it is something, standing by the sea,
feeling my heart and my blood
fashioned rudely out of ocean-salt
and the milk of beach-foam.
I feel the pull of the moon
on the tide standing here,
examining the sky
in the sheen of the wet sand,
in the surface of the water.
I smell the wet sexuality
of my ever moving mother;
a lover of immense strength;
hypnotic, the woman with depths
for her eyes, skin wet and fluid,
salty hips and buttocks and breasts,
cheeks and lips and thighs
in the flexing of waves and
in the rolling of the water, the foam.
My Mother in the Ocean
Posted: November 5, 1992 in PoetryTags: Beach, Blood, Moon, Mother, Ocean, Salt, Sand, Sea, Sky, Tide, Water, Woman
0
On the pinnacles of cloudless happiness,
I must reach down to pull my friends up.
In the depths of darkest sorrow,
I must push to keep friends above me.
If I have all my wealth in one glass,
Then they are the mead in my cup.
And when I have no strength for the morrow,
It is these riches that carry and love me.
if you come to me,
I will be whatever you need.
I will kiss your tears,
I will be your strength,
you just need to call on me.
I can’t tell you
what the answers will be,
but I’ll hold you tight
against all your fears,
you just need to call on me.
Breathing Pains
Posted: October 26, 1992 in PoetryTags: Birds, Blood, Eye, Fear, Flowers, Night, Pain, Salt, Spider, Water, Window
waiting for you to arrive,
I close my eyes for the birds that rise,
flowing over my skin,
baiting the thoughts that cruise like fish
within.
I sink deeper into my steel water trough
to wonder when the night
will roll in.
the flowers I brought you have wilted
from the sweat on my brow,
but I am waiting, still alive,
waiting for you to arrive.
I count the turns of the fan and
stir the last of my ice
with my hand,
watching them dance.
I taste the water from the ends
of my fingers.
the salt and the cold comes
with chills of your eyes
if you tried to lie;
you’re coming here sometime.
I think of what I can’t see
past my reflection,
through the window’s glass;
where you said you were going,
where you might be instead.
these spinning spiders cobweb my head.
everything slow, slower, slowest;
these breathing pains.
a record skips on its label.
I’m watching these wilted flowers.
cut, they glower back at me,
slowly.
I’m wondering when blood will
run out of my ears
with the weight of all these
anthological fears.
I pluck a melting cube from the water
and send it sliding along the table
as I lay, my head on the back of my arm.
a cold green fire simultaneously heats
my uncomfortable forehead and
roots at the pit of my stomach.
I will wait with my breathing;
you’re coming here sometime.
I will wait for you to arrive.
Rabbit Girl
Posted: October 22, 1992 in PoetryTags: Boy, Eye, Girl, Glasses, Heart, Home, Rabbit, Rainbow
wet rabbit girl,
where do you go?
know puzzle piece fits you
and my rainbow glasses miss you
when you’re gone so long.
private poetry
to roll in and chew
– a mouthful of wet paper,
foam caught on a branch
in a river.
I stand as a boy
with both hands
up and out, offering you
my heart
with hopeful eyes.
if not, I’ll go home.
throw it all away
and find something
to expect nothing from.
I hate so complicated a tangle,
snarls hanging in other knots
of responsibility and expectation.
find a river to listen to,
to die by.
arranging my stuffed animals neatly
seems to rest my mind,
giving it a stump to sit on.
curled up on my bed,
I wall myself in with
bodies stuffed with fluff,
still so little in a big body.
Bear at the Back of my Closet
Posted: October 6, 1992 in PoetryTags: Bear, Closet, Flesh, Grasshopper, Imagination, Light, Man, Night, Star
I am the bear at the back of my closet,
warm and furry.
but nobody knows it.
I am the star cut in the flesh on the back of my hand.
you, however, are a fig-ment
of my imagination, subject to my rules.
and you are whatever I choose to make of you.
you are a grasshopper, or a shiny penny,
or a bunch of balloons third graders let go
with notes attatched to the ribbons.
you are roadkill, or a lonely sock in the trash.
