start with a map    scratched in dirt    using a stick that resembles a horn    recite these directions through someone else’s mouth    drink rainwater from a depression in stone    form an effigy in wax    and lint    and old affronts    scrape rust from a crumbling swing set    stir it into holy water    with an irregular rhythm    feed this to a thirsty    thorn-halo    avoid eye contact with priests    and crows    insult a deaf violinist    write your name    on the surface of a lake    press your lips    to a mad woman’s ear    tell her there’s going to be cake for dessert    taste the electricity    on the nipple of a battery    while wiggling your left hand    into a frozen glove    steal smoke from the lungs    of a chain smoker    visit the kingdom of thunder and lightning    when you are under the weather    leave a brown shoe in Kansas    and a blue shoe in New Orleans    while you are there    if you find a coin on the sidewalk    in front of a burning house    use the coin to buy a single white lily    place the lily on the unmarked grave    of yourself    enslaved here in a past life    with heavy eyelids half-closed    hold a wishbone    and drink a glass full    of last breath    wait there until dust settles    over the footprints you left    on the tropic of cancer

listen here     hear my voice    I’d remain silent if I had a choice    but I must sing for my supper     and swallow a cup of pride    ring the bell    and raise the hellhound    from her bed of roses    I must dust the cobwebs from your head    and spill your sleeping pills    I must shout out the window    and throw open the door    before some worthless inscription marks my place    in the earth’s stony crust    but if my miasma wilts your ears    when you hear me    barking up the wrong tree    if my song makes you sick    of smelling honeysuckle    if my melody makes you kick a dead horse in disgust    of course I’ll try to do better    but only because I must

day of cold sun    lighting roof shingles    and peeling exterior walls    painted brick red    pale cream    grave stone gray    spilling into windows     pouring bright puddles    onto shadowed rugs    in rooms with dull edges    and flattened corners    where hands grope    for coins and marbles    and find combs and crumbs    lost under cushions and carpets    where dogs dive for offal    fallen from fork or guffaw    or offered by nail-bit fingers    under the unstable table    between mouthfuls of roadkill    stolen from crows    on the side of the highway     on the return trip    from Rome    through the tunnel     under the sleeping giant    who dreams of tea cups    cracked from lack of love    who inhales summer    and exhales winter    day of pregnant angels    with shining eyes    day of pulsars and supernovae    as seen on TV    day of water    dripping into ears    into irritability    on this day in history    a king was forgotten    a prophet spoke his famous line    an ocean liner    drank the night    and nothing happened to the tooth    left under a pillow    by a boy named    for his father’s father    Fred

 at first     between them    space    was    vast    misunderstanding and hesitation stood them    apart    at first but only for a moment    the distance was limitless and unknown    between their rib cages    but then she walked on his shadow    and shut off the lamp    they gave form to darkness    in the morning   dressed in sunbeams they appeared to glow    were they the first of a kind    or latest in line?    minds unmade    or pictures unsigned?

she was slender as a bicycle    he twirled his handle-bar mustache

tonight I am going    to tell a lie or two    I have already forecast the weather    and it looks like fire and ice     I may tell the truth    but with a posh accent    before the clock strikes midnight    I will burn all of my philosophy books    tomorrow I will finally satisfy    my appetite for eclairs    yesterday I saw a man with a tattoo of an ice cube    melting into the hollow of his collar bone    I once watched a yeti    vanish into mist    another time I heard a Beethoven string quartet    in the middle of the forest     it was a clear windless evening    I was  walking the mule    in a suburb of hell    near the Museum of Limited Expectations    I met a self-conscious caryatid    with a lisp    on Monday I stood     before the tribunal of nature    and was found guilty    of crimes against her    I was given all day    and a night    but nothing lasts forever    I am awake    but asleep    at the wheel of misfortune    my walking shoes are dancing    I stand motionless    naked    in a patch of clear January moonlight

to be perfectly honest    is quite impossible    to be perfectly anything    unlikely    even if one’s intentions are golden    to be partly honest    I have some aches and pains    mostly in the area of my    wrinkled gray brain    it seems sometimes to un-even    my odds     occasionally I’m a tad bit sad    not because of how much I’ve come    to resemble a tuber    gnarled and patinated    from life underground    not because an untitled wave    washed away my mattress    and with it my dreams    of swimming    and flying    and lying together    and not because    a drawer full of knives hums    in the kitchen    no I am simply submerged in a self-inflicted gloom    the approximate color and texture    of last year’s parsnip    forgotten  in the back of the fridge

rising in the dark    predawn thick as wool    sightless    sleep-drunk    senses turned inside out    my fetal indent still curled in the empty bed    hot water flows densely    intensely over neck and shoulders     heavy hand soaps stubble    grasps razor    scrapes away    stippled shades    from soapy chin   the towel is blue today    clothes gray as the darkness    beyond the closed curtain    winter begins the sentence    being served    the preferred beverage is scalding    bitter    black    good for one who faces    but doesn’t embrace    the common cold of January    every day’s mandate     outcome begets income    the first leg complete    before the journey has officially begun    keys    coat    lower the drawbridge    cross the moat

falling    neither rain leaves nor snow    not asleep in love down or over    stars don’t fall    they cartwheel    my eyes fell on you in autumn    followed you into winter    it is true    the sky once fell on Chicken Little    but we all know it wasn’t really    a chunk of cerulean blue    that struck the unlucky hen    it was an apple    dropped from the leaning tower by Galileo    killing Chicken Little instantly    when you die    your body falls away    like a dried husk    then you enter wonder    no longer falling    but decreasing in mass    ever-entering the river    that flows in all directions    it’s true    on certain sunny afternoons    you may be noticed     as the shadow cast    by a tarnished bronze soldier    perched on monumental cement    in January cold    on a humdrum Monday    in a downtrodden town    it’s true    a grave shadow falls without gravity   

here I sit at an old desk    on an odd day    door knob and me    stuck in our bodies    cut glass    and heavy limbs    a rubber band around a finger tight    restricts circulation in the night    turns it white    even in the dark    a figure darts past the window frame    my fetishized feet are encrusted     with nails and pain

under a rusted trestle    I wait for my life to change    or the red light    whichever comes first    wrestling with habits    of thought    and inaction    conscious of the iceberg    on top of which I drift    seemingly still    words from my pencil    occasionally spill    like the random butt    tossed from the moving car    in front of me    splashing ashes and embers     onto the page on which I write

it takes patience    and fortitude    to cool my mood    to absolute zero    while waiting to be touched    by the breeze    from a cardinal’s wing    outside holding nothing    within my first or second skin    not even a breath    or the least idea    of the future tense    arms folded    lost in afterthoughts    suffering like a sigh    enduring a long silence

the wind blew my hair    and I caught a bad coif

neither Sam nor I are samurai    neither in this moment     is the sky dark or light    the rain is warm    to the ground it soaks    cold to the bloke    who went out without a coat    rain shines on signs    wet gloss at gloaming    colored lights streak    across my line of sight    left to right    wipers wipe     words blink reflect repeat    on the tire-splashed street    super low    valentine    delays    year end clearance    funeral home    exit    at the same time I dream    of a different day    another way home    neither Sam nor I are samurai    no one knows why    I am me and you are you     she is she and we are merely    two swimmers swimming    through the fall of night     through constellations mostly blue    neither Sam or I are samurai    to be imperfectly honest    I could tell you any lie    I could sell you my smile    but that doesn’t change the fact    that we share a style    of not being most things    even so    no one knows the answer    because the question hasn’t been asked

everything you need    is right over there    unless you need a spoon    or an umbrella    or a bow and arrow to shoot the moon    or an Easter basket full    of enormous stone heads    or a black leather jacket worn by a dead guy    or a bouquet of flowers    or a book of hours    or a haunting gaze    from the gallows    or a patch of sunlight    or a kite to fly on a day in May    when the sky is bright    with dolphin spray    or an ugly rug    on which to shrug your shoulders    as you grow a shade older    while weeding through    your evaporating memory    for items you may need    to remove your mood from the gutter     where it lies    sleep deprived as a vampire

hands hold cup    up to lips    lips suck red-hot black    caffeinated coffee    too good    to be good for me    at this owling hour    but bitter is sweet    in a back street retreat    on the fringes of braille consciousness    it is snowing again    against my wishes    it’s still February    hold your applause    it is the time of cold feet meeting cold feet    between the sheets    when through the roof    windows and doors    goes the money I burn    to feel    minimal heat    I imagine the warmth    of a time half-remembered    of gentle showers    bird chatter    and flowering trees    I listen in the dark    to sounds without origin    I speak    but only when I have to    I want nothing    but tomorrow

