Her stance is like that of an athlete-
ready to take on the orchestra-
ready to prove she shan't miss a beat-

Her breath from the floor lifts the whole room!
All rise in antipication of the notes that drizzle
over exhilirated faces like liquid platinum leaving
an ocean of polished corpus paralyzed with ecstasy.

She bowed.
And we beat our hands raw in applause!
We appreciate to the point of pain
the tantalizing tones that taught our souls
Magic is as tangible as a soundwave.

I will guess how many leaves there on a tree,
and how many sea shells there are in the sea,
I wonder if there is another like me,
who'll guess how many bees live on the lea?

If there is another who could spend all day,
roaming barefoot down a red road of clay,
Whose childhood memories he fondly saves,
while the daydreams come in endless waves,

I will search forever until we meet,
And no other pair could be as sweet.

Imagine if you were a wild man!
To wander the plains with a spear in your hand,
your home never bound to a square plot of land,
to die or live free and survive if you can.

Food is found in the river, the grasses, and air,
a safe place to sleep in the cave beyond there,
crude clothing to cover where you are bare.
There are leaves for a bed, and a stump for a chair.

Imagine if you were a wild man!
the hair on your face grows down to your chest,
See through his wild eyes, be brave if you can.
each moment you stand you know you are blessed.

Other things wild are larger and faster.
Though this wild man's flesh may be alabaster
his skin is not armored with fur or with scales.
The wild man lives off of what he impales!

Could you give up your pillows and feather bed
for a the damp smell of earth and stars overhead?

You are so funny!
You make me laugh, really.
I understand your humor,
though I'll never understand you.

You are so funny!
You are always on cue.
When you look in the mirror,
do you see me looking too?

You are so funny!
Like a man who slaps his knees.
The jokes you tell, are a spell,
and I beg you for more, please.

You are so funny!
A "tour de farce" unsupressed.
You are so funny!
Especially when I am undressed.

Why fight me when you are unwilling
to walk away with no lingering thought
When from underneath it comes spilling
an effortless need, we two have wrought.

It is no more than a road with two lines
down the middle because it goes both ways.
Highway has surpassed ancient railway ties.
A visit is no more than a bit of one's days.

It is no more than a gasoline tank,
Cars no longer use a crook with a crank.
Yet I remain here and you remain there.
With time, resource, and emotion to spare.

Our connection requires no correspondence
not by wire, nor post, nor letter by horse
Yet illusion creates our boundary by distance.

What blanket must cover this mind's eye?
to compel hesitant steps to walk beyond flames
to locate where pleasures and sweet affections lie.
Perhaps we'd begin by exchanging our names?

The geese raced across the sky this morning
as winter chased the birds' path unyielding-
Sixty-five miles per hour, twas I perpendicular
forging my own path toward my particular- destination.

When the geese have arrived they shall settle
and be cradled by warm breeze in a cool pond-
They shall fornicate the way animals do
and generate their progeny between the reeds and dew-

I shall reach my own destination.
Where I'll stare at electronic light.
I'll frustrate then force my own contemplation.
And about the geese, I'll write.

Which creature's journey ended best?
If product alone is the only test,
I say, God Bless the Geese!

The dogwood tree
was built for me.
Not too tall
for I was small.

The limb started low.
As though to show,
how one should go.

Time to climb.

One sneaker lace untied.
I spied.

A nest-
three eggs at rest.

Speckled blue for robin red,
whose bird-wife is brown.

Time to climb down.

Sailing toward the words in a brain fog.
Maybe something I write will inspire me
to write something else- Another stream
of thought- Different from the last five
thoughts I just had-

There is no inspiration. There is just you.
And you aren't even you. You are just
a phantom imagined over a long time.
Imagined so long you have taken on
a form of your own- No actual reality
could ever improve upon who you are.
This is known- Known by you and known
by me. This is why we can never stand
face to face. It is impossible to stand
face to face with a brain fog.

