When Love Stopped Weighing Me Down

We are synchronicity
Pattern emerged from chaos
As the winter robes the ground
In crystal lace and ivory furs

You are serendipity
The grinning bias of circumstance
When nocturnal pens joined our Horizons
I did not yet recognize my muse

I am blessed
Which is what Haitians say
When their hearts glow brilliant with hope
And their minds throb thickly with doubt

I am grateful
Which is what the Japanese say
When atonement is less than it seems possible to ask
And more than it seems possible to bear

This is love
I suppose, not the poetry I imagined
Not Shakespearian couplets nor scintillating rhyme
But the steady march of two soldiers.

Here is this metamorphosis
Early struggles of distraction into
Aliens on this third planet
Our home a wasteland of ancient battles

Another Tribute to the Death of Innocence

I’m told hearing is the vibration of tiny hairs
tiny fragile hairs swimming in yellow fluid
twitching and clenching to life’s pounding beat

like the wasted boxer with lifeless eyes
a handful of hits for the knock-out
and every fall is a high-pitched tone
the last shriek of a dying nerve

I remember the stomach-twisting boil
the first hair of innocence tearing away
the pounding of lonely adolescent hearts

two bodies ruined together, forever
waves crashing together, dissipating
writhing in the awful pain of relief

and did my innocence die shrieking,
pawned in the search for connection
sold to the slavery of guilt?

I'd like to think I held something back
that this high-pitched tone of a headache
means there is something left to die

and so I stand careful guard
not daring to inquire too closely
for fear I watch over a tomb.

Returning Home, Wondering if you Feel the Same

you were my ice cream joy
half sugar half symbolism
my heart breathing in
the easy lines of your smile

such joys are made to melt away
to dissolve like innocence
but we stood: together,
destinations alike

and you were the fleeting soul
of every numbered side street
counting down to you; always
to you, always to us. For now,

you are my whiskey joy
the pain I choose to endure
exchanged for those I cannot
distilling years of careful intent

into a young man, empty eyes
and an empty bottle screaming
down the highway, counting,
subtracting every mile marker

from the impossible sum of separation;
this love does not shine brightly enough--
I cannot see it through the mist-- but it is
my Mecca; perhaps enlightenment comes

on arrival. And if I drew
a picture of all happiness
even now I would draw your face
for you, dear, have been all my joys

Armchair

She sits upon her beauty
like a favorite armchair;
no longer a brilliant novelty
from a biological furniture outlet
but a fast friend, old
as the peremptory mistress
with which it came.

And what man could help
but swallow reality in shots
and revel in the impossible
which sprung a dizzy surprise
(like Athena, from the head of Zeus)
into a damnably sober life?

She slept atop her beauty
as if upon an antique loveseat,
arm covers hanging askew
polish worn on the corners
so nothing distracts from that immaculate grain.

And what man could resist,
when divine fortune stretches its hand,
to grasp that hand,
and perhaps even pull the tiniest bit?

She slept upon her beauty,
embracing her pillow with the
carefree affection of sleep

And I watch, paralyzed
by the fragility of this moment

And the depth of its candor.

Love was a Cup of Coffee

Love was a cup of coffee,
hot and bitter and pungent;
it was excitement and relief;
it was our tour guide, our savior.

And we subsisted on it,
happily succumbing to addiction,
laughing when they called us addicts.
Caffeine is but chemical; coffee is more.

Then one day you set it atop the car
and drove off without a thought,
the mug teetering precarious
on every careless corner.

Our love is not waiting, my dear,
though it cools within reach,
every jolt and curve a cut closer
to its end, broken and abandoned.

Decisions

We were just kids in prison,
groping bars of angry uncertainty:
I am right; we are right.
Just kids in prison, alone facing
the stares of the innocent.

In prison, and just enough sustenance
for ninety days in hell. Hell, we both said,
and consumed each other lavishly,
pleasure marked in paths
like cookie crumb trails. Hell for ninety,
heaven for one: we drank deeply
drowned fear in contentedness.

We were just two kids in prison,
too young to imagine
teeth dropping from desiccated gums
hair laying limp across dusty foreheads.

It was worth it, right?
I am right. We were right.