once again    I’m the last bulb glowing    in a room painted    some indefinable shade    generalized as gray    but may contain    color depths heretofore unobserved    barely perceptible luminosity    implied viscosity    shadows in the hallway wait    weightless    I am couched beside    the coffee table    which is smeared and spattered    granular with crumbs    I feel the weight    of enveloping darkness    the woodpecker clock    chirps eleven    almost time to fold    my Poldy self    into the family nest    and fade like a shade    into fuzzy nocturne    where sleep smells dwell    and tomorrow waits    inside my bedside bell

he settles for the night    a roof over his shampooed mane    in a house planted in a field of stars    windows glazed with darkness    wind-tossed leaves    swirl in circles    unseen animals    sniff the spilled milk of moonlight    he sinks in the harbor    of his mattress    breaths of ten thousand mornings    stain tired walls hung    with framed quotations    and photos of bees and butterflies    imbibing nectar    outside in the pasture past a low stone wall    beyond closed eyelids    and drawn blinds    sheep    like him    sleep under wool    and Cassiopeia

how can you know    if I know    what you think I know    if I don’t know    if I know    what you think I know?    how can we go    to where once we’ve gone    if where once we’ve gone    is gone?    how can I pronounce a word    not tinged by emotion    and thus irrational?    how can you be sad if being sad makes you happy?    if I could sleep forever    would I wake up refreshed?    can you sneeze a sneeze that none would bless?    if you can’t live with yourself    how can I live with you?    if I touch myself am I being untrue?    how can I hear    if what I hear stops my ears?    how can I stay straight    if the road we’re on is twisting?    how can I weep    when there’s not a cloud in sight?    all I know is everything    happening now    has happened before    in the fractal eye of a house fly    preening on an apple core

I could tell you    the mechanics of the specifics    sewn into a hero’s existence    an American artist going downhill    on a sled    asleep    throwing up    snow balls and juggling    his description undulates    like sea lavender    woven with minnows    I could tell you    his heart is lacquered cinnabar    awakened jewel    encoded with the brightness    of crumpled gold    I could tell you his story    hysterical    heat seeker    borsht eater    particle physician    on his night off    he pauses    sensing danger ahead    is he going off course?    I could tell you

this is the story    of his history    the mystery of his memory    the banal and the sublime   spun through the mind   and left on the line    to dry in the sun    this is his dime store tale    a film noir fable    a pale-faced lie    starring the devil    death    and a knight    complete in every detail    this is the table    or is it too late for that rhyme?    no not too late    just in time    this is the able body    swallowed by a whale    a hale fellow well met    this is his whole story    not a half or a quarter    it’s not about the buoyant boy    who walked on water    nor his step brother    or his illegitimate daughter    loved by none of the above    this is his account    of the accident waiting to happen    histrionics in a jar    a sorta sorted saga    tossed like a sneer from a passing car

I don’t want to get up    I know the sink is full    of dinner’s aftermath    and the sky is still dark    I’ll have to turn on    the overhead light    to find the coffee maker parts    buried under soiled plates    toppled cups    and caked pots    I want to lie    warm and still    until sunlight kisses my eyelids    but last night we chose lots    therefore it is I    who must rise in darkness     to execute the prisoner    at daybreak

every morning on the turnpike    pigeons perch    on streetlights    big trucks in the rear-view mirror    creep gradually nearer    EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY    down the hill at increasing speed    I follow my car shadow    through a maelstrom    of electric guitar    I kiss the sky    empty over the looming    SAVAGE ARMS    sign    no dark clouds yet    on the disconsolate horizon    industrial burial ground    I drink the pale wash of dawn    from inside a sheet of glass    I accelerate past snow covered    suburban lawns    sleeping houses    curtains drawn    clear blue beyond

you’re just like Father    I said to my brother    who called me a mother    sister I replied    he punched me in my mother’s nose    I elbowed him in the shin    he held my arm behind my back    say uncle he said    I said grandmother’s armpit    so he knocked me    into the grandfather clock    and ran off to play    with our cousins    from hell

he is a deep-voiced embryo    heavy-lidded    hairy    unborn    she’s the mystery    the moment’s master    snow all night    but now the warming sun shines brightly    they have no verbal language    she leads    he follows    into the woods they go    un-prepared for snow drifts    or for getting dumped on    by branches burdened with precariously balanced loads    the land is unfamiliar to him    footing unsure    they are walking waist-deep in clouds    soaking wet    sweaty    they stop and listen    sleep-like silence drifts    white and soft    undisturbed    he has no thought    she knows they could be tracked    but she has no thought    of turning back    he speaks to the arc    of his vision    are we lost?     no    she whispers    I know the way    scooping him forward    with a wave of her hand    soon they reach the cave    on the steep slope    where black stones pierce the snow    among hulking forms and slender trees    she finds a damp chamber    glacially arranged boulders    they climb inside    dripping snow-melt    runs through his scalp    her eyes are the same hue    as the sky    they steam like animals    with little room to move    their damp clothes make a bumpy bed    afternoon of perfect    stillness    solitude un-intruded    undiscovered boot-prints in snow    the path from past    to present    from here there’s no turning back

you have five minutes    to define snow    to grow a shade older    to eat the last crumb    of this white afternoon    in five minutes the future    will ring the bell and leave    its boot prints in the snow drift    that was your walkway    the house hovers    supported by    legions of insects    preparing for a great southward pilgrimage     in five minutes with the house    on their shoulders    the march begins

I don’t know what or why or who I am    I have only just begun to understand    that the particles    from which I am fashioned    will eventually separate    and depart from the semi-unified whole    that was    and presently is me    my corpus    a vanished reflection     but this ever-changing cast of infinitesimally tiny subunits    which for a  moment    assumed my shape    will continue to exist    coming and going    in other forms and appearances    in cosmic time    so it is written

starting now    you can stop waiting    for a long never    before a clever boy    does finally    what a distant mystic    can only imply    with a knowing look    from her inner eye

lifelong labors    aching arms always able    to move a mountain    find the fountain of youth    unbury the treasure    dust off the darkness    walk the boundary    between flesh and air    repair the crack    mend the tear    sweep the floor    make the bed    plant the garden    raise the dead    mathematically measure    the hole in the sky    do nothing    except what can be done    lie to the shadows    confess to the sun

I’ve been waiting for wisdom    all my half empty-life    laughing in darkness    splitting hairs    with a dull knife

melting ice    puddles of light    welcome reprieve    from winter’s deep freeze    I’m in love with everything    that flows    unlocked water    emerging from snow    arteries pulsing red    ecstatic exchanges    between warm bodies    broken water    from which I arose    crawling at the speed of time    across plains    of abandoned plans    miscalculations arid theories    faces and places    long dis-remembered    no matter    spring has stolen into winter’s domain    for a few thousand heartbeats 

I used to be a fat wet raincloud    reclining on the stones    of St. Mary’s cemetery    I used to fall in a drunken heap    onto my bed of nails    dine on the turnpike    body bits on bread     skid-marks on my eyelids    burning cigarette butts disappeared    into my snoring manhole    I used to suffer from the effects    of a misdirected hex    intended for the boy next door    I used to believe the answer could be found    in the margin    not the text     I used to see my name    spray painted    onto billboards of decay    I belonged to an unclassified class of beings    made up of matter    not found on the periodic table    I used to live     in the zone of exclusion    but sorry to say     I’m here to stay

think of us    tan feet in sandals    dining on snails   under a yellow and white    striped umbrella   shaded from the unsparing sun    as a gecko pauses    at the edge of the shadow    of a ginkgo    think of us    then go shovel snow

glade your black    pinnacle throat wine    at breeze arc    of feather hush

ever rest in the everglades?    never before a false sense of security    had sneaked into my falsetto    like a buzzword fizzing    in the flavorless soda    cradled on my lonely knee    only you    my dear not here    can game me to fly    30,000 feet high    after waving bye    I find myself considering    the fringe behavior of air plants    down there    downpours on shopping malls    golf courses    on a cushion of clouds    we glide over sun-drying anhingas     treasure hunters with metal detectors    and shiny men    on a beach in the heat    of Florida in February    I have no understanding    of how to hide    in a crowd of seat-belted souls    all the way up the coast    through the portal    Manhattan glistens    like sunset on a wet alligator’s back    both of us swim    on the surface of possibility