The fog can only surround you and trick you
into walking deeper into it with your arms
stretched out trying to feel for something you
can see clear as day but as you press on further
nothing at all presses back. No pressure. I need
pressure. The pressure of a hug, a hand, warmth.
But you are fog! You are mist! You are cool.
Too cool, and so deep. I could travel into you
forever and freeze to death.

I do not want to be lost in the mist, or the fog.
There are no light houses guiding me or sirens
to warn me that I am about to crack my wooden
legs on the sharp rocks in rough seas. So, I will
do the only thing I can do. I am turning this boat
around and sailing in the other direction

That imaginary smile holds sway,
over a hopeful heart hearing music play,
within a wish that fades and shines,
within the recesses of a marveling mind-

And yet, some clarity, like a new November breeze,
cools a face flushed with adoration's embers exposed,
while the night's black inked fingers grip, and seize,
the salubrious stars that sing such bright songs composed-

And I, follow thee.
Obsequiously.

All on One Shelf

Little Women
Anne of Green Gables
Anna Kerenina
The Merchant of Venice
A Prayer for Owen Meany
Rights Talk
Barrel Fever
Me Talk Pretty One Day
The Sparrow
Children of God
The Green Mile
Thursday Next
Ham On Rye
Catch 22
Whitehorn Woods
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickenson
Hillary Rodham Clinton
Extreme Measures
The Arraignment

An invasion by an echo-driven alien-
split the night- into an alternate reality when-
the entire universe was no larger than a living room
and a life time lasts one earth-hour.

The sweat that dripped down my neck and breast
drained by life force as I trembled and shook.

I cowered while my enemy
hung from an eve- with feet like a hook.

Just below the clock, tic-toc, so apropos...

As though to show time was short.

When suddenly- it occurred to me-

This aeronautic devil sought sport!

I tied a cloth around my head.
I devised a weapon from my bed.

The pillow case.
And gave some chase!

The evening's peace was justly righted.
When upon a curtain the fur demon alighted.
I thrust forth with haste and expedited.
His exile from my abode.

Forget about frowning baby the drowning feels so good.
In your hurricane, I wash ashore, if I could die, I would.
I'd let the sight of your aggression, paralyze me whole.
I'd give myself to your possession, your storm controls my soul.
Forgive me for all the attention, I reach for what I fear-
To crawl forever for your affection if it takes a year-
Or more, I'm sure, ashore Ill die before my heart for you will wane
If it means I can feel close to you, I'll choose your hurricane.

Incoherent, it makes no sense,
for one to refuse to use past tense
when now is then, and then before,
Is it possible therefore to learn no more?
Foolishness is such a chore.

What's more is a giant "never-to-be"
The present chopped it down haphazardly
Like a tree to a nest that never gets built
the structure with no purpose- "milk-spilt"
forget about the glass, forget about my @%$!

Once in a while, to revile, the action,
the causality of which is pure subtraction,
a break down in the interaction, of chemical
bonds ironic.

A phonic play on ionic power,
the game ends in no more than a cold shower,
and fusion is left uninvented.

He is a baby fresh and new
light brown curls, eyes powder blue

He is a busy little boy
a matchbox car his favorite toy

He grows into his awkward years
with shy moments and stick-out ears

A lanky young man begins to shave
he longs for girls to misbehave

As a man he pays the bills and more
He dreams of what may be in store

For the future baby little boy blue
to whom he will teach two times two

As an old man with creaking knees
his mind reflects upon all he sees

As the seconds to the hours wane
A sigh signifies the thought's refrain

He has been here before and will be again

Comet on the metal sink turns into mysterious green foam
as the lady in yellow gloves stretched up to her elbows
mashes a misshapen wad of crocheted plastic bits in the
corners striving for a new sink- different from the sink
that lazed around the kitchen yesterday.

Easy-Off soaks into the grease from yesterday's oven
as a new oven will emerge in two hours like a phoenix
from hamburger ashes and last month's casserole overflow.

In the bathroom, a cleanser soaks into the pores of the
tub where soap scum, skin cells, and renegade hairs
have gathered with a coup d'etat in mind. Little do
they know there is a new regime to take over and the
governance of the bathroom shall be cleaner than before.