Ghosts

We last spoke the eleventh of may.
(Lovers never know the last kiss is the last.)
To us it was just one more day
discussing the drifting vectors of our lives,
contemplating impending demise.

Loving you made me wish
I'd never loved before;
made me want to diminish
everything that came before you.

But "her" was not always you, my love.
That pronoun was once elsewhere directed,
and left behind the kind of memory
that leaves ghosts when killed.

It isn't fair to forget; after all,
a love is a love no matter how small
and now that you've joined the ranks
of the dearly departed,

why should your ghost take precedence?

Banana-Handled Memory

I have ridden my memories
like a bicycle one time
too many, and now they are
paint-faded rust-laden
lackluster rubbish no
longer solid colors
but for the brick-
red of iron oxide.

Her Keeper

She was my fountain, my muse;
I was full of her lips grazing across mine,
brimming with hips consciously restrained.
She was not a deep well of joy,
but a wild ocean of an angel--
and I was special too,
because I knew.

I drank deep of happiness, for
the keeper of the source never thirsts.
I continued long after she left,
laid aside without solace but
to squander my remaining fortune.

Then with poetry I scraped it
like jam from a jar,
somehow not realizing
that when it was gone
I would be empty.

Ode to Spaghettios

It's all I'm good at these days--
the systematic input of calories.
A screen and a spoon and I forget
what I cannot input: the smell
of your hair after a shower,
the playful battle for the top lip.

You'd be surprised
at how much I like eating,
and how little I enjoy it.

Television

Distraction at the rate of
twenty-four frames per second
of sleeping-limb numbness
of pureed passion screen-bleeding
into hollow heads or hollow hearts
like a tire-plug, just enough to last
until that heart or head
can be replaced entirely.

Of all the things I own,
I love my television the best.

Dealing with Hard Times

basically I am just
your average superhero
when the stars align
and the pips tumble well

I have had my
square-inches of spot-light
and my
telephone booth moments

so when fate sees fit
on occasion
to tear my wings
in mid-flight
I hold the scowl
drink the whiskey raw

because if everyone flew
the skies would be too crowded.

Sorry Too Late

Thank goodness
the line in the sand
has been obscured by
footprints, conflict forgotten

thank heaven
the wall has crumbled
into piles of precious stones
scattered like beads

thank God
mistakes have faded
like the impression
on your side of the bed

(my heart burns
with the heat
of my apology.)

A Planet's Come Hither

People are like planets,
swallowing circumstance
in an immensity of inertia,
hurtling through darkness
with no guide but habit.

With my heart, with my thoughts,
with my life, I would move you;
but how does one move a planet?
How could I correct your course?

Our orbits meet only for a moment--
to be together have we any choice

but to collide?

Phase: "Boredom"

Believe me, it's not even worth explaining.

My life is static, changing in fact
never in function. My life has
family-channel problems: no sex
or drugs or women or thugs just
money and boredom and tears.

My life is the commercials
of a really great show;
my audience watches on mute,
throwing back popcorn and vodka
trading whodunit opinions
(I hardly blame them for not caring.)

My life is a joke, lame and obscure,
not worth the attempt to explain.

Habits Betray Me

I know:
a month later
it's not cute anymore,
just pathetic.

I know:
the cute waitress
at the pizza shop
deserves a second glance.

I know:
I said I wasn't waiting,
but I stay up to spend
less time in bed staving off memories
like Judas staved off his silver.

I also know:
when I'm with you
I turn off my cell phone,
because it was only on
in case you called.

Wedding-Night Jitters

To my bride:
this last day is lethal
we make our vows
now while magic bows
beneath the weight
of worlds combining.

To my wife:
this echoed oath
rings truthful still;
as the saints are saved
and baptized, so I swear
and declare for all to know

that I love
and will always
love.

Pretending it's Better

How beautiful is brevity
the second form of rarity
like ripples sway down glossy hair
in motion is its strength.

No man on death will gladly dwell
but by its fear does love compel
how sad if sunset's crimson flare
like life were cursed with length.

Happy Birthday

From one who knows
birthdays are not events
but excuses, brief
exclamation points
in life's chaotic prose:

may your reflection be gentle
may your lover be close
may your indulgence be harmless
may the dreams that spur you onward
be placed within your reach;
and may those that are not
leave you in peace.