when you think blue    but see green    what you have is sea green    when you imagine whales    but hear gulls    what you have is sailboat hulls    when you touch red    but feel blue    what you hold    is an apple bruised    when you fly through clouds    but you aren’t uplifted    what you are is gifted    with nuts to eat    in your window seat     if your lips are bone-dry to the touch    of your parched starfish hands      and if you have been shipwrecked    after a long voyage    from fortune to missing    like me    when I land    on my own two feet    on an island of light    in the sea of night    what I am is blinded by delight    but when I stand on a rug    I can’t stand    what I am is unpleasantly unsurprised    therefore I am only too glad    to  step outside the box    but I’m not a bit pleased to always blush    when I hear your name mentioned    when you wear a mask    of indifference    and feed a dog lies    what you have is not only a hand bitten    but a mind that must be rearranged by a specialist    may I recommend Redeye Moaning    his blue hair can be hard to bear    before coffee    but you will soon see    it is never too late    for the tarot truth    to be revealed    please    step lightly as you leave    so as not to awaken    the sleeping Dobermans by the door

a twist of lime    tastes fine    mixed with Ellington    on ice    music to quench a dry drive    through lost time    gold-plated tones    glide from the throat    of a blue afternoon    I grope for a handle    to carry this slippery tune    across her border    no road should be so long    no song so fleeting    notes spill like laughter from a crow

Dunkin Donuts    Zen estate    load of lard in my bellyache    Bradley Airport    sunset-hued    my uninspiring view    from inside a frost-patterned window     I blow on my joe    contemplate the encroaching arctic    and wait for flight 1188    in a molded seat    near to oven heat    zero degrees    plus a wind chill factor    the glowing    going sun    is no benefactor    over the RUNWAY APPROACH ZONE    a seagull circles in bitter wind    alone    rush hour lands    bringing denizens of junk food     just to be secretly rude    all who enter    I picture nude    each a seeker of ultimate truth    receiving a question before taking a booth    what is Zen?    a regular Big One with extra cream    what is Zen?    a jelly filled daydream    and a long delay    for a late arrival    back to the world    of early dusk and record cold    time to go    hat and coated    unshaven    unenlightened    vaguely bloated

she returns to earth    light and superior    and slightly bronzed

I am traveling to green    where rain grows    on a cold day    I departed from white    still white lies within my snow-blinded sight    odd colorless color    of the dark season    white glances through me like a chill    turns windows into naked glass    reflecting glare    green direction in the air    carries me where it flies    following the watery path of the moon    I gather clean words at low tide    green thoughts mulch    in my    nothing-comes-to-mind    white keeps me awake at night    with senseless whispering    when warm wind blows through branches    green is the music I dance to

burden of echoes    voices teem at the roots    my nerves buzz    eyes heavy with shadows of sleep    Wednesday a.m.    manifest desperation    my palms and fingers    smooth a splintered    heathen heart

daffodils in a glass of water    yellow as the coming of spring    unchilling the winter evening    with retinal warmth    February’s topmost page    has resigned to the month    of my arrival    on the calendar of waiting    drifting through the day    in skins and wool    from other lives    I’ve been slipping    off the surface of sunlight    tonight petal appendages    grasp my nose and draw me in    across the wall      a flower shadow falls    shaped like a man

grass matted gray    flat from snow    branches blanched of color    scarcely sway    as warm wind    blows    even evergreens    lack luster    can barely muster the hue    by which they’re known    river full    to overflowing    muscles its way    through middle March    to ocean gray

clouds swallow sky    loud stillness follows    I lie awake    walking in my sleep    keeping my closed eyes    open wide    neither ruthless    nor benign    without so much as the shadow of a doubt    to shout at    and nothing with which to shade    the blinding    never-minding    father    mother    absent    other    sun    sleep is my point of departure    my lubricating ointment    my launch pad for a world    newly born nightly    beyond the reach    of my aching feet    under my wings    everything    brief as a song    long as my face    when gone is the place    where I was going to park my heart

cake    eat it    ice-cream    pie    why not    cover my lips    with chocolate kisses    sweet as memories of birthdays before I was born?    before misplacing this incurable condition    life    I was a white dwarf in a chateau noir    with an appetite    for lemon light    I was a visiting expatriate from out of state    walking in a rain of photons    I was a minor philosophy major    blazing bright    child of the rising    wandering watery    complete in pink    glory fire in shrouded retinas    open to the belief    in a supreme pleasure    under a canopy of black calligraphy    the drippy-brush painter    dances like the branches    on the heels of winter

holy shit    is less than or equal    to hallelujah    the jolt of a static spark    is on par with a spinning quark    keep it simple    find a compassionate tree toad    to sing to of your woe    at half-past moonlight    you and eternity    alone together for tea    isn’t it time to unlock    the sunlight    on your tongue?    no is never yes    unless    you live yesterday    on the bosom of oblivion    isn’t it almost time    to lie under clouds    of invisible ink    outside the picture window    with windblown trees    and hub-caps rolling into weeds    in the final flicker of twilight?    isn’t it time to take your    place in the present?    leave the past imperfect    remember the world    is but the period at the end    of a fortune cookie sentence    made of words that turn away    at the entrance

call me blissful    I was born in untitled states of ambiguity    an infinitely minute fraction    of a light year ago    a ghost almost    mostly water    in my previous incarnation my name was    Pisces van Goat    I was torn from the void    at forty-four billion heartbeats past    zero    I live in a state of mass    destruction    yesterday I fell in love    alas    oh well    no one to tell    but the blue sky    high over power lines    vanishing into daydreams    presently I’m the gonest man    in the mangrove    call me contrary    call me temporary    call me oblivious call me sometime

here comes black    the anti-hue    the darkener of gray matter    the distraught thought    the mean friend    who slaps your back    and flattens your mood    black    creeps out from cracks in the ceiling    and from under the chair    where it’s been keeping company with    a pencil     a penny    and a few strands of hair    it recognizes me at once    in my solitary time    it understands my undiscovered crime    it sits with me on the bus    and stares with shifting eyes    I try to turn away    black follows me down the street    where the tree that only yesterday    I’d saved from the axe    lay grounded    as a beached whale    when calling me on the phone    black doesn’t need to ask    if I’m home    black falls out from    a certain hour    a particular light    into my eye sockets    within my clothes    against my skin    black wraps itself    to absorb my warmth    to lure me away    from the window    to face my faceless    lightless    kin

I’ll give you all of my troubles    in one sentence    better yet an instant    unwrapped like a candy    or a moment    spent like a coin    I’ll give you an entire park    until it closes at dark    I’ll pick flowers    from where they will grow    bring them to where you will be    a perfect place    trouble free    the sofa where I lie    is a bed of violets    what should I say now that evening    has entered the day room?    as I exhale another century passes    into the night    with its dark voices    wind and rain    down the street converging footsteps    words exchanged    troubles touching    the edge of here

terrible thoughts    jagged shards of fear    dark inklings of uncertainty    niggling discontent    throw them away    compost dread     toss loathing to the edge of the expressway from your speeding vehicle    dig a hole and heap    gray gravel    on misgivings and regret    kill willed ill    with a sharpened stick    incinerate sadness and depression with a blow torch    inhale the sweet smoke of their demise    prod boredom to get up and leave    steer clear of melancholia    her smile maybe gentle    but her eyes are drowning pools    bitterness should be fed to reindeer to cheer them down    take refuge in the nearest lemon grove   when despair comes to town

enter golden acres     regular welcome valley    mountain children available    caution low-flying German bologna    super slow pedestrians    of the word    do not pass    chiropractor steak house    holy pest home    custom built pumpkins    come in and check out    Uncle Pete’s smoked shoulder    consolidated fairy salt    free chicken bonus    birdseed soup closet    fresh traffic wanted    ephemera next right    now hiring Pied Piper    purple onion micro abrasives    pork restaurant    blessed sacraments to go    go home with    unbelievable Christian styling    kid proof carpet    real public potatoes    feeling sluggish?    cardiovascular bulbs are in    oriental welding lounge    quantum hair    cone construction    dangerous brown sing-along

