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I don't know what to say
but If I Scream
if I scream louder
my voice comes back to me
an Echo of my former scream
but more as a jumbled symphony
of troubling images
that become steady
and real to me
and than I fear
or embrace
that the walkway
will stop
as I'm walking
and then Ill fall off
the edge




Lovage - Stroker Ace



My friend R_ once mentioned when comparing me to other intense poetic people, reminded me that I said "I wont decay."

Autumns Fields

See me at days end
plowing autumns fields
in the cast of a casket
orange-leaves
fall
I see them
landing
on my cool body
on the earth I plowed
the patterns of a graveyard
soil as fresh
and blooming autumns flowers
thrown on my chest
as days go by
in the woods
by the water
I won't decay
as autumns
fall



One of two of my only newer poems

The day I met you

The day I met you
you meandered through the aquarium
without the guise of an
hourglass ripple

and all the fish(ies)
schooled about you
as if you
or your
shadow
wasn't there

Perhaps I was a shark that day.

..

Transgression

Eyes rest temptously on the face of transgression
Hands guide a shape in the air
Her feel calves and thighs
hips rounded and
sloping in
her stomach
muscles tighten when she laughs
her lower back
two soft halves curving up
and her shoulders and her breasts
and the neck peeking out form a pre-Raphaelite dress
to a face with eyes that shame me with resolution
and a mouth I conceive to kiss




The second of my two newer poems

The lamplight stood

The lamplight stood
phasing her

I didn't know how to say
"separate yourself from the thinnest of filament"

She said "what?"
breaking the silence
and our eyes met

We jointly put an x
though the idea
of our own future children
and thought
unspoken
as to how to fight the state
for our romantic freedom

..

(He sings), "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone"

Part One

Tom Jones..., Tom Jo-nes..., please report to the birthing chamber.
Tome Jones.
Turn left

This poem requests audience participation.

(He looks up.)

(Slowly) P l e a s e C l o s e Y o u r E y e s

Turn left
turn left
turn left
turn left
turn
left

You're in a airport
The world is pretty much as you remember it
three point one dimensions
length
width
depth, or breadth

and

time

but in time you're
only moving forward
or
possibly
like an old
cracked
desiccated
dry edged
photo-still
you're
only
standing still

or moving forward

or standing still

Turn left

hence the point one
and
not three plus one
being four dimensions

as I said the world is pretty much as you remember it
except you
you
have these dreams
of form
shape
and color

In these dreams
within these
V-I-S-I-O-N-S

you
can

"see"



work with me here

The concept of sight is theoretical
it can only be best described
by
b r e a t h i n g
d e e p l y

Place your wrists together
(He demonstrates)
a meeting of your forearms
bring your hands to your neck
apply pressure
as if about to
st-r a n g l e
but not from the front
With your cool
hands
push your neck in at the sides
while breathing in
while arching your back
deeply
(make sounds of inhalation)

and
relaxing your grip and slumping forward
breathe out
all your air

now
with your hands
applying firm pressure to the sides of your neck
breathe in deeply
arching your head way
way back

and breathe out
slumping forward
relaxing your grip

hold firmly
arching back
inhale

grip relax
slumping forward
exhale

Inhale

Exhale

Inhale

Good

Now
do you see the white light
Ultramarine
Indigo rush?

Imagine your
blinking
fresh new eyes
appearing
for the first time

blue

open them briefly

you now have sight

and close them
again
good.

Hence the theory of sight

and that of time travel

Tome Jones..., Tome Jones please

d i s c e n d

PART 2

has not been written yet



She was...

She was...
Alluring Funeral
Same shade sidles
beguiles closer
Black umbrellas
pushing at the rain
lustful Red lipstick
painted above alluring lips
the skilled indulging hands
of a lifeless coffin dresser
are aged cracking?
her thirsty hair split beneath the
midnight widow black
shades
Gray and spinster
smell of peroxide
Ageless
she looks like Medusa
thirteen times a year
Black Black Black
her clothes and erotic cleavage
shows the eye stenciled
Black
tinted sensual
milk white open thighs
pushing from
untorn
filthy
wrinkled
moth eaten?
Black Sunday best dress
lipstick luscious smeared
cardinal Red
over black lung cigarette butts
crumbled in an ashtray
Stacked
over the years
unwed undead
mustn't have been
a pale corpse
dragged across the eighties
black all black
and all the same
she regrets not having children
to eat all up like an old lady
no wonder why
she scares me
..

