout,
it’s never the same
as when fresh out of the kitchen,
but the micro just overcooks it
which is ok if it’s Polish,
maybe some cabbage rolls
stuffed with rice and meat
and a hint of tomato
in a light veggie sauce
that i can smell,
the taste reminding me
of my mothers cooking where
she used a lot of garlic and basil,
her best dish being
rigatoni with sauce and meatballs
that we ate almost
every Sunday afternoon
even when it was hot out,
but we didn’t care,
we loved it and
we could have some wine or beer
in spite of being too young
and It was no big thing,
in fact my father kept the hard booze
In a cabinet, unlocked
and we were home alone
because they both worked
and we were unsupervised latchkey
kids, which was probably why
i was such a lousy student
although I didn’t drink the booze,
in fact never touched it,
and I wasn’t even interested
till I got into a college fraternity
and had to keep up with my peers,
you know, drinking and doing
outrageous things we thought of
like walking out on checks, never
thinking that we were screwing the waitress
but I can see that kind of thing
is still going on with kids today
because we never learn,
reminding me again of when
we were in grade school
and the jokes were passed on
from class to class
as if we had to be so old
before we could understand them,
including sex, which some kids
knew more about
and mostly we didn’t
and it didn’t help
cause it was a status thing
that being in the dark or being smart,
was like when I first found out
about batting averages
and who was hitting what
was what was important
if you wanted to be part of the conversation
and not left out,
reminding me of the time
i almost got kicked out
of the fraternity, not that
what I did was so bad,
i think it was just a dispute
with another pledge,
but when confronted
by my peers I couldn’t
keep a smile off my face,
which wasn’t funny,
it was just a nervous smile, you know,
because I wasn’t use to being
in a bad situation like that.
and they thought I was just being wise
and got even more pissed off,
which made me smile even more
although I can’t remember
how I got out of it,
but I did and survived
to be able to go on with my life
because if I hadn’t
my life would have been different
i know, and probably i would be
just doing something different
maybe working on a transmission
or cooking piazza
or who knows what,
but did you ever think
how just one thing could
have changed your life,
one little thing,
even the possibility of the time
you met a person
you fell in love with,
but maybe you weren’t
even going to that dance,
or a date fell through
and you ended up with someone else
who introduced you to the guy
who’s sister was available,
I mean life is so fragile
in the sense that it’s all timing
and we never know why we’re alive
or not, a mystery
like just the other day
returning from a trip out west
i almost bought the farm
when this guy that was driving
fell asleep at the wheel
and if I hadn’t been wide awake
after a long day,
that would have been it,
no more writing,
no more cooking,
no more Chinese
and worse of all
no more pizza!
where is home?
a place of comfort,
a box of dreams and warmth.
somewhere in the past.
a place to rest
and gather threads
to weave mystic images,
revealing a fulfillment
that on that site will satisfy
a longing to be whole,
complete in some way
we are always on the move.
It seems we find our nooks
from desperation or inspiration,
a quest for small rent or large space.
a neighborhood to flee from or to.
then the fun begins
with paint to spread
and sponge to wipe away
the remnants of the former host.
a quick trip to the pier
to fill some crying space,
and new blinds
to hold back intensive shine.
a few weeks will reveal still
more tasks left to do,
as we settle in to routines
not so new.
these moves we shall repeat
with different variations,
more or less intensity
and baggage like barnacles
outgrow our friendly help.
we finally learn to settle,
as in law, compromise
more ambitious themes
and precious time to act out dreams.
we move here and there,
travel over seas and sand waves.
see ourselves in historic landscapes,
guarding the hot gates,
marching with baguette on shoulder
through the triumphant arch,
or sipping caffe latte
in seattle if you can believe it.
all great places,
call any of them home.
pack a bag, give a few bucks
to a black clad greek crone,
she will gladly put you up
in an island setting that you
will never tire of.
a cheap room in Paris,
it’s worth a million,
like winning the lottery.
you can live in the Louvre
or rub elbows with Picasso
in his private club.
when you get tired of that
go sack Rome!
get a van, my trip, a mattress
in the back with small necessities,
like and espresso maker.
head for the hills, sucker,
see the big sky,
even if it takes a few weeks.
a trip through Canyonlands,
and places yet to be discovered.
make the painted desert your backyard,
jump into your private gulf,
and set your front fence posts
through rolling wheat fields.