rain all my life    a little pain    a slice of bread    dough spent    clothes shed    eyes on the middle distance    devour a lioness    reclining under an umbrella tree     closed at sunset    false start    fresh tart    deny shame    expel confusion with a steel rake    hand hand grenades back    attack the work of buttering yesterday’s pain    I scatter words among raindrops    and try to make friends with    a lightning bolt     I grip my pencil like a dowsing rod    ready for a sudden downward tug

electric water    from the melting sky    drips into my hurricane eye

lungs full of ghosts    hang like rain clouds    shrouding night’s twinkling eyes    the lake is filled    with perfect stillness    our dream selves swim together    without breaking the mirror    we are loaves of black gravity    drinking the dense aroma    of each other’s auras    our nakedness is obscured by    the carpet on which we fly

a warm breeze slid under my clothes    as I opened the door this morning    it was a breeze warmed by    worms    an equatorial zephyr that made me yearn    for rain and kisses    April kissed me this morning with her warm tongue    the sap is rising in my blood    I am waiting in motion    crossing an ocean of gray    I am midway through the song    the road lengthens before my headlights    rodents and marsupials offer their bodies to my wheels    there’s no need for self-sacrifice    I warn them    swerving    I am no Demiurge    no administrator working on behalf    of the fates    I am a paying passenger    on a Nantucket sleigh ride    driven by the digital clock    I am awake enough    to spin my web    to wag my tail    to fill my pail at the wishing well    I am crossing the frontier    nearing a crossroads    of sorts    I am cross-hatch shading    myself into obscurity    I am semi-conscious    in an oblivious country    where murder and brutality are daily banalities    where war and famine only happen    someplace else    I am lost between stations    of bad music and bad news    sometimes under blue skies    I die    but not for you

you pause    before crossing the creek    pulled between poles    of rapture and detachment    body controlled by habitual actions    nudged by impulse    checked by caution    death a distant worry    mind screaming    for a juicy idea    to nourish a future season    open to the breeze    you usually fail to feel    on your way    to the far side of near    where you hope to hear    a swan stirring the water    as you stand on the edge    of morning’s liquid mirror

blessed are the pure in heart    blessed the liars    blessed is the truth    spoken by a parrot    sanctified is the arc of my dive    into the pond    breath held    leaving behind the surface    to mend itself    of my splash    blessed are the tomatoes    plucked from the vine    divine tomatoes    from behind the cottage    blessed the cape of good cod    and its dying light reflecting    on the trout brook    without trout    blessed the stepping stone    that assists in my crossing    from there to here    Sunday morning    nothing to do but to puncture its purity    drink its empty acres of pre-memory    in a steaming mug    of sepia ink scalding hot    I feel the pulse of morning’s aorta    flowing with vision and chance    a castle for the king and queen    who live in separate dreams    you and me    let’s be metaphorical friends    you be dignity    I’ll be lust    you be marble     I’ll be dust     I am not a king    though its true    I own the sky    and the clothes on my back    that kept me warm for the duration of winter    so let it be spring    for months I’ve been a bulb in the basement    now plant and water me    somebody please    drench me with light and heat    then watch me grow strong and violet    you may eat me too    you might like my bitter taste    yes I own the sky    it was cheap to buy    so take it if you like    I’ll give it to you    for a smile    you can keep in your eyes    whenever you please

inconsolable sky    soaks dry roots    and bulbs    cats and dogs    boots and frogs    rain-rain    bless thy inclement name

smiles play leapfrog    across the plain brown wrapper    umbrellas leave likenesses    in the shade of an obsolete god    before scattering across a void space    imported from China    where wise men grow on trees    one sometimes wonders    who is capable of murder?    we all are    friend    but before you end up locked in a pen    charged with guilty pleasure    allow me to spin a web    lure you in    and eat your aura     with my mortal portal    silence has descended    wearing a see-through negligee    I show her my    dowsing rod    but I cannot divine her words     her presence is obliterated      by the hiss of catfish fragrantly frying in a kitchen    on the opposite side of the abyss    I write suicide notes on leaves    and scatter these in countless quantities    my feet call long distance from a suburb    of the mind we all have in common    wondering why summersaults failed    to raise the dead language    of bodies meeting on a higher plane    remember when you ate a hole    in the fabric of time?    they called your corpse    exquisite    and you were counted    among the unsung heroes    with rings on your fingers    and bells on your status quo    it’s an old trick this nailing of stereotypes    to the hoodwinks of talking turtles    the day before yesterday has come    and may return again    as an unsteady view    from a window ledge    catching snowflakes on my tongue   it is snowing someplace on earth    unless you say isn’t    I’ll believe anything    especially that which is genetically inscribed    on the underside of a bottom dweller    yesterday on my way to the May Day parade    I saw a black hole    sucking raw meat    out of a crab nebula    I was gliding through the Milky Way    listening to cosmic background static    someplace in the middle of a lost civilization    I gave birth to a vision    that everyone mistook for my alter ego   hey they said    aren’t you half the man you used to be    before sad Sue baked your soul    into the devil’s food cake?    before I was half I was drawn and quartered eight times    count them    the first was in Manhattan in a restaurant     where my bowl of alphabet soup spelled igloo mannequin barnacle    and almost     but not quite     Louise    the second time I must have had nettles in my pillowcase    because the tooth fairy forgot    to leave my tuppence    so much the better luck next time flies in the house of rising tides

I was going to walk    but it started to rain    I was going to call    but I forgot her name    I was almost there    but I had to turn back    I should have been cured    but the witch was a quack    I was going to wait    but something came up    I got lost in the grounds    of a bottomless cup    I was going to leave the waiter a tip    I had nothing small    so I left him a ship    in a bottle    I had built while waiting    for my food to arrive    I was going to drive    but decided to walk

spring rings the doorbell    I say let’s see some I.D.    she blows me    a kiss    I say no    maybe    yes    we toss the ashes of Wednesday to the wind    under a sun no one has seen    for what seems like    forever    crocuses poke-up purple and yellow    downhill old snow flows    back to the river    where the voices of blind men    fall on deaf ears

truth hears me speak    and laughs aloud    I can’t see a thing    my eyes are filled    with the pandemonium of spring    I greet each morning cheerfully    but only in theory    daylight opens the door    but I can’t leave    the house of breath    ask me to throw a stone at the sun    I’ll gladly get the job done   but don’t believe    more than half of my lies    I am alive but old    young but dead    seeds awaken in the darkness    of my lungs    when I water the garden    in the house of breath    nights are long when the upstairs neighbor    walks on the teeth    of a grinning piano    so much time until the moon    calls back to the wolves    it is quiet there    in the faceless mirror    hanging on the wall    in the house of breath    I ate the pie    but I saved you a slice    I enjoyed my stay in Siberia    the weather was nice    at last I am making peace    with the demons of my past    we’re locked up together     in the house of breath

why not begin the day    with katydids    intoning the music    of a mist shrouded vista?    recollections come and go    elusive as fish in a flowing stream    at times they surface    in new forms    and elaborations    my head embedded    on your pillowcase stain     my sweet coma ebbs    down the silky drain     elbow mountain    coughing wall    overcoat aroma    footfalls on hardwood    wake me    weasel under ether     yellow spider walks out    from under the charmless chair

it doesn’t get better than this    but I’d rather be flying    a butterfly riding a gust of wind    landing on a rhino’s nose    or a lion lying empty-minded    stomach full    with burrs in his mane    it doesn’t get better than this    but I’d rather be playing my banjo    with a band of bandits    in an abandoned banquet hall    or straying outside the compound wall    fleeing through poplars    in dappled light

my first home    was in thin air    where birds fly    and angels never die    I cried    mama!    some epochs elapsed    presently I find myself here    porched on a swing    sipping after dinner coffee    in the company of birds    singing in the steeping tea of evening    my body could be called    temple    or dungeon    it doesn’t matter    I don’t own it    I only live here    a squatter    trying to keep up appearances    so others will assume    I’m one of them

layers of days    prayers and plays    toast and eggs    when the hen lays    the shoulder decays    like the edge of today     the ache in my heart    was there at the start    the starry inception    when morning broke    and the newspaper    landed in the rose bush    like an unfunny joke    on me     afternoon heat    piles up in a heap    a mountain I must climb    to find the other side    where darkness resides    my feet are tired    from slapping the road    if I look unhappy    it’s just that my load    is more than enough  to stagger an ox    it’s all in your head    you’ll probably say    but it’s not just me    the sky too is turning gray    if rain should wash the sweat     from my brow    I will turn and take a bow    before leaving    with my burden    of love    and its inclement pain    remember me for what I was not    cool under fire    in winter besotted    with early darkness    and frost-bitten thoughts    never lost in the headlights    of oncoming life    poorly concealed in my disguise    eyes in the back of my    cabbage head    when was I born?    the age of lead