When the vacuum has declared war and the carpets liberated
of dust and pet hair, the cleaning lady will take a hot
shower and slather herself in body wash, shampoo, bath oil
and conditioner. She will disperse the thick fog and appear
to the glory and vindication of every product: "Like New!"

The raindrops tappity-tap on the window pane.
Gene Kelly on my brain it's undeniably merry rain.
Though not a drop is "fallin' on my head".

Two cats stare pensively at the brave stray
who stands in the grass undisturbed by the fray.
As lightening strikes even bravery gives way
and one little mister runs inside instead.

This summer evening sounds foreboding
but romance fills my mind and apple candles shine
while paperwork lays here and there.

I sit upon a wooden chair that reminds me
of school days past. Whence there in the library
He smiled at she whose face I know and whose name changed last.

In these evening hours,
I'm consumed by happy rain showers,
the kind that leave your eyes clean and bright
The emotion I possess is void of distress-
And thus my little poem is trite.

Early afternoon soon and the heat's on my face in
a space where I feel the pace move free from me.
July, a reply to that March winter five from now.
Like a hand with fingers outstretched to show the
distance from your littlest finger and your thumb
Summer has come.

Begin with your toe and move every joint slow
and as you relax you remember you are alive
Strive for this awareness while awake take time
in rhyme for your mind must move too anew in bliss
the next second will not be the same as this.

Despite the race track the cat arches its back
and takes a steady mental note of where he's been.
I am not that cat but I must become one, in sum,
I trust time to teach the answers I need to be
free like the sea where no man swims.

The grouped girls at the rock wall
taking pictures of themselves laugh
loudly with overly animated gestures
expressing freedom and independence
as a quintet of flocked individuals.

The rest of the scene is basically
pure, yellow sun, tousled grasses,
mist from a waterfall, and tourist
types calmly seeking an inspirational
moment with a digital camera, a photo
to remind them that the trip was worth
the monthly to their credit card company.

Then it happens-
Two of the five girls simultaneously
chug their cans of pop and plop
their aluminum cans on the rock wall.
In dodo bird formation they all
twaddle away down the dirt path.

Did I: Mention the mist? The leaves
gently fluttering? The gold warm
light? The undeniable fact that this
is a place where Nature heartily flaunts
the best she has to offer the human race?

This is a true story, Nature gave it
her all and all those girls
could think to give back
were two soda-pop cans.

Human Trash.

black plastic squares
decipher my thoughts
on a black plastic screen
in points of light I write

my pens and pencils have
all but retired and are
for notes-to-self and nostalgia
not for communication

while a desk collects dust
this lap goes where I do
and this tool follows along
its use could not be wrong
for I haven't another clue
how to pass the time I must

A childhood TO DO: list.

Dress and arrange all the dolls.
Discuss the quality of imaginary tea.
Press the crayons as hard as possible
and scratch the excess wax off the paper.
Spin in the tire swing until you feel sick.
Lay in the grass to make the sick go away.
Make bridges for the ants with very small twigs.
Ride your bike with neighborhood kids.
Blow up some balloons and pop them.
Put your clothes on backwards and show your parents.
Let Barbie and GI Joe understand the true
nature of war as My Little Pony and Rainbow
Bright descend with all their mystical powers
to fight the battle of good vs. evil against
all the Transformers and He-Man figures that
still have their legs until you and your
little brother are both crying and
are told to go to bed.

Coffee and rain
percolate
and fall
in tandem
a baroque song

Wet fresh grass
and the breath of
leafy spring buds
collide with the
roasted grounds

I want to breathe
so deeply that I
can seize it all
inside myself
and let it all
become a part of me

When these bellowing winds learn how to whisper,
I'll uncover my ears and learn how to listen,
to whatever stories the winds want to tell.

When the stale cold air is fresh with mint,
I'll take a deep breath and expose my skin,
to whatever sensation the air wants to impart.

When what you say shows in what you do,
I will give you the whole of my heart.

I am a poet, and I complain.

The Sestina hurts my brain.
The Sonnet feels too old.
Free verse is uninspiring.
Haiku is just too cold.