Bottle Immortalis

I remember being homeless
how my spirit ached for peace
I remember wanting, needing
passion dimmed by darker hungers
than I'd ever seek to fill.

I remember shadowed corridors
that crawled with ancient paramours--
the ones I thought I'd buried
I feigned freedom as I carried
rusted needles filled with freedom
bottles brimmed with thick release


For demons are like loves: they never die.

Fading

breathe me in like morning mist
choke on the ether of my memory
feel my breath on the hairs of your neck
spin 'round to catch my ghost fleeing

like a lodestone holding your heart
I call in the voice of dead passion
for my pain I would never release you
for my love would imprison you always

reduce the dream to tragedy
feed us both the poison prose
our bodies robbed of vigor skin
as pale as specters for the photo

no--I let you go already
you have strayed far out of range
I guard private dreams of vengeance
I would rather die than change
I would rather die than change

my heart heals crooked
like an unset bone,
mending and bending
frozen broken and torn

my ashes are brown
with the dirt of the poor
my teeth hang heavy
from my gums

thank God
for the scars
that cover
your eyes.

Sans Amputation

A heart-shaped love was what I wanted
a love to wear like a bullet-proof vest
What would I give for you?
Anything.
What would I give up for you?
Anything--except my heart.

But the heart is an organ
throbbing with delicate need
and demands of its own.
Your love was too small
and the air and blood ran dry
until my breath caught short
and my heart seized up.

These days I search
for a me-shaped love
to cover not just my body
but my life and my dreams.

Not this tunnel-crouching love,
not this back-bending cave passion
stimulating until suffocation.
Am I mad to imagine
love sans amputation?

A Lesson in Denial

damp hair, shower soaked
blond roots barely showing
the smell driving me wild

your precious satin lips
like virgin veins of gold
desire holding me still

I still imagine, sometimes
when love disturbs my peace
that you still belong to me

Trust Me

When mascara runs from your cheeks
like mud from filthy streets
and your hair holds its shape
like a plastic mold

when your knees buckle beneath
the weight of integrity
and prone you wait
unfeeling, unthinking

when your eyes darken
distorted by pain
and grief sets
your tongue aflame

Trust me
to see your beauty

Poem for Lovers

blood or tears, darling;
anything but stillness
steal not thy pain,
shield not thy weakness:

I would adorn thy perfection
like jewels in a crown;
but think me not fragile
relegated to your gilt boxes

for as thou art wounded
I would be thy bandage
as thy muscles weaken
I would be thy repast

do not think me too proud
to be thy pillow;
too weak to be thy shield

and were I either do not think
I would not rather be broken
than yearn alone for you.

Depression

Nearly everything is happy.
"Feeling blue?" I say,
"feeling down?" Which is funny,
because if all goes well,
blue skies will be back again.

And yesterday, I saw a baby--
not two months old--
with a pout protruding like a muzzle
and the look of a philosopher's puzzle
on his face. And that frown made me
laugh as much as any smile,
because I know how very fluid
are emotions.

Even misery is a little happy.
As the gilded anguisette glories
in every crimson streak,
yielding to the crisp palette of
Life,
so anguish is but the diagonal lines of
perspective, traced across our lives.

But depression is not happy.
Depression is neither hungry nor thirsty;
depression is neither bliss nor anguish.
Depression is life in all its throbbing
rhythm
but the camera lens never closes,
and instead existence is a nondescript
path against a canvas, leading nowhere.

Today I found out that depression
is not an emotion or feeling
but just a plain paperweight
with green felt on the bottom
to remind us how desperately unhappy
we are
and how giddily happy
we should be.

After all, nearly everything is happy.

Fair-feathered Friend

you floundering fool,
full of "shit happens"
full of shit in general--

your early-bird steps
never wake me
so adjacent nothing may
always take me
by surprise,

like the scurvy flight of fancy
we turned out to be,
alternately licking and scratching our wounds,
dusty feathers gray with color
scattered like wind-borne plumes
in fleeting symphony
spent quickly to ash.