a garden variety handshake    reveals a sliver of truth    to the tooth fairy    who cooks her own goose    in a juice of quick lemons    and nimble berries     and reasons    since yesterday brought out    the best in today’s liquid troposphere    she ought not be averse    to loopholes    in the sky road    of her morning    outside    tree toads lick envelopes    in the office of the moon’s    ambassador to wisteria    who always eats on the run    her complexion resembles  pale alabaster    she weaves her fingers in her lap    and counts waves    on black sand beaches    she has almost reached the limit    of rational numbers    but will keep counting    until sunrise tomorrow    and then divide by four    she’s doing this for the amusement of porpoises    if the shoe fits    the tooth fairy  should wear it    you’ll find her    wherever the days    go on and on    nights are forever long    where the ears on the walls    hear the buzz of the razor    as you shave your beard    of bees

summer offers no apology    for being in heat    in a room overlooking midnight    summer hums from an empty hat    summer of cellar breath    and spider webs in dank recesses    summer of blank looks at the clock    summer of tired coffee heated too long    summer coiled in a snail’s shell    summer of thunderstorms roiling over mown lawns    the moon tonight spills milky light    on the turf next door    it is the Sea of Tranquility's reflected glow    a moon calf is what I seem to be    listening to the ohm of my throbbing blood pump    synchronized with crickets    as summer unravels    from the omphalos of Kronos    an imperceptible beam    spreads a wake of glowing heat    night shrouds the green fire of midday    in a cloud of luminous ink    I hear a telephone ringing faintly    somewhere outside this chrysalis    I think someone else's thoughts    leave someone else's fingerprints    on the bathroom mirror    alone because no one is here    except an exact replica of the man I was    ten minutes ago    summer of house paint on cutoffs    summer of homemade lemonade from the super store    summer of envelopes full of nothing    but money and time    I dig a hole in the mosquito moment    and throw dirt on a clean page    of delayed gratification    summer of day lilies full of night rain    summer of unhurried pleasures    untold lies    cries of blackbirds baked in pies    summer spilling over levees    leaving night dew    on the shoes at the foot of the ladder    that leans against the window    in a birdhouse    inhabited by a titmouse    summer scrapes against the quiet    on the edge of my slumber    summer of dazzling dullness     incomplete moments adding up to another summer    crossed off the calendar    of trajectory and incident

morning is buttered toast    for butterflies    and wrens    is mostly delicious    to the snake in the grass    fast asleep    warmed by the sun    there’s blueberry pie    cooling on the stoop    sniffed by a moose     who loses his way    crossing the road    and strays into vines    daffodils trumpet    the tune of today    into the ears of bees    slugs and centipedes    crawl under leaves    the moon fades yonder    a twinkling star disappears into brightness    a cricket relaxes after a long night    on repeat    and ponders his chances    for another shot    at cricket love    in a patch of weeds

turkeys curtsy    slow owls bow    pigeons covet dovecots    crows work the crowd    mute swans push and shove    vulture culture is ancient and proud 

switch on the darkness    dial up the black    of your irises    turn the hands of grandfather clock    back to the start of now    eat the exhalations of silver birches    with nostrils open to their scant perfume    drink the tears of just desserts    without forgetting to applaud the resulting    atmospheric turbulence    if it rains tonight    hold a lighter up    to your overcast mood    and listen    rain is laughter    purified by lust    if it floods your root cellar    remember     there is only one wholly unknown    enter the river unbound    swim in thin liquid sound    turn blankets into volcanos    climb the stairs that lead    into waves breaking    on a beach where the sand    is dimpled by the footprints    of clear sailors    stepping out of the waves

body of water    head of steam    stomach of lead    Paris spleen    mouth of a river    tongue of a shoe    heel of Achilles    cock-a-doodle-do    back in a minute    knuckles of brass    shoulders of highways    jaw of glass    navel orange    hips of rose    balls of fire    heart of stone    legs of tables    arms of chairs    feet of clay    breadth of hair    lungs of iron    eyes of needles    nose of a dive    neck of a bottle    face of a clock    teeth of a saw    ears of corn    chest of drawers    bones of contention    hand on loan    blood of a hound    mind of its own

forget me    not    or this bliss called summer    gravitas goy    ahoy!    joyful gnome-body    alone with a box    of little chocolate schoolboys    no I don’t need much    I’m in a rented room    with strong tea and old news    nothing to do but listen    to the rainy rhapsody in the key of usual un    dear tomorrow    may I steal your wheelbarrow?    may I sway in your breezeway?    may I mimic your sky blue yonder mood?    may I cling to the peaches    that hang from the branches    that reach for the sky?    may I lie inside    your creature comforts?    my side yard    is hard to locate    in a crepuscular wash of indigo    horizon edged    with orange peel and pink

tomorrow I will speak    in a voice borrowed from dust     today I listen but what do I hear?    here and there a bird twitters in the twilight    a scrap of wind rustles the leaves    leave me alone    the phone intones from the bottom    of the hollow tree    I call home    where I left my voice    which is nothing but darkly colored air    and is no wiser    than the groan of floor boards speaking    the weight of presence and absence    or the roar of a whisper left out in the rain    the sun has a voice    I hear its yellow hum in the heat    of green desire    the voices of the dead never speak    when I listen    all I hear is the indistinct mumble of a distant jet     or a disembodied voice    calling out the name of a lost pet    the clash of thunder falls    from the wet urgency    of lightening rending the sky    in July    my own is the voice of my father’s and mother’s    mixed with the color of my grandmother’s eyes    and brings forth the shape of words    spoken through a tube of sound    across the portal of my mouth    into the damp cave of an ear    on the edge of unconsciousness    the ear of one    who takes my utterances at face value    rolls them in the bowl of a cupped hand    holds them up to the light    taps them with a fingernail    and then leaves them in a pile    next to an empty chair

I dip my fingers    into the forehead    of my reflection    in still water    and feel the icy touch    of my opposite

ripped open rock    struck with steel light    my head rings    cat gut strings    high-pitched Heifetz Bach    butters the orange afternoon     feathered sounds piled to the moon    laughing river of green    bottled and flung overboard    hill of eyes blinks and stares    my head rings    phone call from Manhattan    my hat on the table trembles    closed fist slams dark the door    I am wading from the Amazon shore     manatees and capybaras      drink my leafy lullaby    trees in late August     sink into deepening shades of green    my head rings    an angel arrested in flesh    hacks to bits a Stradivarius    a sound like a sparrow    singing in my fist

once    not so long ago    him    Mr. Cleanyear    ordinary in every way    armed each sleeve    at dawn    carried pink palms    in pants pockets all day    always the same    aperture setting    he was ever so slightly    the man next door    one afternoon of dandelions    I saw him    Mr. Cleanyear walking    a two-headed dog 

to you    who gave me    life    I offer this song    out of tune    but hummable    to you whose voice is deeper than undetectable undercurrents    I humble in silence    to you who showers me    in light and rain    I tender my tongue    so that you can taste the sun    buttered yellow    on heaven’s fresh free bread     to you who holds    the great aching secret    I give my eyes    so you can see the blood    flowing down the drain    of the sky    I don’t know why it is beautiful    to you who enables me    to spend an undistinguished hour     cowering from a rain shower   in a shopping mall    I submit the remains    of my ego for you to swallow    like an oyster on the half-shell    to you who gave me daily grind    I make an offering of my hunger    for things that I cannot find    in the closet of lost time

let me give you    this unique antique antler    to hang your universe on

the dark blue flesh    of god’s own child    deepens the already inky hue    of an infinitely humid night     as the blue human strolls    down the middle of the street    casually unaware    of the yellow and crimson flames    leaping around    his skintight flower petal    bell-bottomed feet    half asleep    half on fire    surrounded by burning moths    we smile and nod slightly    each to the other    as we pass on opposite paths

every once in a birdsong    silence flowers notes    of broken light    around the fish path    we follow trees     up to cloudscapes    and dive into a lake mirror    rinsing our sins     we lie on our stomachs    hands propping chins    listening    a whippoorwill on the hillside cries    the virgin forest sighs 

speak to me o lady    Our Lady of the Lake    take me in a shady hour     to someplace slightly farther from    the surface of the sun    a place where the flowers    on your dress    sway in breezes    gentle as the caress     of your lashes on my chest    flower petals swirl up and fly away    in a storm of sighs    speak to me    of the day before I was born to die    when the world didn’t yet exist    speak to me of particle physics    and lunar eclipses     using paraphrases in parentheses     tell me of days in the folds    of your flowering kimono    o lady    tell me as you lie    beneath the night sky    so cloudy with milk    spilled in an infinite spiral

