Category Archives: #please

FLOWERS AND GOSSAMER

EACH morning comes and we are dying
ONE year passes and more are born
i walk in fields of flowers and gossamer
and fell into a hole with stars and nebula passing
and caterpillars singing before they have wings
and a red panda kisses my cheek and explains this is
where things go when one dreams while walking.

— so hooka man in your small corner closing in upon
your jelly brain gets up and dances again
oh little rolly-polly you are a cute ball
and my brain lost logic and proportion and words
and numbers dissolve at the dawn of common sense.

We are told to believe some things
We are punished for doing many things
We are clean as a Spirit and Soul
but then as always — life takes its toll

Be safe around busy eyes and hold upon a wind
the secret words you believe in
allow no parrot to squawk within the room of
your private thoughts

Oh! Live! Be different and be your own friend!
Be your own friend!

:: 05.09.2021 ::


MOVING TONGUE

There’s no crowd in the streets and no sun
In my own summer – Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Shove) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!

(The sun) So yellow a million years ago

God moved her lips and pulled from the woods
an ear and a mouth and a hip and sold it to the men
for a tale for eyes that must be A body for a suit of clothes

A head that must wear a hat

They brought the tail and shook it with their water and their jokes
“There’s a tail here!”\

The fiddler pounded his foot The fiddlesold (The sun) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Askew)
God moved her lips / And pulled from the woods An ear and a mouth and a hip
And sold it to the men \ A tale for eyes that must be sold
A bit of jealousy
And blame a bit that should be named
After a little plucking and grubbing
So, it’s the woman’s way
It’s in the dirt or else it’s dead
Sow the seed and keep your mandrake
Longer A body for a suit of clothes
I think we move moved crowds and
leve time-space alone.

:: 05 07 2021 ::

MOVING TONGUE

I think God is moving its tongue

There’s no crowd in the streets and no sun
In my own summer – Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Shove) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!

(The sun) So yellow a million years ago

God moved her lips and pulled from the woods
an ear and a mouth and a hip and sold it to the men
for a tale for eyes that must be A body for a suit of clothes

A head that must wear a hat

They brought the tail and shook it with their water and their jokes
“There’s a tail here!”\\

The fiddler pounded his foot The fiddlesold (The sun) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Askew)
God moved her lips / And pulled from the woods An ear and a mouth and a hip
And sold it to the men \ A tale for eyes that must be sold
A bit of jealousy
And blame a bit that should be named
After a little plucking and grubbing
So, it’s the woman’s way
It’s in the dirt or else it’s dead
Sow the seed and keep your mandrake
Longer A body for a suit of clothes
I think we move moved crowds and
leve time-space alone.

:: 05 07 2021 ::

I think God is moving its tongue

There’s no crowd in the streets and no sun
In my own summer – Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Shove) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!

(The sun) So yellow a million years ago

God moved her lips and pulled from the woods
an ear and a mouth and a hip and sold it to the men
for a tale for eyes that must be A body for a suit of clothes

A head that must wear a hat

They brought the tail and shook it with their water and their jokes
“There’s a tail here!”\\

The fiddler pounded his foot The fiddlesold (The sun) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Askew)
God moved her lips / And pulled from the woods An ear and a mouth and a hip
And sold it to the men \ A tale for eyes that must be sold
A bit of jealousy
And blame a bit that should be named
After a little plucking and grubbing
So, it’s the woman’s way
It’s in the dirt or else it’s dead
Sow the seed and keep your mandrake
Longer A body for a suit of clothes
I think we move moved crowds and
leve time-space alone.

:: 05 07 2021 ::
I think God is moving its tongue

There’s no crowd in the streets and no sun
In my own summer – Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Shove) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!

(The sun) So yellow a million years ago

God moved her lips and pulled from the woods
an ear and a mouth and a hip and sold it to the men
for a tale for eyes that must be A body for a suit of clothes

A head that must wear a hat

They brought the tail and shook it with their water and their jokes
“There’s a tail here!”\\

The fiddler pounded his foot The fiddlesold (The sun) Shove it! Shove it! Shove it!
(Askew)
God moved her lips / And pulled from the woods An ear and a mouth and a hip
And sold it to the men \ A tale for eyes that must be sold
A bit of jealousy
And blame a bit that should be named
After a little plucking and grubbing
So, it’s the woman’s way
It’s in the dirt or else it’s dead
Sow the seed and keep your mandrake
Longer A body for a suit of clothes
I think we move moved crowds and
leve time-space alone.