But we are all feathers,
you and me and craven friends,
all tossed into the ether
to in beauty briefly swirl
and in slumber sweetly curl

around the new-born chick
named destiny, suspended at nest's edge,
poised to plummet.

Brilliant

Today
-- is all gray
--and though I fling paint
up at the sky,

it falls pitifully back down,
and somehow the scarlet
that seems so cheerful in the sky
is not so cheerful in the face.

Today I sang amazing grace
(the sound was sickly sweet);
the irony so thick I gagged,
I watched your love retreat.

But it's no use watching,
and so, eyes glued heavenward,
the paint keeps flying.
Could any day be more brilliant?

Rainbow

whitewashed walls
and linoleum floors.

It is your attic,
or your basement,
bare wires poised to punish
careless groping.

And it is your closet
(but only in the dark)
nails never pounded
to blunt-head safety
wire hangars twisted
(because that's art these days).

But scorn me as you may
(do I do you injustice?)
I cannot help but miss
your attic basement closet
because

what is love
but to hurt
and be hurt?

All my charms
and melancholy--
black and blue
both come to folly

But lives are monochrome rainbows,
shades of diffracted gray,
apt to flee at the first question—
or even if you look away.

Drowning Heaven

Is heaven just the child
of human desperation
a tiny gasping infant,
blue veined with shaking fists
eternally smothered by my guilt?

I have to believe
for the sore-eyed nights to pass;
to endure the bright tears
and sad-eyed beauty
as you turn away.

I would trade in
the hope of heaven
for the certainty of peace;
I would give up my soul,
hand-written posters on lamp posts saying:
"free to the right family."

You can imagine
how it felt to see
the "right family"
come to see that

soul

and drown its love in pity.

First and Last Letter

I never sent you the first letter I wrote
I was young it was foolish I was foolish
And the things it said weren't even true
though they became true later.

But I didn't have dreams I had holes
and you weren't fulfilling you were filling me
so yes I left but I was also broken
again, but this time tragically aware.

So it was not that you weren't enough
because you were the shape of my void
but I didn't want a void anymore I'm sorry
my healing has done you wrong.

I know I am presumptuous to respond
don't think I'm responding;
instead, consider this
the letter I never sent.

Late and Tired

I have a picture of myself
and it is younger every day.

My younger smile is happier
and less joyful; more sinful
and less guilty; more earnest
and less sincere than that same
smile, the day before.

I think it is because I cannot move
through time, but time moves through
me, and so I grip the present like a
train grips a track, and the past
recedes into the distance until it drops
off the horizon into sudden...

Sleep.

Chop-Block Dignity

There is a dignity to the chopping block;
a weight to the carriage of one whose life will end
with the terrifying swiftness of birth.

How I wish for once those broken hearts
would watch me with such tearful intensity
that a lifetime could be redeemed in a moment.

How different is the sickening crack of decision
as if life had broken a bone, and you are still laughing
but now it hurts and then everything is tears.

How different is the stuttering pause of the engine
as you continue flying, knowing you are losing altitute
and wishing for a plummet to match your panic.

Instead I grimace as my rib punctures my lungs;
instead I float slowly downward.

Sleep in Indecision

I don't dare succumb
to the allure of optimism.

I would rather
trust the wheel to fate as
my spine tremors with want
than pay tribute to consequence,

but futures hurtle ignorant
of my want or even my being.

So I do "the right thing,"
except for a moment every night
when I do what I must
for sleep to come.

Rough Night

what are tears
to me I do not cry
say cry me a river cry
me an ocean but the
ocean is here and it pounds
my head relentless
the weakest point a hairline
fracture a single salty drop to
betray the hurricane.

Someone Else's Problem

Her beauty is not mine
and so it fades without protest;
it is sanded down to desert
as I fain disinterest.

She sleeps away her folly
and in silence I agree,
for my claim on her is lesser
than the claim she has on me.

If she wastes away in darkness
who would dare assign me blame?
It is not my place to shine
though I feel guilty just the same.

Lost Loves

I miss melancholy,
her tender advances
tingling like fingers
drawn across my cheek.

I miss the pang of desire,
her hand circumnavigating
the perimeter of my thigh;
I miss pretending I am
out of control, my stash hidden
just beneath my brain stem.