I’m home Uncle Henry!    Auntie Em!    I’m back    from lack    here for more   clear from Borneo    by way of the Jersey shore    I traveled nonstop from Colorado    in a convertible Eldorado     with an old guy named Lombardo    I’m ready to begin again    to my chagrin    someone tell Penelope    I’ve blown in on the wind    empty handed true    but I’ve landed safely    on two shoddy shoes    skinned knees and stubbed toes    but not six feet below    as assumed by some    dear don’t believe what you hear    it’s a smear campaign against someone with my name     I’m just an up-late bloomer    bent and slightly dented    but none the worse    unshaven I’ve defaced the facts    and I admit    I’m ready to submit    to the consequences    of the paranormal evidence    against me    I have nothing to declare    and less to defend    so I plead insanity    what else can the only sane one do?    maybe it’s true    I fled the landscape     painted by you    but not because I was afraid of God no more    just worn-out from the unabridged    Sturm und Drang    of my emotional chores    someone punch me    in the butterfly    it doesn’t matter    what I feel    only what I think about feeling    your tongue    touching my    whispered annunciation

one sunny Monday    in the leap year of the tiger    under the mumbled spell    of sea surge and heat waves    I stole wind from seagulls    and sold it to sleep-deprived house wives    an act that was inexcusable    but sublime    now I must pay for this ungracious crime    by spoon feeding    amnesia    to obnoxious octopi    while listening to    polite laughter amplified

dawn walks on water    carved by wind    and chases away    the moon’s grin    touching the sun    with outstretched limbs    a black oak lets escape    its armful of birds

stars fall    become pearls in the deep    totem poles rise through stratus    to let off passengers    Jesus embedded in cumulus    changes into the embryo of death    our melancholy master    the moment is male    and female    strangers unto themselves    invisible to the naked eye    calligraphic couple     form the never-ending sign     from on high    graceful liberty    dressed in tattered cirrus    ploughs acres of sky    Artimus on cumulonimbus    fires flaming arrows    at innocent by-standers    I am mowing the lawn    oblivious to these goings-on

after the voices stop    you’re left without words    language is replaced by things    objects instead of ideas    a watermelon full of slushy red pulp and slippery seeds    has now replaced an echo chamber    trifles and clichés    ill-conceived explanations    insubstantial delusions     pronunciation cringes    nuance muddles     shards of sharp exchanges    broken glass pronouncements    sticky insinuations    gladiolas in a blue vase    an envelope torn open    a squeezed tea bag    perched on a spoon    things instead of mindsets    a dining table    in red cherry    twilight taps the window    with a golden beam    birds in unison    bid adieu    to this consummate summer day    born in glory    even  as I lay unconscious    of melons plums dish-towel calendar toothpaste radiator    cool to the touch    no more concepts    just an empty stained mug    the coffee wasn’t bad    forgive me but I killed it    its wafted scent sent    upstairs on a heated updraft     my incessant urges gave way    to a moment of steam and acceptance     it was not the best    or worst    or most memorable    caffeine fix ever    but on the cutting edge of time    it seemed like the only way it could be    so went the day    good doctor    redemption may yet ring the doorbell    the watermelon waits to be eaten

tonight yellow knows too much    butter has yielded    to the touch of August    walls are already things of the past    having worn out their welcome at last    a cloud of steam waits    outside the open door    the street has fallen asleep    on the ocean floor    tomatoes eavesdrop from the windowsill    their understanding of red    comes from firsthand experience    the sponge remembers what the sink forgot    the window curtain was deconstructed by moths    no one knows where the chairs go    on their nights off     the tea towel listens to ragtime    the oven has developed an appreciation for Beethoven    nothing pleases the mousetrap    tonight crickets and raindrops    are music enough for    the basketball    left on the lawn

this is my place    perched on a slender limb in dusk light    whistling an atonal hymn    this is my place    between stacks of library books    looking for amour    in the middle of summer    this is my place    in the circle of blue    voice buried in the toe of my shoe    this is my place    eating the sky from a plate of water    drinking July    with the mouth of my daughter    this is my place    running into the cool lake    waking my skin from the dead    this is my place    pillow under my half-moon face    tracing the shape of her sleeping landscape    this is my place    on a gust of wind    blowing dust off the needle    that pierces the song of the orange girl 

it’s so fine inside my blue cave    when I can’t find a pencil    I take a sip of wine    post deluge water drips excessively     drowning my voice    but as usual I’m speechless    birds live out there in the trees    heard but unseen    in blue-green twilight    the flowers have wilted slightly    and my throat    a touch sore    wine rolls down    crimson on crimson    warm on warm    gravity is having its way with the color    in the naked snaking pale violet petunias    dying in a glazed black vase    where my reflected visage isn’t difficult to discern    an artist might choose to paint me there    sipping some vin ordinaire    in growing dim    or not    bloody good blue    this cave    alive with petroglyphs    of past lives    haunt of temporary solitude    surely rain lacks hue    then why so blue?    because I paint it the color    that chooses me    so no rain at all    but tears    falling inside    illuminating the gloom    outside the ring of my incandescence    darkness lingers in the doorway    night holds the secret    of my undoing    in the same abyss    that swallows the blinding yellow chrysanthemum    I don’t know    much of anything new    but no sky has ever been    a truer blue    I’m not sick    I’m better    but not than ever

before you know it    tomorrow will tap you on the shoulder    but not until today dissolves    like a sky-mirroring puddle    that becomes the cloud it reflects    on the street where you live    alone    with your orbiting thoughts    in a room surrounded    by stridulating crickets    a late August soundtrack to the movie of what you behold    now that you are beholden no more    in this distant night on the gluttonous    starving globe    before blue became    the prevailing hue   blue like the voice from the basement that ate the silence    from the tip of your shoe    before you know it    the candle will blow itself out    the puddle will ripple the sky    on the street where you live    in a rented room decorated    with pools of lamplight    and spools of time unwinding    crickets fill the soundscape    left by rain that has ended    a poignant lullaby    that fireflies amend    with encoded messages     just for you    to interpret    as you as you listen    to the dripping    chirping sigh of a late August night    from the low perch    of your front stoop

all evening    I have been crossing out words    drawing lines through    unthinkable thoughts    I’ve been looking into darkness    but I cannot find my voice    this plight always ages me    in an instant that lasts a lifetime    I follow the lines on the palm    of my right hand    rain clouds gather on a map of dreams    sleep calls me by my other name    my stomach aches    from candy-coated alabis    tonight I will wring the sweat out of a thesaurus    steal the essence of a pencil    and attempt to describe tenebrous confabulations    at the stroke of the pen    I will ease myself out of skin and skeleton    and dance in the dusty wind     I will idle in the outskirts    of heaven in a black sedan    if I find an angel's fallen feather    I will dip it into the well    of my heart and trace a picture    that maybe bees will appreciate

sparkle dreary    bright sadness    your dressing gown    is adorned with wings    that waft the scent of your    perfume    eyes    burdened with teardrops    let them flow    all the way to joy    let me enter your orbit    and share with you    the shape of a flame    lose my mind    in the song of your name    I’ve been wearing the day    inside out    pockets full of hands    sockets full of eyes    inwardly gazing    from the middle of eternity    leave me under your pillow    press me into your dimple    keep me like a secret    in locks of hair    let the day be alive    with the buzz of bees    let me see you    upside down and backward    in the mirror of a polished shoe    shimmer dismally    in the morning sun    your sorrow tastes    like a dried tear    the sapphire shine in your emerald eyes    inflates my ego delightfully    I float to the ceiling like a helium balloon    lend me your gravity    let’s descend the stairs    and exit into a day    such as no silk slipper    has ever slipped into    a cloud gallery    of open space    where sunlight glares my sidewalk stare

she gazes unsuspecting    of the boundary we have crossed    into real-time simultaneity    a stranger’s face    and mine   reflections overlapping    in the black window    of a subterranean train

roar of disappearing sun    tornado yet to come    calm and quiet the sky    in her cradle of water    lies awake    as day dissolves    embers of moonlight    in the ink-black lake    restless noises overlap and repeat    strident cadences    scratch the surface of night’s    smudged blackboard    this is the season when out of trees   tumbling pine cones and acorns    rebound against branches     the ground is littered    with fallen things    jet planes    baby birds    heads of kings    tonight my vision is impaired    by the existence of a black hole    at the back of my tongue    I love everything    but virtuous as that may sound    my words are alphabet soup    floating in a bowl of darkness    between trunks and limbs    in the forest of glowing eyes     the thunder of my heart    is drown-out by a rising    non-human chorus

arrange these words    into a panorama of weeds    flowering in a profusion of dull green    as late daylight glows    on a tattered billboard    SPACE AVAILABLE    it proclaims to no one    and me    in the blink of a drive-by    September twilight