Limericks are just schticks.
Tongue twisters give me blisters.
The Song runs much too long.
I have nothing left to write.
Naught but words about my plight.

A broad board bears a bare bear.
Aboard the board the bear drinks beer.
A boar boards aboard as well.
What the board can bear is hard to tell.

Her hands still keep the page within the book
until the spine is placed upon the shelf-
and while, she reads, and thinks, and dreams, awake-
He drinks a cup of tea to rest somewhere.
She lives within her thoughts alone we know
and swims a sea of words she's born to love.

His thoughts will ebb and flow not bound for love,
unless she writes these words into a book,
for he shall not hear words of love we know,
without the girl undressed upon the shelf,
The light will bare to reveal the words somewhere
and he will try to prove he's not awake

For how can dreams expose his thoughts awake?
How does this girl claim strength of mind to love?
She must have lost her grace to stand somewhere.
Or she must be confined to feel through books.
Perhaps she still remains upon the shelf
a piece of glass could break if dropped we know.

She smiles as she picks up a cup we know.
A cup of tea she drinks while he's awake.
So fond of dreams she'd live upon the shelf,
if he might find the time to read her love.
Her spine confined and saved within the book.
He placed the book upon the shelf somewhere.

Unfair! He cries such words may lie somewhere
within a book that's too far lost we know
but when he dreams and thinks and reads the book
she knows she speaks to he that dreams awake.
She's bound but words still sail and land to love
and there is sweet release upon the shelf.

She is not glass nor born upon the shelf.
She lives alone its true and dreams somewhere
And there is he who she will fight to love
despite a failed attempt that's past we know
If he can dream and read her words awake
the words will speak beyond the misplaced page.

For now the book remains upon the shelf .
Awake they read in time alone somewhere.
We know that they won't turn the page to love.

The view from the bedroom doorway reveals a room awash in yellow.
A mystery color, as there is no sun- further inspection shows the cause.
A drapery of meager means filters the gray light, a cheap fabric curtain.
The tone in this room sounds different than the crunchy snow piles outside.
The yellow curtain, fabricated sunshine, tricks the mind to winter’s rival.
From the bedroom doorway one sees the still scene and swirls a cup of tea.

No honey, no sugar, no milk, no cream, pure- Alone, remains this tea.
A peppermint-infused, herbal blend, a de-caffeinated regime is the cause.
As the tea swirls, I marvel at the mental gymnastics to disguise winter outside.
Certainly winter doesn’t take it personally, and summer doesn’t notice its revival.
In an effort to create a five-sense depiction of summer produced by fabric yellow,
I go forth with canned flowers and breezes, and from bottom up spray the curtain.

Ouch! Now winter is hurtin’. I have blocked the whole season with only a curtain.
My apologies, Dr. Seuss. Yesterday, was your birthday. I’m far too simple to rival.
You were born in a March winter, I’m sure you sympathize. Born clear, like my tea.
Bathed in heat from a forced air system, standing in the bright light bare yellow,
I peek through the sliver where the curtains part and note the frozen land outside.
Soundlessly I listen to a curious noise and wonder: "What could be the cause."

Parting the fabric further and turning my neck 33 degrees, a sight gives me pause.
A javelin drips upon a flower pot below. It makes a puddle clear, like my tea.
Perhaps winter passes and that icicle filled flower pot will grow a blossom yellow.
A happy notion but simply not heartwarming enough encourage me to venture outside.
So here we are, you, me, a memory of Dr. Seuss, standing near a smelly curtain.
I wonder how we shall ever tell the story of our seasonal survival.

Ah Winter! Your skilled freeze through my blood hath no rival!
Swish the fabric panels shut. Get the “Krazy Gloo”. Don’t open that curtain.
Walk sternly toward the kitchen to bubble and brew another pot of tea.
Allow your mind to drift and dream, cease to analyze the problem and its cause
Switch from peppermint to chamomile and allow your heated mind to mellow.
Whatever you do, don’t go outside.