I always thought I had too much
all this junk accumulating.
what’s the sense?
we all live in our heads
and the insistence of ‘reality’
can’t be substantiated.
my dream is kind to me.
it fills my head with beauty
most of the time.
little mean thoughts intervene.
probably errant waves from
some poor soul having nightmares
so maybe I spent to much time
fixing up a place to live,
when I should have spent more time
grooming grey matter.
i didn’t need that room, house or van,
maybe a little less elbow grease
and a little more imagination.
Polypore, very porous,
eating away, this stump,
once straight with grain
and the flow of sap, it sits,
strange curiosity, a version
of the soul, retaining semblance
in another state, a lesser form.
perhaps a lesser use in that
it only mirrors my similarly
round and useless mass.
she stares ahead listening
to the measured pace of time.
the crackled face secures sweet secret
moments, when tender hands
let rest its weighted lids.
as if before the wheel
it casts far reaching quests,
reflecting back to parted lips
with cold determined glare.
now targeted and snared
with copper coil,
embraced and pressed to trace
these desperate markings,
we sit together, reluctantly
akin with patterned limbs
and stained rag beginnings.
our hope is small and distant,
the struggle of a spastic soul.
we stare ahead and listen.
REDUCTION TO ABSURD
Given a proof
explicate as one
would of all.
the oldest history
will call to the absurd,
given whose side
we wish, in terms to measure.
this is possible
because the two are
to it’s simplest form.
it’s mutually odd,
consequently the situation
of course impossible.
therefore measure terms.
terms I repeat, if in the discourse
or speech that you may no longer
say anything about how
the irrational is impossible!
They rain in from the trees
as if frozen in time.
messages from another space
where padded feet pressed leaf
and parted bough, then passed
through green tufted meadow.
they rain in through crossed
and twisted branch, marking time
on needled sod, repairing disarray.
then erect in single line procession
with measured pace they flow
in elegant grace, a summer wave
breaking hill and washing through
the dense and musky air.
these spears elegantly dressed, no
but marked in bright array,
as if to be clear in what they say.
clear and bold, precise and slow,
a ceremonial visit from this
and another time.
a crossed presence,
time holds still
the dense air cloaks
a hint of ceremonial fragrance
birds and insects wait and watch.
the procession bows before
a desolate stretch and over this
stained spot precipitates a wail.
a hollow echoed cry not of this time
but of this place.
For Adele at Chesterwood
encrusted shells, conical time,
smooth cores within rough forts.
muscled architecture against
insistent pulses of ardent seas.
warm and rhythmic this gracious flow,
bending conical incisions
around our porcelain soul.
in fluid time we twist and leave
fragile patterns against the tide,
wandering sand trails in coral forests.
we twist and leave unique revisions
or so we think, altered course
begging fortunes forgiveness.
I find myself in possession of
small ancient button shoes,
black and tan with high
sides still stuffed with paper
and most likely never worn.
they look like they could fit
some poor child with strange feet.
yes, they would have to be very long
and extremely narrow feet maybe belonging
to a three year old that never walked but could only
dream of walking so that his feet stretched with ambition, trying
to extend themselves and reach out until by growth alone they could
conquer space and time and finally find the answer to the question of
why would anyone design such long and strange shoes?
His crowded thoughts are
stored in moss green glass,
used dreams in grey worn boxes.
a rag doll considers suicide.
pin pierced insects hiss each others name.
eucalyptus leaves, in cross bound unison,
curse spring return their amber glow.
weather washed bones, iron crusted gears
and pitted polypores conjure dark wood dreams,
while crusty sea shells whisper furtive secrets
to whoever dare to listen.
frail moonlight streaks stretch cat ribbed
skin on ancient masks, while other
silent specters glare and sulk,
wishing time a quick retreat.
linger in the white sound of night.
feel the silent beat of unforgiving bones.
hear the frightened pleas of our forgotten spirit.
touch the hoary rancid skin of plastic time.
Canned omelets, don’t egg me on!
my ego is a shining mirrored image
of the sated self, framed in iridescence.
I work, paint, race in practiced color,
figuring a perfect parting
for times strange ship to sail.
this sport we shall equip
to look through shimmering waves,
never in remission or costly
allocation. attach a fond repeal
and simulate more acceptance.
grip each pair as lace does bind
and press ever quiet song
like smiles in parting light.
repeat some studied phrase
in rapid revolution and mock cadence
but step soundly down.
we don’t need revolution.