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?

     My, my.

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.

          Comprehension comes

          in waves.

          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

          a pattern

          there comes the stylish interplay

          of positive

          of negative

          foreclosing upon space.

         

Excerpts  From:  In the Apparatus of Questions

Bits of the poem,

An Apt Concession

               Kisses tasting of

               cyanide

               in a huddle against frost

               extracting my silver soul

               from the ore

               of time passing,

               implanting a cry in

               my ears,

               resonating with

               having more than

               myself to cling to.