When I originally wrote this I never dreamt that it might be a prophetic foreshadowing of my future

Blood Red

I've got blood on my hands
no, just paint
but imagine it
trickling down my arms
falling color
red expanding
painting a vast, crimson, fiery sea
and upon it
I'd drift
alone
floating under a climbing scarlet sky
the blood hot ruby sun
burning
bleeding through a tepid breeze
descending
to land
lightly
upon me



Dissension

You think your rising
but dissention speaks volumes
in the tremor of the cable
through the walls,
the floor,
and speaker
sings
in strings
The Girl From Ipanema,
suggesting at
DOWN
As your eyes followed it high,
the building had called you from a distance,
attracting with its solitary and grace,
as it stood in hue
like a figure
against the blue sky
of a Max Ernst painting,
and along the way your car had died
in a cruel neighborhood.
You had been beaten, robbed, raped, maimed, chased by the convict cops.
They would have beaten you some more before not taking you downtown for questioning,
instead you’d be suckered away to the shores of some east river,
to a field where cars pass
sounds, in distance,
and the grimy waters wash debris and sewerage
upon the shore,
accompanied by the coldness
of execution



and a bullet in your head.
The city begged
for your best suit of clothes,
now in tatters,
somehow elegant brown warm wool
that fell against your body
like wind billowing silken standard
and a white linen shirt
vogue in the absence of collar
and neck tied diversion.
Costumed you appear as you had so many years ago --
Your first art opening:
the one where you held turpentine in your breast pocket like a flask,
and the echo of your heartbeat
you saw as
ripples
entombed within
that cold and pleasant womb,
the bottle kept like a childhood secret. --
The night you stole away
to the restroom stall
pouring turpentine like whisky over ice
to drink burning,
wide,
painful
gulps,
lest you see your life unravel
as the past
so many
others had.
You had died again
in-evening,
but immortality speaks to you in volumes you cannot explain
to the cast,
illusion,
derision, and
likeness of others.
But beneath this building,
you found your way to this LL,
this gray garage,
empty and
elevator doors slide aside
at your approach.
You enter,
and aiming high,
press the two-hundred and seventh floor,
but as the button remains lit
but as I say,
once again,
you descend.
Floor minus one,
minus seven,
minus nine
EQUALS = X,
being what you are.
You have since forgotten your
fame,
sex,
your birth,
and name.
The car is sliding down.
Moses descends
In cheap attempts at intrinsic
self knowledge
as a tree ungrowing
you deconstruct your early lineage:
Noah
Lamech,
Methuselah,
Enoc,
Jared,
Mahalaleel,
Canan,
Enos,
Seth,
Able,
Cain,
Until
Eve and Adam fall to mind, and
with an unearthly jolt,
You imagine
The Universe collapsing in upon itself:
into a Post-Pre-Big Bang enclosure.
Is this the past?
The future?
No matter.
When time meets itself.
With a chime,
as this wandering compartment
glide-halts
premature.
and the doors like the sea parting:
level minus twenty-seven-teen --
you now walk upon
The Floor of Whores
 
Yes a little bit of a harsh last sentence, but really felt it at the time. I think I long for a world beyond this one where I feel more at home.




The Evil Man

You are a house.
You are a guard.
You are a child.
You’re house is amazing:
Rooms of books
experiments
epiphanies
intrinsic understanding
rooms and rooms
and windows and windows
of grand views.
An attic where history exists
Your child runs free throughout the house
She skips,
she runs
she both ignores and takes comfort in the
experiments
epiphanies
intrinsic understanding
rooms and rooms
and windows and windows
of grand views
with an attic where history exists
and a basement where physics is generated and pushed by enormous fans like heat into the rooms.
she skips
she runs
she falls
she cries
and the guard comes.
The Guard:
is savvy
is tough
she mothers,
she nurtures
she watches
worries
keeps the house clean
keeps the child safe
One day the child is running outside in a field of weed and poppy, and she stops



