trying desperately
to stay al ive
find lost joys
wait for a change
that never
seems to come.
 
 
another visit
to kill time
repeated scenarios
and prescriptions
wake up to a pill
go asleep to the same
feel no different
in the interim.
 
a body on the track
so easy to understand today
a future of this
is slow pain and disintegration.

Grey foam interiors
silent Tv screens
motion sickness
dark clouds
pressed against
soggy ceilings.
 
left to rot
in repetition
a dead routine
played out
upon an empty stage
 
a pair of old shoes
an unposted letter
a piss jar
a sound of darkness
act out their parts
to vacant seats

 
 
my ship came in
 
and she
brought me
 
what I ordered,
a load of sin

 
 
it’s really not my biz
 
(it has naught
to do with me),
 
but from where I view,
I guess god be code
 
for some
for perceived reality …
 
somewhat for what is,
for what they can see of it—
 
and what they cannot

 
 
I find the writing of—
no thanks to so-called heav’n above—
 
 
light nonsens’cal verse,
whether long or terse
 
 
(or, in truth, perverse),
 
 
hereapeutic, therapeutic,
and, yes, everywhereapeutic

 
 
I like fair backyard butterflies
and their likin’ weeds
 
they seem fond of flow’rin’ spearmint—
they have nectar needs—
 
and own both the spine and mettle
to adore the bloomin’ nettle

 
 
my mem’ry’s gone to pot,
which scares me quite a lot
 
I remember there was yesterday—
and that just last week
I played some hide-and-seek—
 
but I do remember not a thing I bought
and not a blessed thing I thought

I Saw Your Picture
I saw your picture
next to the computer screen.
I saw the picture of you
that I took in Circleville
and I cried.
I cried on the inside,
but I cried because I love you.
I cried,
but my tears weren’t heavy.
At 4 A.M. a Conversation
You asked me to talk to you
at 4 in the morning
needing reassurance:
"Are you really working at the church this weekend? You’re not out with her?"
"No, love. She is memory."

I need exotic music
steel drums
and African beats
stay
rough with me
cold wet lips
and tastes, heady flavors
savor, put your hands up
put your hands on me and breathe…
I need exotic music,
the pulsating, pounding of drums and incense and love
and lust and get
rough with me
get
inside my head and halfway down my throat
taste
taste fingertips and prints and smell new scents
heady like love and sex and garlic, roasted.

 
 
What can I say?
I’m off to San Jose,
unbelievably,
to see Emily.
She wants not to wait.
I’ve got to go;
I’m Russian tune fro.
No time now for idle talk
nor time with you to walk.
I ask a favor
I won’t belabor:
While I’m on my way,
will you facsimile
and teller I’ll be late.