:: 05 07 2021 ::


FIRE OF HEARTS

THE bad weather had subsided. \the sound of the spring equinox heralded the falling of a silence on the world. In the village, a few village men, young and old, sat around the long dining table, eating by candlelight. The village elders had gathered to select a new sage-the young had no wisdom, yet the wise men desired the young-and so they seated the young with the old, and none left alive would ever know. Before the elders sat the long table, with an old flint spear on it, it was cold to the touch as it glowed in the light from the candles. \(but it was worth it, it was the knowledge that I will not return. \) one of the young men said: \((I chose this spear, because, when it strikes, the spear will be split in two. Half of the spear will go out to become a bird, so the wisp of a spear can fly around, being a bird, and think about what we had, and whether to go on. Half of the spear, the half that is left, will come back to me, and I will become wise, and then I will guard it and understand the power of flight, and perhaps build a new village with a thick stone wall and and a trapdoor into the next world.\)) \((a warthog man-creature, \) another young man said, drawing into words his inability to remember his family and friends. ((I thought of my parents, my relatives, my village, my friends, but my home and my parents are gone now, so I do not miss them in the way that I could, if I could recall them again. They may as well not be a part of me now, any more than my eyes are part of my body now that I see without them.)) \((but what of the village, of my life? the wisp of a spear? what shall I do with it? \) the young man asked. \((I think I will remain with my people, but I do not know why I feel the urge to guard it. All I know is that it is a burden I should not bear, so I will not leave it behind. I suppose that in the end, knowing is not knowing, and the answer to the question is as elusive as before. And that is my answer to the way ahead, at least for now.\)) ((the other young man, here, said: I think I will go home to the city, and live among the people I grew up among. I will remember the things of my youth, but not the sorrows of my home. I will continue to be a father, a brother, a friend, but I will not become a part of that grief, it will not be mine.)) \((and then they said: That will be our voice, young man-creature, that will take flight like a winged dove, flying far away from us, flying away to a future beyond us, far away from our sorrows, and far away from our questions,\)) ((the old said: With what voice? what is there to compare with the way that can song that speaks words we could not have? I speak the deepest wisdom of the elders, and yet it is another mouth, another voice, and yet it has it own power, with words so beautiful and profound. Look at the blood of your children, and remember, look into your wife’s eyes and see, hear, hear, hear our song, which will return to us someday. Our words will leave us, to be another’s song. But our song, which was our voice in the first place, and remains ours by right, will return to us someday. It is not the way ahead. Yet even in that deathly quiet of remembering, you will know us. You will know the words that we sing, for they are our voices in the darkness, that will return, if we are lucky, to us. They will not sing the words that we have said. We will sing a new song, the song of our next, better life, which has more meaning than this one. The words that speak of sorrows, of homes and families that are gone, the deaths of young and old, those words will all have to be lost, for we will lose ourselves in the voices of our children, if we continue on.)) \((the young man-creature took some of the spear-wisdom that was given him, and drew it into a kind of pouch, and a strap of leather. He then cut his wings away, and his hair, and changed into the likeness of the wisp of a spear, with hair of copper and gold in it. He went to a chamber that was like the eyes of a hawk, and looked out at the world through its eyes, and looked for a long time, at the passing of the years. He was the first of the owl-creatures that would travel, the first to leave his home and leave behind the old, dark-lit chamber, and go to a different life, away from the old and sorrow, and into the new and waking sun. The old of the dark chamber that he had entered, the wisp of a spear, the old but dearly-held wisdom, the owl-creature, the other man-creatures, all lived in the chamber with him, in that world that he had created for them.))

:: 03.30.2021::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


YOU ARE HERE WITH ME

I want you to know
one thing. You know how this is: if i look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window, if i touch near the fire the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Those moments when your heart stops beating for me like the moment when I first stepped
on the moon, the time I got a colostomy— those moments are what I treasure most,
the flow of blood in my veins, the enveloping of my heart.
I have been longing since the first night that I spoke to you.

My body had always been content, and had always had the sound of your laughter.
In the first thousand times that I touched your hand, I kept them still.
I could feel my body, I could feel the blood flow, I could even feel my heart pumping,
and still I could not say a word.
And I still do not know why.
Now I always speak. Now I am not content, I feel more pain.
My tears freeze like those on the glass of a window, like tiny crystals of ice.
Now my body is not content, in my mind and heart not in my soul.
Perhaps there are moments when I know that your love for me is more
than I can bear.
Perhaps it is in the hour when I see my life descending,
when I smell the last breath of summer, when the daily walk on the river takes me far from you,
perhaps it is in these moments that I cry for you.
And as long as you hear me, as long as I am alive, my tears are filled with your blood.
Sometimes in my heart, I am so full that I burst, and I think that my heart has come to an end,
and I understand, through my tears, that you are the one who is dearer to me
than I am to myself.