I am the wildest man with this imagination;
the most dangerous with this pen.
I am, most of all, the bear at the back of the closet
whose winking eye has been mistaken for a star
that you use as a night-light.
A Field of Flowers and Green Grass
Posted: September 13, 1992 in PoetryTags: Eye, Heart, Shadow, Woman
woman made of curves and shadow,
hair like a field of flowers and green grass.
I love the smooth roads of your eyelids,
your eyebrows,
the swell of muscles beneath your silky skin.
I lose myself in the hollows of your hips.
the inexplicable beauty and timelessness.
the knife-curve of your tucked calves.
I glide as if underwater down the small of your back
counting vertebrae as bubbles or fish.
I trail my fingertips across the moccasin leather
of the bottoms of your feet
and feel the ripple of power through my palms
on the tops of your thighs.
I trace the curve of your chin
with the bridge of my nose, like a kitten.
I lay my head on your breasts,
I place my hands on your eyes,
I wrap my wrists in your hair,
I balance my heart on the tip of your nose.
Cat Hide
Posted: September 7, 1992 in PoetryTags: Cat, Closet, Dark, Eye, Father, Imagination, Moon, Mother, Night, Sleep, Tree
I am the prickle
which makes your mother start
and cover your eyes
as if you, being young
don’t know the fear of the closet.
I am the voice that whispers
through the crack;
all that’s left when
the door is shut tight,
caressing you with words
from a green foot-long tongue,
slithering out from the darker dark.
I am the clothes that hang
from all the hangers,
swaying in the imaginary breeze
of a hanging tree in the moonlight,
the one they told you about at camp.
I am the nightmare
created by frustrated imaginations
living in the people
who inhabit your house.
I frighten your strong father
and terrify your poor mother
– this alone scares you.
I am the noise
so slightly out of place,
that each of you lies awake,
debating whether to see what it was
or go back to an uneasy sleep.
I leave your closet doors
open just a little
for you to find in the morning.
A bear stood and listened
to the two people.
then, he shook his loose hide
with a flapping noise,
like the wind through hanging laundry,
and turned and walked back into the forest,
having solved their problem.
sometimes, like a tortoise,
I shoot back into my closet space,
and then, feeling foolish,
I lurk about, scowling
as a crooked pair of cartooned eyes
behind the shuttered doors.
I rub my carpet for reassurance,
I crouch and wave my arms and
I make faces and obscene gestures
at the backs of the doors
where no one really sees me
being so rebellious.
as a poet I tell you
my dreams and what
I think about,
and certain selected fears.
I write to tell you these things,
and I pretend
that you are listening.
not so different
from anyone else.
I always think that
I start too many poems
with I.
I wonder if people really care
what other people really think.
But it’s enjoyable to think
someone else will enjoy
looking through my I’s.
Water falls as the hair and voices
Of nymphs at La Cascada.
Removing my shirt and glasses,
I place my eyes and nose
Through the surface of the pool
To be bathed by hands of water,
Falls like silver tinsel
Or ribbons of moonshine
And moss-maiden hair
Perpetually combed
By the white fingers of
La Cascada.
Her touch upon troubled features
Is like a lover smoothing covers,
Leaving pearls upon your eyelashes
for the morning.
A Hole in the Sky
Posted: July 24, 1992 in PoetryTags: Crickets, Eye, Flame, Forest, Heart, Night, Sound, Star, Stars, Trees, Wood
I thought I saw a star fall
In Sherwood Forest.
I wonder what it means
About our world.
I swear I saw a flame walk
Through this grove of trees,
Stepping from curl to curl
Of the bark on the forest floor.
I cannot grasp what my mind
Is saying; not yet,
Speaking from the corners of my eyes,
Running past my nose
At odd times, odd scents, odd sounds.
Sometimes I feel that
I’m surreptitiously burying
My heart again
In the middle of the night,
Something someone is whispering
For me to do.
