A few lines from Inso
You read the inscription in the khaki ground.
Slipping on the hidden ice, you hold on to your legs and find what
makes you so weak. The heartbeat in your head
obscures your thoughts, desires flow back through
your eyes, visible and real, falling to your fingertips.
But I can't see the light for your radiance.
I'm a bit frozen. The rearview mirror is showing me a lot
of crossfire today. It's time to hire
one of those old theaters and watch a Cagney.
Facets of ginger light spring off of the pale blue walls
of the school in the East. Telephone wires slice into the plains
of wintergreen pines and between the nutmeg fingers of naked elms.
The flames on the building crawl upward until they disappear with the sun.
Purple clouds shrouded in gray, smolder on the horizon.
Now, all that remain are the blank movie screens of windows,
stretched out like someone's open wallet portfolio of empty faces.
The poem, Latent Spring
The mastery of your hands, Dom.
They're so beautiful.
Oh, they do what I need them to.
Sell me some cake . . . would you?
Two pounds, perhaps?
For you, dear lady, anything.
Sell me your hands, Dominique?
I mean for pleasure.
The lasting nights are so lonely since Jay
went to war.
Ah, I understand, princess.
Name your price.
If they were for sale, I might give them
to you, free.
As the silken wings of the butterfly?
Like the look in your eyes.
Dom, you pretty man . . . .
The poem, Cacao Bean
Brother's voice a mellow drone
As evening rays beam softly
Gold upon the plants and stone
Sky passing in folds to night
With stars in liquefied day
Traveling through the Spring light
Smoke from nostrils drills the air
Fragrant as memory held
With touch as if never there
The poem, Pillow Talk
In obediance to promised grace
I walk cold through the heat
of a relentless sun.
Knowing this path by Braille,
it has been worn blind.
The seeker cannot long be maligned.
Water upon a reef.
A pillow lost in the night
the only companion to be.
No one can say that suffering is
a physical thing alone.
Its mycelium grows into our firmament
without a care for the
taking of mind.
And in the discovery of
there comes the stylish interplay
foreclosing upon space.
Bits of the poem,
An Apt Concession
Kisses tasting of
in a huddle against frost
extracting my silver soul
from the ore
of time passing,
implanting a cry in
having more than
myself to cling to.