Winter is a grizzly bear tapping a clawed paw and growling outside.
Except, grizzlies hibernate and are too odiferous to be concealed by curtain.
And, only polar bears are white, grizzlies are more the color of my cup of tea.
When I thought winter why did I think grizzly instead of polar? Polar is cause.
Cause but not effect, the effect is grizzly- if polar and grizzly ever rival.
Lesson, if polar and grizzly come to town don’t eat the snow if its yellow.

So the sestina ends its song, as it began, on a note not blue, but yellow.
And the curtain still rivals a sense of summer when I would drink iced tea.
Winter’s breath cannot cause me to abandon my canned floral breezes inside.

The red yarn laces in a bold pattern of entangled road ways and cul-de-sacs
the perfect traveling sweater, with built-in maps to the the places I imagine
I'd wear it to. I could rest comfortably in a train compartment in this
sweater, or maybe ride a llama in Peru(if Peruvian llamas allow you to ride).
I think this sweater could handle an Alpine trek on cross-country skis,
and probably some Russian gambling party involving copious amounts of vodka.
I know this is a smashing sweater for a muddy spring walk near any glittering lake.

This sweater has already been to the office, and the grocery store, the gas station
and the DMV. The patterns are familiar to me and as bold as any sweater's life might be.

This sweater has gathered lint from the local bookstore and has smelled like
Chinese food. This sweater has been tossed to the floor when one was in the mood.
There is a loose loop that dangles and if it snags somewhere-
This versatile sweater may never arrive here nor there.

The white snow stripes split the blackest night.
The winter prisoner's sight vanishes as her lips chap.
Dusty slivers of skin are pulled mercilessly by gnashing teeth,
while the wind warden gnaws at the rest of her flesh.
She squints her eyes at the horror of the night's serrated edge.

The winter prisoner's steps are inhibited by snow shackles.
She trudges forward toward the friendly cherry-colored guard
that will smile warmly when woken for a post dinner-date.
But, the wind warden says nay and sends a spray of ice like
a fire hose turned on a crowd of escapees.

The winter prisoner retreats faster than the initial advance.

You unravel the best, the worst, and all of me.
Your voice may range from gentle mockery,
to the emotional twinges of sweet sensuality.
Still, there are times when you are rough with me
and I hate those times but I wait for when
your kisses will soothe the burns again.

Did that all just happen electronically?
E-mail me.

A man in a black t-shirt with his large belly protruding from the bottom
leans against a cane wearing dirty pants that smell as repugnance is upon them.
A tired woman with her black eyes shot red wanders past a towering marble post.
The check in her hand is enough to turn on her heat and purchase some toast.
From the third floor open window a baby has been crying for hours.
The raspy wails point out the weaknesses of this community and all its powers.

The busses still bus, and the machine still cranks, the tills still ring
and Wall Street yells thanks- for the bail out, thanks for your tax,
thanks for the credit cards you ran up to the max!

The children can starve. The elderly can wander.The people with direction
have no time to ponder, the use of their funds, or its public allocation,
when a dollar and a quarter pay for a pepsi and a vending machine selection.
The children can starve. The elderly can wander. The people with direction
have no time to ponder, the use of their funds, or its public allocation,
when five hundred bucks buys a weekend vacation--
Without room service of course!

Isn't it nice to have choice? We can choose between cable and direct tvs.
We can choose adaptive cruise or assisted rear parking in a brand new Mercedes.
But what about when the only choices are food on the table, or electric invoices?

Who is ready to be responsible,to take ownership for that which we are culpable?
For every single selfish act we lose an opportunity to redact-
the statement that our lifestyle is correct- Just look at the treatment
people receive within our borders! Look at our rich, marvel the hoarders
of thousands, and millions, and billions galore!
Just don't look at the pan handlers in front of the grocery store.
Ignore the begging, the dirty, the poor, ignore the rats in the subway,
and the piss on the public housing door.

What's more, ignore the facts, there are no cracks, on the public trade floor.

On this eve, alone I lay.
No voices to flood the chatter
or mental chorus of daily matter
that does not matter thus or this.

On this eve, alone I say.
I have never known who I am.
A bleating heart, like Mary's lamb?
And, it does not matter thus or this.

