Monday, February 25, 2008

Dark Into Light

A poem comes from your body,


your poem is not your body.

Your body dreams a poem.

Your poem is a dream body.

Your poem is your dream’s

tombstone to the world.

It says

Thanks for Everything.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Chemicals, That's ALL

OXYTOCIN & VASOPRESSIN are released......

Researchers can make prairie voles
fall in love—or whatever the vole
equivalent of this is—with an injection.

LOVE . . . .

…lies bleeding
……in a mist
…to love you BABY
……a-ah a-ah a-ah ! ! !

Blinded with science
is a dove in the rocks.
A bunch of grapes
springs like a gazelle!

My delicate fingertips drip with myrrh…
lips crush like honeycomb…
knocking at your gate……I will build
a willow cabin— — —we will stay up late…
and in the morning make perfect crispy waffles !

Negotiate the baffles……
Engineer pointless raaaaaaafffffflllllllleeessssss…
Rhyme purple with orange …
Answer like a chipped brick wall…

Mmmmmy harmmmmmmonious

Apple of Desire,

The Voice of the Turtle m-m-m-m-mocks
The sound of one hand CARESSING.…
Light one candle…
Never curse the Darkness!

(Even The Gideons have to economize
in this day of enfeebled charities!)

If the prairie voles are fools enough,
my Jewel of Ten Thousand Things,
with this Onion-ring I thee bed……
It’s all in our heads,
since science has shown
we’ve no will of our own.
We’re creatures of our amino acids— —
and what do they really know?

Not much.


Sunday, February 3, 2008


I'd been suffering a bad cold
just lying around like a feverish lizard
but after two days got tired of it
& ventured out to a poetry meeting
with a couple of strange conglomerations
of lines intended to be wryly humorous
or nobly Stoic, maybe you know me
maybe you don't, well,
probably you don't
This is so because I barely know myself
which is why I needed that meeting
to get some inspiration from old friends
even though they write the same themes
again & again
& that's part of them
part of their particular appeal
but then
when it's my turn
& this could just be my impression
well it obviously must be my impression
but after my turn there is general approval
but often someone or other of them
remains gazing at a ceiling tile
or tapping a pen on a notepad
but nobody asks a question
because it is generally assumed
that I have once again
skirted around my central theme
as playfully as usual
using funny words
juxtaposing concepts
like Pink Floyd coinciding
with white truffle searches
among the shredded coconut
that packs my head & a penchant
for supernumerary avatars
& a chorus of dubious laughter
Anyway I took a walk around the gardens
& snapped the shot above
the fading camellia
the honeybee
but after such riches, such luxury
a white mist, a cloud, lay on the surface
of the local bayou, & a lazy plume of fog
encircled a bare cypress tree
& I missed my camera, not to mention
adequate safety to pull over out of traffic
open the window & inhale that view
by the time I got back, the mist had cleared
the bare cypress tree looked winter dead
instead of about to ascend to heaven
just plain, casting spiky shadows now
around the cormorants' favorite haunt
So I was caught feeling sad to have missed
that opportunity, what might have been,
what was that never had been, nor will it ever
be the same again.