Lying awake as I imagine the fall
Of gravedigger dirt
Cascading in sodden clumps
Upon my wooden soul.
The light wanes as I write,
Listening to the stereo of birdcalls
Scratching at wood,
And the organs of crickets
Calling and calling
The stars to the night’s work,
All except one.
The Most Beautiful Man in Town
Posted: July 24, 1992 in PoetryTags: Clouds, Crucifix, Dragonfly, Frog, Lizard, Man, Mother, Tadpoles, Wine
I am the most beautiful man
on this road,
my bottle of red wine
wetting my lips
through the lizard-trod dust.
My spit places octopi
in the tiny gravel
splayed like fingers
or clouds.
Sometimes I weave back
and forth between the ruts
in the road,
carrying my bottle of red wine
before me like a crucifix,
amazed at the hundreds of lizards.
La Cascada sings to me
with the beauty of
a lost flute,
with the conversation
of it’s motherly water falling;
with its brood of half-made tadpoles.
I bless her with a mouthful
of my crimson wine,
baptizing each new frog,
each new dragonfly
wriggling in half-formed majesty.
I am the most beautiful man
on this road,
waking to wine and muscle,
surprised from the deadening
of young-adulthood.
I am the most beautiful King of Fate,
the Prince of La Cascada,
the Champion of Frogs and
the fool of red wine.
I would write you a poem
with a paintbrush
to show you how soft
your eyes are
right before they twinkle.
as a lathered face,
I cannot tap my razor
in my soapy water anymore,
since you have written
that poem of bristly hair
that mentions me.
I write a poem
which I distribute
on flyers, smiling
to many other people
and hopefully,
you will blush fiercely
when you read it
because it is about you.
I SAW YOU [believe]
run pitter-patter run
hide away, waterfall or
column of flame;
run along dream girl.
I caught you this time
(in the echo of your flowered footprints)
Thee Memorable Ocean of Dream-Boy
Posted: July 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Blood, Boy, Candles, Cloud, Cry, Drums, Earth, Lightning, Mirror, Sound, Steve, Tears, Trees, Wind
steve said C-R-Y
[in hidden eyes]
thee, tears may arrive.
striped little boy I envy your dress
AND your innocence.
(shrieking) PAINTING,
blowing multicolored bubbles
through your paintbrush…
I Re-Collect
we begged lightning with fish from the solstice
[once upon a time]
when batteries ceased to function
drums only drums and howling,
croaking, baying;
Fucking with the night in
flickering candles, canvas cloudwork
[fists full of earth]
mystic corrections of our skin, in chalk, in earth
blood leaking from my ears
as we listened to the sacred sound of the wind’s whip
[lashing the backs off the trees]
you and I and fish, standing on a mirror, looking through the grass
into the heavens of lightning.
Depeche Mode Imitation
Posted: July 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Blood, Dark, Depeche Mode, Eye, Moon, Rose, Shadow, Sky, Star, Storm
I saw a star in the sky,
Watching, a flickering eye.
I felt your breath in the storm.
I shiver and try to keep warm.
I touched the moon in the flood
Of words like the coursing of blood.
In the rose warmth of your gaze,
I could have watched you for days.
An eagle has flown from the land
And just you and I understand
The shadows that caressed my face,
The darkness of our empty space.
Little Things
Posted: July 12, 1992 in PoetryTags: Ape, Clouds, Color, Dreams, Frog, Love, Stars, Tears, Trees, Water
I think I shall
take refuge in
my little dreams
of apes and frogs
little dreams of
big-eyed fish,
shedding tears never
seen underwater.
little dreams of
stands of trees
who whisper together
to protect me.
little dreams of
pools of color that
geyser happily
when I come to visit.
little dreams of
stars that know me
and of clouds that wave
as they pass by.
little dreams of
talking and
being heard when
I’m all alone.
little dreams that
I dream like birds
to wall out
the other dreams.
I think I shall
dream little dreams
of precious things
that love me.
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