I have been around the world    seldom stopping    rarely resting    a bullet always    in my breast pocket    now I've reached the end of the day    the dome of evening    fills a cloudless sky    fills the room where I lie    in my own swath of darkness    deeper than the oceans I’ve traversed    and the caves beneath troubled seas    in darkness deeper than these    I have seen flowers on Main Street    in the capital of Pain    and phantom limbs    and flame bouquets    along with the usual    rags and filthy feet    I have crossed the boundary    between repulsion and lust    been ejected for questioning the doctrine    of someone I couldn’t trust    heard the curses that follow my name    I have swayed with the statue of nudity    my pockets full of gravity    and cookie crumbs    night has returned bringing familiar songs    from long ago and faraway    maudlin melodies    for rainy afternoons in rented rooms    soon I will leave Pain behind    and carry in my trench coat    a starry night    but first I’ll linger over coffee    and sip the lip of bitter bliss    truth is eating me alive    my bones rattle in their leather bag     contents valued only by ravens and crows    rulers of the roadsides    disbelief cannot hold    before the presence of this reverse apotheosis    trust has been my protection    as I remove the scorpions from my shoes    in the gloom of a laborer's dawn    for pleasure on weekends I seek the thrill    of chasing geese and swans    onto the neighbor’s lawn    my face    cradled in the basket of my hands    is negative space on a screen    of tangled visions    my hands have held the razor of indecision    feet    yet my best means of escape    my teeth are yellowed ivories    worn from chewing on mortality    words waver on the surface    of my tongue    slipping from my reluctance    to whisper helpful instructions    to fallen nuns    I have gripped    the leaking river of time    delivered flowers to the underworld    touched the bright flame of prayer    fed my hunger to the sun   I have watched mountains of water     rise and fall    into the mirror where reflections    cannot pass    what is it I’ve pursued    through biblical blizzards    and tropical depressions?    what motivates my gross motor to keep running?    I do as I’m told    by my reminding voice    dream in the day    work in the dark    wake with the sun    eat and grow    moment by moment    older    I am goaded to continue    endure    resume    remain    days pass and fade    most assume roughly    the shape of the one before    I bore an invisible     channel through colorless    tasteless air    unformed thoughts pause    before my obstructed view    of what lies ahead 

rain lifts my spirit    after a drought    especially when mud folds around my boot soles     and my footprints fill with rain water    puddle-hopping footsteps    quick and sure of a new direction    across the great plains    dodging cyclones    and threshers    I live for the moment and work in silence    through the window thrown open    I immerse myself in the breadth of the deluge    touch my lungs to the sweet freshness of the    pause    in the downpour    and breathe the breath of trees    in the deep green of early fall    from the concentrated shade of the foliage wall    I hear the whispering of leaves    in the fury of my calm labor    of being alive    I step through the door    to the outside    into a world wet and pure    as the sun breaks through a crack    in the cloud mass    I am blinded    in a world made of music    that some might mistake for noise    birds trilling    underlying song of roots    veins    fissures    currents of air    music in the rising and diminishing sound    of motorized motion on highways    far away    music of the wind blowing in    from another time    another place    thirst music    birth music    the barely discernible all-encompassing hum     of everything everywhere    all at once    in reply I sing    for no one’s ears    but color hears my sorrows    and spreads open for my eyes    at the start of day

here’s the thing    all escapes me now    the shape she took in my sleep    the deep understanding    that shook dirt from my roots    the well into which I fell    or did I leap?    the vast riches    which turned out to be    a pile of broken bricks    the palace    an abandoned playground at dusk

as trees along the road-snake    turn into elephant-legs    I abort the radio song    with a precise poke    of my index finger    still a long weary yawn to go    soaring down    the mountain road    on Elephant Leg Lane there’s a house    with a blind driveway    a satellite dish     and a pair of overturned trash cans    empty yes    but no    full of putrefaction     unnoticed I pass mute homes    where dads make sandwiches    and moms scold    the oldest from sleep    I care less    than a teapot’s opposite    about almost everything surrounding me    but today’s dawn light    so tenderly hued    imparts luminous grace    on the bland face of Lady Slipper Place   beams of white-gold sunlight    glance across sleep-scented    pillow dents    from my lunch bag    peach perfume reaches my nostrils    I am strapped into the driver’s seat    it’s a smell I want to eat

it was when the tide    washed me up    on your doorstep    half a life ago    I arrived an hour late    the tea had grown cold    the bread in my pocket was already spent    it was when you opened the door    I closed my eyes    and night entered on silent footsteps    the crickets finished my sentences    I laughed at your joke about how nothing is funny    someone else’s life    flashed before my eyes    I drained the cup of your voice    and we divided the memory of the night    in two    it was when for now    seemed like forever    when only tomorrow never arrived

because you did everything right    I am lost without a chance    because yesterday is today tomorrow    I don't know    what I don't know    because I spent the afternoon in her room    the bees hear me hum    because the chair has arms    I drum my fingers    because I cling to life    my breath warms the sky    because the sky is liquid blue    tree shadows fall    on the wall in my hall    because the sun’s face bestows grace    the spider spins a curtain of gold    because I have only now    in which to live forever    I whirl and spiral    up and down    like a maple helicopter    on my hopeful way    to fertile footing    on forest floor    or someplace closer to town

sometimes I speak    mostly I listen    what do I hear?    what    should I say?    here and there a bird sings    so I don’t have to    an aggrieved dog barks    remarking on my behalf    a radiator clanks    or is that my heart?    a madman howls    his voice is buried    in the wall    sometimes when I’m lonely    for a storm    I call a carnivorous flower    her naked voice    gallops on the surface of sunlight    come with me emperor fool     animal logic dictates    that you must    but I am an armchair pilot    my wretched courage    is made of ostrich feathers    left in the shadowed corner    of a damp basement

night retreats from its enemy    the sunrise poet    who lunges with his pen    across a field of white    empties his pockets of loose words    arranges them in the form of an autumn morning    Friday dangles from the vine of days    cleaving through fog    in a compact car    past fields still green    past the dream on his pillow    past a truck full of hay    make a wish and look away    in the valley peaches and apples fall and ferment    nectar for drunken bees    he too is ripe and ready to be plucked    steering through eternity    certain only of uncertainty    valley pooled in mist    valley with sun breaking in    valley through which he passes    not too slow    not too fast    happy as a horn concerto    happy as an orchard hornet    sun-glassed-poet on the heels of night    places himself on a page of morning light

lead-colored sky    twilight creeps over Hartford    like a giant cockroach    I scan the sidewalk    with hungry glances    and follow my breath    down the steps    of the public library    having killed    an hour more or less    caressing titles    scanning a page or two    hiding from the ugly truth    rummaging through my empty pockets    for something to lose    I spot a hand-painted hamburger sign    whose incompetence I admire    I decide to acquire    a burger with no fries    or afterlives    did I foresee this when I swallowed    the last gulp of night    and planted my footsteps    firmly in the morning dew?    could I have imagined then    that the comet Hale Bopp would tailgate me    all the way home    from Hartford?    a streaming ball of ice    in the night sky     invisible to the naked eye    I dream instead of a dragon fly    iridescent blue in green July

wind gallops    on the empty blue road    into rusted worn-out hills    the pounding of a hammer    rings across distances    a leaf in frosty air    circles and shivers    frightened by the sight    of an airplane    flying in the pond

