And Then

A temperate day filled angry space.
The day before a tempest blew
which splintered moods and cracked the view
to drippery splash; it muted hues whipped in place.

The smoke of plume pinched alley’d brains.
To squinting eyes of grimaced spook
The next day’s past was full in view
as muddy soul and grim repast, forgotten pains.

The yestermorrow engulfed my walk.
Among upturned poles and toppled cars
the leaves sodden mulch beneath my shoes
I swayed now then amid the garbled talk.

The suspect sky was clear and blue.
Shorn of tear and crashing cloud
it mocked the storm once loud
with fear and gust then now cruel.

My feet stood glued to pavement frames.
A heart struggled in wait and fear
when an opaque shade appeared
to face me now stilled, frozen, same.

I came and met my coming and going
my went came first and then my still to come
only the now then, not yet any, is none
and all that is there is to knowing.

The Accountant

The hours tick for those who count time. The accountant gathers coin and accolades, robustly but modestly. His profession requires the precision of a blunt minded man, no curve and twist. And although his view is straight, his behavior upright and courteous, his walk is forward bent, apelike, avoiding the lines in the pavement, like the winging bat’s zig or the sidewinding cat’s zag, pursued by its predator. He knows what counts, what is common sensibly real and true, big with principle and beaten bullying fear, angry that the earth and its people take. “Give me mine, what’s my due,” he says, his selfish possessing, his devouring control, his treasuring sweets. His anger sparks in punishing heat, hollering at the rag tag here, pitching a glare at the ingrate there, yet he is shy and unassuming, a contrast of black and white, the paint of his world. But what tenderness of heart and gentle hand, huge and rough and soft. The caress of time spent quietly in arms, legs entwined, palms resting in scoop of neck and back, gentle sleep and whispers press colors deep for him and me. His brutal views and mad cries hushed, he is love simple and complete.

Stillness Is

What to do when the skin pickles
and the mind dries splintered?
What to do when eyeballs glitch
shudder open-shut, right to left?
Where to go when cars slam openings
cabin space so tight it pierces skin?
How to survive the sandwiched time
of somatic stares and twitching sleep
unparalleled movement unceasingly on?
Why do we contrive without power
un-surrender ourselves to perpetuation?
Which is in?
When will the uncleaved door bend
ope-crack and whistle in the
sizzling windy train of space,
belly breathe hoary air eons long
trellised and clinging to cilial body,
shivering sensoranticipatorily?
When stillness is–

The Athlete

woman gaze

How hard the muscle, so soft and smooth the skin, so incisively clever intuitive, you are an athlete full of force and grace of mind and body. We sports trivialize and compete at who is harder, meaner, louder, sexier, smarter, and slyer. You reign supreme in common sense and creativity, order and sensitivity. I am leftover hippy revamped for today’s technology, loose and logged in. I don’t recreate with mind altering substances but I can float on ideas and imagery all the same. My fantasy life is rich, redolent undulating waves of mossy strip mall cleavages and triangulating leers and jeers of the popcorn parade, food for shower O pops. You are all strategy and plays while I am the measured field gain, your traversing prints enmuddied in my thighs, my neck and belly. You embody my thoughts with love in the unconventionally traditional setting, new passion colors washing out, layering upon the old patterned prints. You are never-before and stability too etched in ether, anchored air. Come hold my hand in your powerfully gentle grip a little while longer, silken sweat gluing our palms sealed open.

The Artist

imageA painter of sorts, you spend your days in a box, looking out the windowed cracks for someone to call. You know your name. Who else can see your colors? I have heard your reds, felt your yellows, and smoked your purples, just a few. You wave your mind, change your hands, flap your legs and all stop and wonder at your meaning but listen to your message, the canvas bleeding your worries, your anger, your love and hate. You hook me in with a gentle song, a soothing sacrifice of attention and vibration. The clouds clear a path for your art, but the sky suckles your life’s work, not your painting nor your song. For the ether contains your greatest achievement yet to arrive.

The Technician

Go ahead and grab me; swing me by the arms and make me face my fears, my dread of being noticed, of being perceived as less than perfect, of being found attractive. Teach me about my body and its yet to me hidden treasures. Give me the gift of ecstasy manufactured adeptly. Now I know how to mine, how to refine, and procure the gem of ultimate pleasure. You are a skilled miner, technically astute, a critical contributor to my education, my understanding that pleasure can be produced indiscriminately, which is one aspect of love and desire, satisfying my practical yet passionate nature.

One Zero

one zero
A sketched out sea colors
the canvas auburn and indigo waves
Digital smears of cyber brush
and stroke, feathered illusion
of depth and space
texture and sense
I smell the ocean but feel no breeze
you do not move me
in a virtual world, yes
in the plane breathed warmly, no
nearly lifted from the screen
lying flat across atoms and time
no light, no touch, no sight
just one
just zero
just one
just zero
just one
just zero

She at Risk

The sky and the sea run parallel
but free of attachments,
committed only to movement and time.
While the sea moves in currents
as the day and nighttime stimuli
take her–as does the sky–
she buoys those upon her up
or swallows them down,
supporting or drowning,
life-giving or taking;
he hangs his companions there–
free and suspended–
with little to no support.
A risky visit to his domain
will surely lead to lost lives
without self-supporting devices
but the ride will be once-in-a-lifetime.

The Dreamer


My brother, friend, partner and soul, you have a supple mind of teflon passion and heat. Sex connects you to a yet undiscovered core. Having abandoned love and intimacy before you knew you had, longing compels you, impels your every action in its abyss. Who broke you? Your parents who left you behind? Your brother, who found you a threat, healthy and happy? Society, who condemned your desires, a man born out of the proper time? A life of privilege brings none, not ever. The gleam of the blue in your eyes belie the sparkle of hope, of invention and creative genius, muted to the grey, also in your eyes, due to fear, self-doubt, filling the hollow that howls echoed desire, fear of aging and missing out, fear of moving, changing, for losing something reliable, something undefined, undiscerned and untrue. Stymied by mistrust of yourself yet too trusting of others, you have never known your own worth. The shredded skin of your fingers, perpetual gratings of your nails moving like metronomes to soothe the ache and sync the anxiety. Ease of style and comfort with the unconventional is your lure–from the outside–but your constant compassion and soft, syncopated song, artful, eclectic sound, music of your making is your essence. Anger coats you; despair governs steadily like a politician, to fill the gaps, find the excuses, even as it is you. You look like the yogi master but are not in that peaceful possession of equanimity and ease. Your body is your armor.

The Idler

A man of soft voice and heart but hard, angry muscle and drive fills my days. He is strong and weak, bent and upright, thin and full of fantasy flights of dreams and visions, me and him, a house, a life, a bed. His hair is dark, peppered grey, and receding, falling from his forehead to feet, carpeting his body like a coat. Persistent and patient, he with stuttering voice, whispery, shattered and deep, a boy-man of broken childhood, keeps close from afar, runs to me in the gaps, and sprays urgency over me; he is like a vibratory hummingbird at my ear, the wing flutter always flapping near, perceived unseen. He has too much time to think of me and a future. I lean left and right. We share loneliness and time wasted, a lifetime of near misses, music and art, politics, people watching and the idleness of directionless desire and aims. Transitions are either near approach to the top of the Ferris wheel or just over the top slide to the bottom again. They test sure footing, roots, grounding, toppling over with the weight of uncertainty or standing tree firm to the skies while the bark is bitten, flaked off. I am a sleeping sandwich, breaded to face the holy heavens equally to the wormed earth. Can you wake me, man of manic mind and heart?