I miss misery; what a shame
that lost loves do not remain,
but simply fade away.

The Strangest Knife

Every so often
I shed my shades,
lift my lids to the blinding lights--

for of all the ways
that my back has been stabbed,
hope was the strangest knife.

Too Old to Cry

At five I dreamed of ten,
PG movies, better toys
tall enough to see over counters

At twelve I dreamed of seventeen
cars parties and women
wisdom equal to my decisions

At twenty I dream of thirty
success and a child of my own
a family and a home to die for

But my dreams suffer
from false advertising.
I am still the same child
crying as science-set acid
burns through expectation;
still the teen crying
for a first kiss wasted;

I am still a young man
a job and a lost love
just brave enough to keep dreaming
and never too old for tears.

Climbing

I love climbing,
biceps and deltoids
movement and ascension
the careful caterpillar contraction
a goal for goal's sake;
those muscles work
from the outside in
yearning toward the fetal
as if to gather the world
and hold it close.

Black on Black

Listen to me, darling,
dark angel of
polished mahogany:

here, naked in the wintry depths I stand;
black on black I cast for shadow
there, mired ere I grasped that fragile hand.

Here, Warrior of the World I am
my blade hath enemies enough;
snow swirling gray on gray,

for blood is mostly clear;
the liquid thrown from Judas' ear
was the same pale yellow as this wan sun.

Hear me, darling,
solace in this
unrelenting night:

even heavens casts a shadow,
and to thought a mind
might easily descend as if

the night were empty, terror
a thing of dreams and waking.
And then the dream-giver asks,

"What becomes of night-endings
and leave-takings, when into dreams
they forever fall into twilight?"

Here me, darling:
thou art simply my Chosen Hue
in this black on black.

Daydream

I knew that look—the one that she gave me
like not even Jesus could possibly save me
grace and forgiveness forever withdrawn:
“Arrest him at sunset—his head rolls at dawn.”

I may have been poor and I may be a man
but I can’t stop resenting her looks and her tan
and her rich-kid persona of “better-than-thou”
and the strong implication that I was to bow

but the worst of it all is how perfectly thin
and my heart skipping beats at that “look and die” grin.
Or maybe the worst is the fact that she knows
that my extra appendage (apparently) shows

that I’m naught but a pervert , a boy with a leer
to treat with contempt and occasional fear—
I’m so tired of that and her righteous beau monde,
and if I had the chance this is how I’d respond:

“I would never presume to accuse you of wrong—
and I don’t think I’m here speaking only for me—
all I want is the chance to deserve your disgust
to prove to you just what a pig I can be.”

But should it occur—and I know that it won’t—
that a man should so please that you find yourself charmed,
I pray you to hold back; be not quick to judge
for in time you may find yourself wholly disarmed.

And forty-five chocolates and three diamonds later
I’ll mess up as planned and you’ll name me a traitor
you’ll tell me my words were a poison-laced cup
because “all a guy wants is a chance”—to fuck up.

There will be no forgiveness, post-parting discerning
But I’ll watch the world when it ceases its turning
Sad smile, my companion till I cease to be:
For what it was worth, it was worth it to me.

Beautiful

I wish
for once
a woman
could see

beauty in three dimensions.

I said, "you're beautiful,"
and though your name includes
your hair; your heart; your mind;
you somehow think
I've complimented your shell.

When a man first sees beauty,
it is volume he perceives--
the capacity of beauty--
but so many women
are only half full.

But your volume brims
like the foam on
a root beer float.

Your skin is but an enticing shell
to a whole cone of ice cream.

Your voice is
Your touch is
Your mind is
Your love is
Beautiful.

A Starlit Night

Once upon a starlit night,
When moonbeams jumped the hills,
Where gentle breezes echoed softly,
Stirring whippoorwills.

Once upon a starlit night,
When streams of water ran,
Meandered softly through the forest,
Over whitened sand.

Once upon a starlit night,
On spark ‘ling waves of dew,
I stretched my soul up to the skies,
And thought a thought of you.

Gather the Shepherds

Gather in the shepherds;
They know nothing of sheep.
The flock dies as I lie awake.
Only one is lost
But it was the only one, the only sheep,
The only thing that mattered to me.
How dare you sacrifice my love?
I died the day you let her go.