At that moment my heart feels as if I am one of those saplings that have roots in the earth,
and as long as your love does not die, your roots will not die either.
That is the truth. And if the day comes when my roots set off to find you, and your love dies,
my life will come to an end, and I hope that at that moment even if my heart is in pieces,
the sound of your laughter will echo in my mind, and it will say “I remember.”

Nothing in this world can make me happy.
Nothing in this world can calm my fears.
I am never happy. I am always in pain.
I have tried for many years to find the way through the darkness
and the cold, but my soul cannot accept it.
And there is no escape.
I dream of something that will make me happy, and I wake up and find myself with my heart in my hand.
And I can not cry for happiness, and I cannot cry for death.

I cannot cry for the things that I love.
I cannot cry for the things that I have lost.
I cannot cry because I am afraid.
And so I cry, and I weep, and I am weak, and I am so very alone,
but I cry and I weep, because you are not there, and I do not know
what is right.

I have tried to love and to hate, to live and to die, but I cannot understand
or love or hate.

You are not there with me, in my love, in my hate.

You are not there in the sea.
You are not there in the sky.

I walk in a place where no one knows me.
I walk in a place where no one needs me.
I walk in a place where no one can hear me.
I walk in a place where I do not fit,
I walk in a place where I have no place to stay.

But I have so much love, and I have so much pain.

And still, I will not let you go.

You are so near to me, so near.

I cannot run.
I cannot hide.
I will not let you go.
I cannot explain.
I will not explain.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.

You are not there.
You are there.
You are there.
In my mind.
In my heart.
In my soul.
In my very soul.
You are there, with me.

:: 02.25.2021 ::


AVERY IS A QUEEN

WEEPING is a season at which lonely broken hearts die
upon hands and knees.  they crawl and climb
toward steeper hopes  and fall: some into fears
the monsters never named!

Aches and pains from human bodies
moving forward as mountains like magic:  
from China toward the ends of Earth
as human spirit!

Queen!  Her heart and Mind and Soul.

Spreads.  
   Jessica’s got a girl
                  girl,
               James
‘s is dynamite to understand:  

 anytime reprimanded — you see her shake
avoiding complications as a Baroness
     she B Low  s   men’s minds!

 a fellow of soulMagical twisteandtwirless

      so playful as a pussy cat and Queen;
a Class Queen    lo –
                     lov-
                           e   oh so full of
promise and extraordinary beauty!

:: 01.04.2021 ::


SUN AGAINST THE NIGHT

The nasty dark night ate the sun!

The farmers wailed against the dim moon,

“Be sane, or make it otherwise!”

Yesterday i awoke with a torn brain

against lover’s thousand acidic eyes

ripped apart by dying beds.

My screaming wish held but just Ourselves–
and Immortality.

:: 12.21.2020 ::


WHEN THE SKY CAME DOWN

WHEN the sky came down // when the wind left and the
oceans drained \ when the righteous sang, “by god.”
WE saw the creatures of life running to and fro
and saw how the machine held our hearts and eyes —
in chains.

When the sky came down.
when the night wept,
when the eyes of all creatures cried:
they hid from a perfect storm.

Everyone ran fron the wars and left the
desloation of Nations — when the purple
color and red became day when love screamed
we cried…for a god that never came.

Now, afterward we live life in the drifting horror
of dust and sand.

From the cruelty that defines
the small mouths of what humans are: let it be known
when the sky came down when the sun went away
and the Earth screamed and those who claimed
in God’s name he’ll save our skin; the light
burned our sight and killed our kin.

When the sky came down/ when the sun went dark\
and the universe wept and the righteous sang
to a dead god — we survived. Again.

:: 10.11.2020 ::


FERTILE SOIL

if i had two hearts;
one for your soul
the other for your beauty

if i were a farmer
i would tend to a garden
and gather today’s eggs

  but as a broken-hearted
  poetry i till words – so
  excuse me;  

you see, i am not here
nor there — and the worse
feeling is planting Love

and nothing Grows.

:: 09.17.2020 ::


NO HOPE NO HARM

“i will not be that way, ” i said.
as she took hostage my heart.
“I will not be that way, ” i begged.
as she kissed my soul.

but for you i shall turn the stars
around and move the oceans i declared.

i do not love your beautiful face.
i do not love your curvaceous body.

i love your feet as they brought you
here toward me. And now i enjoy
your mind and through it all things
you are.

:: 09.17.2020 ::