with wonder as a handsome, powerful man walks up the garden path. He looks to her knowingly, with desire. The child respects the man and holds her head steady as the man holds her chin between his rough thumb and forefinger. He kisses her tenderly on the forehead. The guard looks out the window and the man looks to her contemptuously and gives the child a mighty slap with the back of his other hand.
The child goes tumbling down.
The guard runs to her rescue.
The man vows his return.
The woman no longer lets the child in the front yard. She gets lost in the back, so she sends her to her room. Eventually as the man continues to return she must remain in her room while the guard and the man fuck. Eventually the guard begins enjoying this unhealthy arrangement, she begins resenting the child, she begins using the house for herself. She forgets her place. Eventually the child consigned to a small corner, squeezes through a small round window and runs off free into the woods. Now the guard and the man exploit the house and the child finds a new home, and when she falls and feels new pain, she summons a guard, and drawn to the guard comes the evil man, and the child is born again, and again, running away from the unnatural ugliness.




Rain, he writes, is both the trial and forgiveness..

It lasts the day to humble her,
sprinkles tiny daggers
to wet her hair
and enliven her skin.
In moisture,
her knees ache,
but thighs spread apart in innocence,
guard drawn down with shock.
Her eyes squint through the cold drops on her glasses,
but she removes them seeing the blur of the world
as the grays  of an impressionist painting,
drops bend the stem of a flower,
drops wake the earth, ground,
mud through her toes,
feet running off into madness.
Nature is thus.

..

Dreaming

Light
On
A
Girl
Stand
ing
A
lone
W
h
i
l
e
Dreaming



And one poem too many

Close your eyes and

imagine here
a track
and a relay race
and your very youth
is the baton being passed
Your great grandmother runs
like the wind
as fast as she can
at the beginning
graceful long strides
rounding the stretch
and in great pain
she births the banner
cedes it
to your grandmother
who with a strong
head start
now runs like hell
entrust it
to your mother
who blooms
in flounce
in stride
she bursts
unto this world
as grace
a burst enlightened
enlivened in fervent motion
arized light
arized youth
enflowered
heightened
enhightened
god
oh god
that’s where she’s
fucked
and
while collapsing
in stride
but in pain
holding her side
You mother runs
runs
runs
entired
enspent
enspelled
enstumbled
and with an unholy cheer
she bestows the baton unto yourself
as plunging bloody
face first in gravel
and with your fresh young
hard and
sexy thighs
You’re running




running
gasping
running
striding
hard
Your maternal line stands
cheering you on
go!
go!
trade!
trade!
Relent!
Relinquish!
Pass it on!
This is where a kind of runners high
kicks in
You have this dream
this vision
actually it’s a short story outline of mine
where your youth is a little girl
in a pink dress
running, playing, laughing
in this large and empty house
one day she falls down
bruising
deeply
her fresh young thigh
and a woman
her visionary mother
is born to protect her
to comfort her
Another day the girl is playing out front
when this man comes down the road
she had never seen a man before
so she’s naturally intrigued
Stopping she
cocks her head
peering up
with a hint of awe
at this tower of strength
His rough hand
cups her chin between his fingers
he looks into her eyes
cradles her softness
and the back of her neck
and with one swift stroke
he slaps her hard
across the face
sending her tumbling
across the road
So your
this little girl’s
the visionary mother
runs out to protect
her visionary daughter
The mother and man
make a deal
he’ll keep coming back
and as long as she sleeps with him
he’ll ignore you
the little girl
Eventually it turns out that the mother
begins to enjoy this sex




this arrangement
locking her in a pink room
this hapless running
and before she dies
before the little girl
withers within this empty house
she must pull open a window
painted shut
and escape
or be born again
you’re running
running
you’re running
births the dream
of a sweaty man
pushing into your weary thighs
Delirious
you weaken
in fear
a vision
a fresh young fem
a safe
strong young tight legs
a manifestation
your daughter waits
hand extended
for a gift
for your only meaningful prize
Youth is a capitalist plot
like buying a new car every three years
You know how much an average child will cost
raised from birth to adult?
A cold million.
As your mother
grand mother
and great grandmother
scrub their knuckles bare
supporting the child that you carry
and pull in the effort
for you to
to pass it on
 

& another...

Pass me a banana,

Apples are costing a dollar (each) a day
& banana’s are a dollar-sixty a bunch
so pass me Another banana,
it’s bananas! bananas! bananas!
bananas...
please
kindly hand me another
yellow
banana
keeps the doctor away

I hope...