When I leave,

it will be the music

left behind, playing

like a paper-veined leaf

that continually turns

with the wind–

and toward the unknown

of three-dimensional souls

I will bare the walk

of memories flashing by,

portraits of who I was:

the small wonders of

kindergarten growth,

to the birthing of my children.

Those goodbyes I left

at the mouths of doors,

I found most difficult

to swallow,

after kissing lips, and

embracing a life away

into the ceaseless hours.

Now I’m chasing hope

and stamping out dreams,

those same demons

that never came

to stabilize my life,

stars that turned to sand,

and sand that turned to stone.

It’s the youth of me that sings

the chords of death that stings,

and though I wish to stay and

see the bright stars fall into

your hands,

dreams of crayons to color

your future aluminous,

when I leave as the silky dust

of moth wings,

struggling in the rain,

softly flapping against the lining

of a coffin.

---------------------------------

A Good Day

He died

on a good day,

the weather:

a perfect 80,

cloudless sky

clowns smiling,

and nobody else

in the entire world

died that day,

not one soul.

Getting the full

attention of God,

as he entered

the other side

of the light.

The help message

went drowning

helpless,

on a warm lake

of clear blue-

fishes biting

a handless pole,

and I wish I

had a lake

in my pocket,

a boat in my heart,

a mind of paradise--

so that when I

think of you,

the tears will flush off,

sailing free

around the world.

-------------------------

Deep for Words

I’ve seen words

cut an aged man to ground,

and wordless silence

to a young boy

not condition to grow.

The woman in 3B below

whose face is beat bruised

by the words of her husband,

will ask me when we pass

to fetch mail from our boxes,

if I had a good day today,

and I’ll smile and say

that it could’ve been better, and

they’ll fight the day into night,

him punching the walls senseless

and she continues to stay–

while I sit at my typewriter

stroking and kissing verses

that come to a poem, preciously

bedding them comfortably

onto the white sheet paper to sleep.

Sweat awakened in the dark

to her face in my mirror.

And I’ll ask God

for forgiveness for

having a simple life,

a few stitches sewn

around my pocket,

ashamed for having the brain

other people lack,

leaking out ignorance

all over the world.

---------------------------

Kiss and Tell

We touch with tongues

circling vertically,

probing inwardly and up

a warm splash of saliva,

swapping our mouths

and still I like-

the taste of strawberry

licorice on your lips,

mine of theater popcorn.

Last night I planted the

same tongue in lime pie,

forking through the piece

of butter, dough and sugar,

coming back up with a sliver

of pubic hair flossed in my teeth.

And when I complained up

and down to the bosomed waitress,

she apologized with another

piece of pie, telling me this never

happened at her table, feeling very

bad of the situation she through

away the bill.

We happened tossing her apron

off, bra of butterflies let loose,

on a remote part of the beach

while the sky broke into stars,

and the warm sand seeped

through our toes and urges.

I never did return to the eat

at that restaurant, nor have I

heard whatever became

of the waitress,

and sometimes I feel myself

selfish in not seeing her,

having had a free meal, wine

and sex out of regrets.

But then again,

I’ve eaten pie before

never complaining

of the loose hair I’ve

pulled up in my mouth.

----------------------------------

Seasoned Leaves

We are the leaves that fall

To leaves that turn old,

Born for the wind

We flash by in skins

Of red, brown, yellow-

In my gray-iron world

Eyes that search and find

The hollowness with the west,

I’ll grow old, maybe

As like these falling leaves

And oak trees

Big, broad, bold, but old

Men in tight pants

Hands in pockets

Whistling on their front porch,

Tossing nuts to squirrels

As they sit behind a window

Pipe in hand glowing ash red

Rocking patiently,

Watching their watch-

Where hours burn to ashes

This is it it is time, they say

But wish better, to not be bitter

Of racking these leaves together

Into one big pile and bagging

Them for the curb,

Where a garbage truck will take

Them to the wasteland cemetery.

-----------------------------------

Therapy

Ask the wind

I say

say I

ask the wind,

whence it comes

with winding wings,

put your ear

against its heart

and you will hear

how hollow it beats

against your breath.

This is strong

I say

say I

this is strong,

when you cast

your defeats

and wishes

against the weave

of air;

you see

the wind seems

to know

how it goes,

its been around

around the block

or two

down the bend of

a fork and

a round rock,

it knows

how to turn

the claw

of a leaf,

still crisp

in the season.

When clouds

go blowing south

and to the mouth

of north,

be left

I say

say I

be left

in the tongue

of calmness.

-----------------------

Rock-a-Byes

I saw a rock

give birth

to a pebble

on a bed of sand,

then roll away.

And as that

pebble grew

without a mother

to sing ocean blues,

strolls on the boardwalk

the gentle rock-a-byes

to sleep into the night,

lost hands of a father’s

time for seaside swims–

the concrete would settle

and make

what was made to be,

a chip off the old block

a boulder to cry on

:

hello to the strange

goodbye to wind;

gone rock abyss.

-----------------------------

Unsaid

in shadows

on the blink of a blind

sunset it stands,

the day half-done with fifty

years planted in deep soil.

where dreamers recoil

and believers stuffed in faith.

I want to reach out

and fix a branch, pull

a twig together, call

a chiropractor to straighten

out the brittle back,

give a tongue to it’s skin

and have it bark back

to the dog that passes by

with a lifted leg.

I wish my friend

can run again,

as when we were

teenagers,

the drift of youth

and quicksand

Jesus to pull us out

of trouble;

but I leave the leafs

that have fallen underneath,

the juniper bush of cobwebs

that brush stroke the sky

with wind and time.

These are the things

that happen

for no meaning,

like the waste for walking

over heaven, and having

hell shower over.

---------------------------

fleas

swimming above

these fleas

at my feet,

if using my big toe

as a diving board,

and into the pool

of my skin looking

for free blood-

these backbiters,

moochers–who

let these little

annoyances in my door,

looking for an

overcoat to slumber

the night or month,

a rug in the corner

snug of warmth-

snoring below,

two fans blowing

three flies buzzing

in the basement

of summer mildew,

uncle stan sits,

out of a job

and still

able to afford beer

in his hand

help-wanted ads,

cigarette butts

stamped out

in a skull shaped

ashtray.

he always explains,

they are looking for

only experience,

a little something

to go along

with a degree--

and I say why not

bluff them,

go to the library

study the subject

and bring it in

the interview,

do what you do

well, tell a

lie,

frost it white-

lay it out on the table

feed them baloney and

rye,

and I say that

even a dishwasher

knows no more

than soap and water,

sometimes he just

gets under my skin,

so much

I would like to kick

him out to the dogs.

---------------------------

boy to man

i was born

i cried at birth

i wished mother’s

breast warm,

eye pee

red at the big

wor

ld

and learned

while growing

to fight off

my fat

her, and

his absence

I evolved

without love

but a polished

heart

I formed a

battalion against

my ego, Id

and I

and we

all for

got

about

him

Last update : 17-05-2007 19:50

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