On this eve, alone I stare.
For a fool's time has been wasted.
Someone's love has been cut and pasted;
and it does not matter thus or this.

On this eve, on my knees,
I watch the wind wrestle the trees,
a forever evening is all he sees,
and it does not matter thus or this.

A sad man becomes a poet when
he transcends mortality in memory.
Sad man, I wish you farewell and pray
that your soul finds peace eternal.

As human beings, we move so roughly.
We say things so harshly and use
language so ugly, so detached.

As spirits, we may exist as love
in the hearts of those who care
enough to remember we were human.

When our spirit and our humanity
finally meet face to face,
The ocean of nameless spirits and faces
recedes. The stale tide water leaves
the bay and all safe harbor. We
venture toward adventure on the undulating waves
and set sail for that new life- horizon bound.

Pink and gold, a purple splash
in a cerulean sky, something I
once drew with a digital crayon
right behind your eyes, the sun
still shines.

The belly-laughs are my favorite-
when we're talking and can't contain
that sweetest expression of delight.

The belly-laughs burst intensity
and radiate through every vein.
Oxygen bubbles -like champagne-
permeate my brain matter's density.

And then, we sigh and smile,
reflecting on the orgasmic humor
that leaves us gently nodding in approval.

452.32 miles equates to 7 hours and 43 minutes
The time to travel less lengthy in flight,
a short space in the air, were you to care,
but there is only that casual chance you might..

Some chemistry, there may be, brought on by fantasy,
and moments when we talk like grown-ups,
as it goes, when we wish each other well,
over coffee and tea, you may kiss my cheek...

Will you wave as we walk to part?

You never consider the possible start
of something you may not wish to end.

Is this how you prefer to feel my friend?

he's blind, cant see,
simply see, she's not free,
not she. to thee, or
trickery, dime bag games,
cracked pottery,
the hourglass stands still.

At ten thirty-three, an age,
not she. still not free.
it's she, and then it's he,
but he can't see,
blind to be, bride to he,

who sails no sea for she,
who sails no sea for she,

for she, no sea he sails,
an age, instead and fails,
in rage, where she hails,
and tries, to die within,
his eyes, set her to spin,
in skies, she flies to sin.

My cat knew I couldnt write a word.
So, rather than see my time wasted,
he interrupted the thought process
completely by squashing himself over
my forearms. Not a word could I type.
In a previous ode, I declared Hunter
the cat a genius. I knew I was right.

I am alive at Six Twenty-Five
and I travel in time all the time.
There is no other way.

Unlike prose with perfect diction,
time is never any writer's fiction.

Time moves much faster than seconds
While your emergent dream beckons
you to be true to the hope
it gave to you. The soap
waits in the bathroom
to wash the sleep
from your face
and you
go.

Six A.M., an hour after five when
the cat began to whine and
I awoke upon the dark. Scan
the walls for the boundaries-
Hold me please. I wish you were here.

I suppose you might be here,
But, since I don't know who you are
what difference does it make?

Six AM plus fourteen to the minute
I imagine your hand but your touch isn't in it.
Is love always such a catastrophe?

It is twenty minutes after Six A.M.
An hour until the time when
all of these thoughts mean nothing
because they have no place in time-
just like you and I.

I love my bed.
Goodnight.

Habitual evenings of heavily streaming digitudes expressed in digitisms
highlighted by an artfully crafted digiverse brought to you by ten digits.
Darling, you are my greatest digital masterpiece. Digitally divine dear.
On a digi-diagonal I can raise you above me and look down on myself
from where you stand. Hearing the digitones of your bass like an embrace.
Delighted by the digillusions we develop over days, weeks, months, a digi-year.

The black asphalt slices through the ice hills
and barren frozen fields while the wind spills
diamonds, the temporary kind, the kind that
shine only during their journey from billowed skies to the flat
lands, I drive, alone, grateful for this time in my own space.

My car engine growling in a deep bass.
I press the gas pedal and ride the rpms.
Speeding on where society isn't looking
and for five whole minutes I'm free.

I think the sad cow in the dead field smiled at me.