But my ghost moves on
The day windy and I thin,
So haggardly I continue
Watching dogged steps.
Half my mortal soul aflame,
I swear I’ll keep her
If it damns me to a hell
Deeper than hers.
But how dare you set her into that world?
She was a girl—
Not mine, but only a girl—
She needed you despite her words.
Your love broke her skin,
Your words pierced like glass,
But they kept her strong.

Every price is measured in blood
Every smile balanced by pain
Every life altered by sorrow
But where were you when God touched the heavens
And the first star was born?
Rest lightly; I’ll have her yet.

Since When do You Need a Vacation From Me?

A half dozen pairs of pinned-up dimples
plotted graceful retreat,
squandered every hoarded ounce
of resolve. From ear to ear
I drifted until

I finally left griping behind,
accustomed to the sudden slackness
of muscle no longer braced
with interest. Instead I obsessed silently
as a plant might fixate on water.
As a cadaver might long
for the grave.

The grave; as if crushes could kill--
as if this preamble to love
was the whole bloody constitution.

But my eyes lock with hers,
perched immobile on my desk,
and reality jars aside;
the vibration of my cell
could be a carnival corpse,
sunken eyes and loose-leaf flesh
mixing hot blood and cold sweat.

The hours are teeth,
dropping from a rotted jaw;
the days are eyes fully sunk,
staring from a gaping maw

and four days later
she grimaces mid-embrace
and swears she catches
the scent of a dead thing.

How it Ended

It was not, you see, as he described;
not the parched desiccation of an amphibian
suddenly left to dry in the torrid heat of isolation—

nor, of course, as she described;
not a craven obsession with a perfect past, rocking
a breathing carcass in the quiet like a cold-turkey addict.

It was more a curious brittle feeling
as if I were a bit of coral set on a high shelf,
trying desperately to recall the feeling of being alive.

Soccer Field

White geometry settles on green shoulders,
All two-dimensional except twin handles—
Rectangles, gripped by a stratified star field—
With a lattice of reality slung about them.

And suddenly life's liquid is white as well;
A phallic sphere of split-second destiny,
A constant climax waxing in proximity.

Jade blades puncture spirits like IV bags,
And pounding hearts match the pulse
Of throbbing defeat.

Such as I have

Thoughts of you,
a splatter pattern of memory
from which a man will someday
solve the mystery of my nostalgia.

The mercury tears, after all,
are but cut-time mirrors of mine,
and the reflection stretches infinite
until it pools in mid air and drops.

Those eyes are silver domes,
and of the key I feign possession
because I dare not admit
how foreign is your mind to me.

Please understand, keeper,
that love could never be my gift,
never having had it myself;
I therefore offer thought as the widow's copper.

The Sun

Every day that passes by,
I lift my gaze unto the sky,
And thereupon it does belie,
The sun, which rests above.

It never ceases to amaze,
Benevolent in amber gaze,
And warms the earth with all its rays,
So like that one I love.

It passes far beyond my thought,
Those wonders, which the Lord hath wrought,
Yet still the thing that I have sought,
Has waited here for me.

The sun brings light into the darkness,
Stealing all of midnight’s starkness;
Still we must take time to mark this:
Darkness matters not with thee.

The sun makes sadness pass away,
Its rosy dawn to lead the way,
And changes night into the day,
With birds chirping a melody.

To hear the lonely north wind sigh,
Like silence after lullaby,
Astounds me as the sun flies high:
It’s just the same with you and me.

Waking Up

Morning strikes my head square
And my brain circles in for docking.
The felonious notions of darkness,
Smothered by mellow indifference,
Float away on diminishing
Cosine waves of
Fantasy.

White Elephant Love

Strange to know I have secrets now.

Years ago I made a pact-
Born of naiveté and
A dash of idealism-
That full disclosure would
Reign
For as God knows all
There are no secrets
And angels give testimony to our lives.

Strange to know I have secrets now.

How could she know
That I look at a wedding dress
Those effigies to artificial complexity
Then imagine her in those lacy rags
And suddenly find them beautiful.
And there is a feeling below my diaphragm
So that I am aware of breathing,
And reminded that I am alive,
And that is part of why I love her.

