I F y o u go back to school give me your love — teach me
touch/ how electricity or god was invented by your hands (
subdued by the hand of an angel and buried eye)
LOVE: phenomena is such
being, conducted by a worthy Love
You’ve been cooling — fooling and mis-
using philosophy strictly within
the deep inside and slender/fragile
i imitate your beauty so shake
for me girl/ ooooooh expressing
oh oh oh oh (come on) i borrow a deep
mask learning and so fragile i borrow
way deep inside // sensations\
imiatating fatally exquisite < pulling
my skin carefully around it)
streamin down your face my dreams
love” — prettified. I give every inch
of my love – an awful big light squoits
down my spine way down inside: i am
dead er sumpn: next i
ah ah ah – ah ah ah —
shake for me girl/ down oh up sideways
oooooooooooooooh — some female within
the green field each fore crows drop into
:: 09.28.2020 ::
fatal thunder was the best one had when she came to me for advice about his economic condition.
she was my first client, she said to me: My husband says I’m a fool for waiting for anything. I’ve been a mistress and a wife and a nurse, but I haven’t made a penny on my own. He makes a living as a taxi driver. I live in a modest bungalow and he has a sprawling country home. I make housework and keep the yard and the cars and two cars in good repair. We spend every weekend in our country home and whenever he is away he brings the mistress and the mistress’s boy and the mistress’s boyfriend and the three men together.
He was twenty-six and I was twenty-five when we married.
I’m not a fool, I told him, and here is how I earn my keep. First, I gather the money in envelopes when it is in my immediate possession. Then I write checks when I am told by the client to do so.
I keep the checkbook with me so I know who I have to go back and ask for more. I have a reliable mover. I have a reliable chauffeur. I have an accurate accountant.
This is how I do it.
When I get in the taxi, the driver asks me the destination and I tell him, and when I get there I get out of the taxi and tell him where to go, and when he takes me to the hotel or the house, I give him the key and when I am getting ready for bed I give him the bill for the room and then I turn out the light and go to bed myself.
In the morning I get up and say, “He’s a fool for waiting.”
I’ve been doing this a couple of years, but now I’m running out of the money I got when I first started.
I don’t get any more checks or checks with letters of explanation from my client, and the money is not growing with my business.
I’m sure if I wanted to I could get another job and earn more, but what would I do with all that time?
It might be difficult for me to do.
So silence and pain are my bed brothers. Love is my sister. Together we weep every night.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
TIME fell before my aching feet:
that i know little is more than
most who think they know all;
i watched time squirm before
me as a puddle of water —
i saw her dress make sounds,
silent before a breeze toward
i wept as a dew against
moist violets, as nature does;
and saw time die before me.
her greatest hand was sharp
dampness of a violet leaf
that cut my heart within approaching
exasperated winter hunger.
today i met space who cried;
having lost his best friend
called time his tongue was pale
searching for dead bodies and
:: 09.21.2020 ::
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
you see, i am not here
nor there — and the worse
feeling is planting Love
and nothing Grows.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
“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
:: 09.17.2020 ::
A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN
SKIN can make me cry as roses. Scents of a female? for i do forget
spoken clearly; i am not afraid of death but life.. to have control
means relenting focus for a perfect soul. my questions are purely
my own as though if i ask, ‘what has become of you?’ the world may
never know but i am here. my heart is a shape of a pale softish
round coffin yet to be buried within your mind.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
the carnival-like brass band
performing songbird miracles
of you, worn within my heart
all life; never quitting
sunrises as torn muscles
amorous and petting a cat
that adores thoughts
through the crack of heaven
i slid toward burning hell
all my thoughts —
and now fate kisses me and
we love each other is called
i look within the mirror (things are not looking good)
a mind of a man; a soul of a woman: when my dreams
stretch out love surrenders.
My body, savaged by pain (i am as a peasant)
— makes romantic spirits
leap into the bottom of a
deep chasm of Earth.
The soul can never get old a marching army of night
invaded me as a weapon; but as i breath i repel
the hordes with my heat
i sought a woman so strong
, intelligent and soft: a body of skin, of fire,
of firm and thirsty milk!
i hold her bountiful breasts ! and hug warm and womanhood.
still i feel i am sinking:
so now you know. my thirst and desire for woman without
end — a wavering tight road!
so now. I know there are cemeteries so lonely, for my kind.
Dead bones that do not move. but all dead and
living hearts move through a tunnel!
:: 09.09.2020 ::