stand up please    rock slowly between the balls    of your feet    stand civilized    towel dried    breathe shyly    shoeless    tilt with undetectable insolence    rather sunward than erect    for chrissakes    sit down    in the row boat    with silver poets    Thursday dreaming    awaken your nerve stems     with icy winds    on Hug-Somebody-Day    be here now    a bit later    break lightly    the wind within    drag your reluctant shadow    around the millennium bend    never assume    or identify only    with your nominal marginal sanity    waiting on the dresser in a cup    balance your head on a rope    made of ashes and smoke    wet what needs wetting    wait for the year of the cock    lie    if you must    down

between now and tomorrow    vapor trails in the sky    black and orange wings    flutter by    in the glinting pond    six maple leaves float on a cloud    early this morning the sky was full    of half-moon    and whole cosmos    red leaves touch the face    in a watery mirror    noon    the cold the moon brought    breathes through trees    yesterday and every day before    sleeps veined with roots     on pillows of rock    my hands hold    a clump of old mornings    mixed with decaying afternoons    violet sky-glow    blackens limbs    framed by the window    between venetian slats    my face    reflected    merges into deepening dusk    birds in  branches exit     from my    waiting    listening    twilight-steeped    head

you may have it    the day    or what’s left of it    is yours    splashes of gold    glowing on the trunks of silver birches    deposit them into your account    at the river bank    this cacophony    tweets chirps peeps squawks and bursts    of pecking percussion   each in turn airing the solo    cup it in the whelk    of your ear    listen to it    disappear    the bleached skeletons    of ferns   swaying over a bed of green velvet moss    belong to your admiration    observing them in this late afternoon light    is an ocular vacation    the slim spaces between the trees    at the base of the hummock    where slivers of green pasture blaze    hold them in the vast vase    of your encircling arm-span    this hillside sofa    embroidered with yellow leaves    is as good a resting place    as any palace could grace    lock the blue haze of wood smoke    wending its way to your nostrils    inside your lungs for safe keeping    every spider web strung     between weeds    has a story for you    to read as best you can in deepening dim    the cool blue cat    of twilight    will follow you home    if you whisper it a song    made of steam breaths    and quick steps    through fallen leaves

lofted leaves    yellowed orange    rusted red    spin and spiral wearily down     on a weak gust of wind    the ground is carpeted    with flat wet flames

red begins the day    the sun    a blood orange    my eyes pink    as the flamingo sunrise     in the hills last night a wildfire    called October    turned green leaves    into a smokeless forest fire    crimson and canary    a sliver of crescent moon forms    partial parentheses to a sentence    of Canada geese    in my rear-view mirror    I bear witness    to the birth of today     scarlet hills    frosted fields    piebald cows    exhale huffs of steam    in my conscious foreground    you and I    tenderly-entwined like stitches    in a familiar quilt    of stop signs    parking lots    fine antiques    cemetery plots     in my driver’s seat reverie    you and I    on a mountain bed we lie    our heads reposed on pillows    of bluing sky

pieces of broken conversation    lay scattered on the floor     in the empty room    where cool air    through the open window    guides blue shadows    to their familiar moorings

in November    sunlight grows weak    and thin as prison soup    leaves tumble noisily into the gutter    to await the oblivion of snow    gray clouds flock across a field of sky    too somber    to be such a luminous hue    shadows of gnarled branches    tremble like aged hands    groping for a solid shoulder    cold has found its final destination    my skin is where it wraps itself    my bones are where it burrows    settling in like an unwelcome sibling    staking a claim on the house    we both inherited from grandfather dust

so yes or no    to tea    enough    for who    and me    when she last blew in    out of tune    out of breath    I    long-life    all-purpose    remember    lions roaring    traffic snarling    eels of unease    under my undershirt    I was just this side of hunger    swimming in a room    full of suspended belief    when she flowed through    swollen like a river    and carried me    in her swirling debris    tonight    water drops crawl down the window    I hear footsteps on the sidewalk below    melancholia    always enters    wearing the shape of rain

we walked across white    dove through blue    I carried you    to the infinite center of now    a backyard garden jungle    a red bird flies    through our conversation    I hear water talking to leaves    taste the dark blood    of a black cherry    and spit the pit    from a parapet    now we are in    Tangiers    where I have never visited    I sniff a desert thunderstorm    mixed with the whispered    aroma of charcoal braziers    wood smoke    and exhaust fumes    in Tangiers    where I have no plan to go    the angry roar of a motorcycle    dissolves into street noise    you hear my footsteps on the stairs    within your shadow    a spider dangles in mid-air    when I look    the other way    I find myself here    listening    to the distant explosion of stars    a hand shaped flame    rises from my head    soot writes on the ceiling    shapes that occupy     the same space    as the oblong eye of Horus    today is where the book opens    tonight    I’ll reach the bottom    of the page    the story begins    in the palm of my hand    where your cheek    should so neatly recline    tonight there’s still time    to re-write our history    kill the lights    and lie awake    experiencing earthquakes    and aftershocks    until each of your    thousand faces    passes through my seven minds

to turn and run    like a deer    a faucet    an engine    to ride the moment like a landslide    down a hillside    to shoot like a bullet from a gun    to leave the past undone    to see the way out at last    to depart like the tide    to hide in the back of a long black car    to take the next exit    to soar like an airplane    over envelopes    emptying rain and money    to fly like a crow    or set sail on a phantom schooner    into see-through blue    to fall like a star    or an apple    a leaf    lofted    wafting    zigzagging    on an upward gust    to roll like a wave    a mountain    a thunderclap    to cross a line    to follow a sign    a lamp shadow points the way    as a rooster crows    and dawn cracks like a smile    to wait no longer for the sea to part    to un-hesitate    to wake with a start    to dive into the moment    to send your torso down the bend in the river    to burst like a rocket on a caffeine rush    with the whole of the known universe    to explore for one hour    to brandish a branch    a burning torch    to bust open a bolder    to pierce the heart of afternoon    to drink sunlight with naked eyes    to smash an atom with a bare fist    to admonish the Grandfather clock    to beat a trail to otherwise

snail I am    shyly spiral-shelled    spinning in the spiraling Milky Way    I am a tree    my leafy boughs   brush a passing cloud   as a dragonfly blurs by    lit by brilliant light    I am the road down which I wander    even while I’m at  home    alone in a room    full of jazz and dry aromas    baked potatoes in the cooling oven    Louis Armstrong and His Hot Seven    Potato Head Blues    I am a pyramid of oranges in a bowl    on the table where I write these words    nose I am     foot    arm    aching to hold    your beating heart    hidden under skin    smelling of vanilla and salt    box of dust I am    balloon held down    by an invisible hand    I am temporarily permanent    a ghost made of atoms and sunlight    I am on my way    tired and morose    burning with a yearning    to track your scent through the woods    bird I am    rushing    remembering a song    I am slowly sinking     an ocean liner drinking night    through pores    through eyes    through my private tunnel    to God    through palms open to receive your sigh     the weight of your life    I am your personal alarm clock     your true believer    your quantum-mechanic    shrouded I am    depressed by my hand-made ugliness    my struggled mess    snow tomorrow     sleep tonight    I am snowing    dreaming I am

all over the world    snow falls    undisturbed by wind    the muteness of white enters the sleep    of every living being    alone    I stand at the center    of an infinity of tiny falling stars    allowing them to land and arrange themselves    on my head eyebrows shoulders arms    I raise my snow-heavy hat    out flies a mourning dove    the dove soars    above the snow clouds    but finds no breadcrumbs    in heaven    so it returns to the woods    as nothing    but a disembodied coo-coo-roo    a song that can be heard    from the edge of silence    behind me    snowflakes disappear    before ever being seen    I hear the distant bass thrum    of a resonant radio voice    muffled inside    the closed window of an approaching car    erasing all other sounds and silences    as it sidles up to me    and my snowflake-encrusted eyelashes    the car’s headlights silhouette the snowflakes    turning their whiteness    black    the man behind the wheel is inked by darkness    the red ember of a lit cigarette     highlights his aged profile    the passenger side window    rolls down    out spills a plume    of pale exhaled smoke     the radio voice is clicked off    rumbling silence resumes    after long seconds    a voice speaks    from the void interior    a terse whisper    “when    brother    was the last time    that you and I    swapped places?”    next moment it is me    behind the wheel    a big car on a slippery road    I click the radio on    and go

All writing and original photographs copyright John K. Norris 2022