Someday, I will watch a man
Take her, make her happy
And I will laugh with her
Hold her when they fight
Cry when she is away because
It is not us fighting.

Strange to know I have secrets now-
Words too dangerous to write.
The truth is a burden now,
One too heavy to pass on.

Strange to know that I would lie now
To protect my darker side.
“Did you know,” I sometimes start,
But how can I finish?
I have lived long enough to know
That we are all the same
And the dark secrets that plague us
Are not a mark of inhumanity,
But a sign of humanity;
Who breathes free in the dark?
We can never let go, only forget—
For a time—
When we are too enthralled with
Life, and love
To nurse the careful miseries
We never share.
It is she who makes me forget
It is she who makes me remember

Sometimes I wonder,
When my hand rests too long on hers,
If she knows, and carries my love
Like a premonition of disaster.
Sometimes I wonder,
When I look too long into her eyes
Into the heart-stilling green
That turns to gray and stills again,
If she carries my adoration
Like a white elephant gift
From a beloved friend.

White elephant love.
Mi corazón, mi alma, mi amor,
For all the things I have never told you
And could never bear to say,
I offer instead my mind
That in your troubles you may find
The solace of friendship;
My heart, that in every need
You will know I will be there;
My life—and I beg God to allow me
Those precious moments
When my pain eases yours.

Willow

When the first Oak sang,
before the completion
of the Victorian landscape,

it was a grassless ode
in a breathless baritone
that swept like an evening wind

across the moistened loam
and stirred the blossoms,
clear and erect like crystal goblets,

and came to rest on Willow,
for she was the youngest of trees,
and the most beautiful.

Woken

I stood framed in your doorway,
arms like Samson side-to-side
braced against the collapse
of fragile resolve.

Warmth and apprehension
settled easily into my step
and when I finally reached you
I found I was holding my breath.

You were so peaceful
in your cloth cocoon
that when I touched, I touched gently
so as not to tear the fabric of dreams

or stretch the parameters of slumber.
Your body responded sans regard
for mind’s consent; extended
abeyant like a cat relaxed in mid-stretch.

How could I express my affection
as I reacquainted myself with
every muscle and bone?
Your body is

The tension of comfort and desire;
the final work of the author;
the masterpiece of the creator.
How could I help but savor?

Your hair was the color
of Niagara in the fall
when tannin-laden leaves
stain it autumn’s auburn,

still shower-wet beneath and for a moment
I was digging in damp soil after heavy rain
planting seeds of comfort in the rich earth;
I thanked God a thousand times in that moment.

And then your mind joined us,
slowly like an emerging Monarch,
and we spoke of the things
that had kept me awake.

Writing a Love Poem on the Way Home

Green miles roll
like frames on a film reel:
still-frame thoughts on
real-time roads are
yellow dashes smeared
to a half-seen blur.

Stop signs ignored like regret—
I'm all too happy to forget
wasted days of simple verse.
So now I speed onward,
the way more than familiar,
the telling of a familiar tale.

Sorting a storyboard
for a collage of memory,
a rhyming scrapbook of you,
suddenly it strikes me
(like a truck, or a tree, or a
truncated line)

that this cinematic concept—
are we just a movie paused
a few moments from the end? —
is the black ice of reality;
and staring into darkness,
my only companion a junkyard

of totaled ideas,
I unlatch my seatbelt
(damp with molded metaphor)
and brace against the floor
to kick open the door
of metaphorical epiphany, thinking

it's a shame it took this to
realize you're already a poem
only a fool would rewrite.

For the Moment, I'd Rather Dream

You are

an infinite imprecision--
a caulk-consolation for
my scabbed handful of needs.

the swelling bottle-reality
is not "and" but "or" I suppose.
(I accept Booleans as they come.)

You are

a paper monument in my mind,
but I never blanch, knowing somewhere
true granite rises impregnable.

Or

a shiny medal, hard and gold, cold
against the glass-- symbol of past joy,
a timid premonition of the future.

You are

the flagpole upon which I hang my spine--
when dignity loses tautness,
whom else have I on earth?

if, as I have been warned, relics
turn to dust, I pray the elusive
shelter of your reality.