Friday, May 3, 2013

This is Not a Poem

I had that recurring dream again last night;
the one where I find myself in the dimlit
streets of some seedy, shadowy metropolis,
where unremarkable phantoms float past
on bike, and on foot, looking on in passing
as if they know me, as if I've been there.

Only this time it was different. I knew it.
Never were the streets so dark, shadows
so long that they smothered the city blocks.
Two girls rode past on bike, staring back
momentarily with hollow eyes, faces
expressionless as they drifted onward.

 And this time I felt different. I recalled
the scene to come, as I began walking
down a long, empty avenue. No cars.
No lights. Just alleyways on either side
stretching into infinity. I'd seen it before.

And so I began to run. I felt labored
breaths and the pound of my heart rate.
I could feel the cold night air and smell
the stale city musk surround my body.
And as I knew they would, out came
the muggers who had repeatedly caught
me unaware in my thoughtless reverie.

But I was prepared. The phantoms
chased me down, as they had a hundred
nights before. But my feet ran some
path they already knew and I leapt over
a low wall, escaping my pursuers,
landing on the lawn of a house.
It was Her house. My approach
was measured, slow, hesitant.
But I felt a certain calmness knowing
that She was there, inside, and so I knocked.

J. answered and I stuttered out three words,
then three more, and I cried because the welling
of emotion took over, within and without the dream.
She kissed me. I kissed her back. I felt complete.

And then I woke up into the pressing night,
stared at my cell phone, the time reading 3:14.
Loneliness crept in. The poorly mended heart
ripped jagged, jagged, jagged.

I want to tell Her. I can't. She won't accept it.

Do not dream. 

Friday, November 30, 2012

Big Eyes

Not big alone. Not by a longshot.
Limitless depth that I would stare
down for an epoch, unto infinity.
Wrap me in yeux until there's no me.

You probably thought me crazy
the time I recorded you, silent,
with some haunting, melodic hum
in the the background and blazing
white sunlight pouring from the
cracked drapes behind, limning
an angel apropos. You smirked devilishly.

There won't be words written against
you. I couldn't. I can not.
Requiems and eulogies alone suffice.
But they offer no solace.
I'm bitter, worn, tired.

Eyes in which I might have incubated,
been reborn--eyes big and deep
enough for such things--are not
looking at me with hunger, ready
to swallow my entirety.

I can't even delete phone pics,
toss out clothes you left,
and I stare at the same bloody
wall with discontinuous pain.
What good are substitutes?
How could Her eyes ever deign
to see what your orbs keenly reveal?

This is no pity party before dawn
and after dusk, when I should be
parlaying with the relentless
cousin of Death:

It's a celebration that you even looked.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

To Helen Cameron, October 2012

Dancing, vociferating,
demagoguing, boasting,
hosting, toasting,
oscillating wildly,
leading, following,
fighting, showing,
proving, domineering,
warring, quitting,
are not my nature.


I've not a stitch to wear
as I stare madly into
irises of palling teal.

Praising what I see,
feeling where others fail,
fantasizing over
us comingling--
a sweaty, passionate,
versicolor coitus;
making that fecund
gaze and those obscene
pink lips more than
passing niceties, instead
reserved for some late,
intense evening when
I recall the things I
actually do so well.

And then, perhaps,
my nature blooms from
latent potential.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Speak Low

We are
two ships

I pray
to find
the waves

the rocks.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Embrace of the Sea

Relationships change you like a river.
Rivulets, springs, and streams pour into melt
and headwaters rush onward through obstacles.
Things upstream build the meandering course
as it flows through craggy valleys and caverns
where the passing time is lost in darkness.
At times waters still, placid or stagnant,
while just beyond a bend rapids roil reckless,
unchecked, carrying flotsam from the past.
Debris, deadwood, trash, dirt, refuse and tears
are born from glacial headwaters down, down.
But for all the waterfalls and white water
the river knows nothing of its destination.

Only when it reaches the wide embrace
of the salty sea is it complete,
able to disperse into one at last.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Fat Ones, Skinny Ones

I want to
know you intimately
smell your fragrance
strip off your jacket
expose your physique
stroke your spine
lay you down flat
spread you open
finger your insides
contort your body
fray your edges
leave indelible marks
toss you aside
forget you for days
use you at leisure
devour you entirely

and replace you
with another book.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012


It's always the same when I shock someone
by ignoring animals on the menu:

"You don't eat meat? Since when?"
"I don't count."
"You wanna save the baby chickens, right?"
"PETA's a joke and I admit meat
is pretty damn delicious."
"Then why?"

Call it the 'Gandhi Experiment'.

Doctors scare me with florescent whites,
steel tools with icy prongs, lithe and sharp
syringes, and cancer diagnoses post-
-metastasis. Male or female, they prod
with smooth and cold phalanges looking
to prescribe a sense of security.
Crush your breasts for an x-ray. Relax
the sphincter. Feel for prostate enlargement.

Eating too sweet carrots is self-ahimsa.
My motto is: Be the change you want
to see in your proto-oncogene.