Dark Into Light

A poem comes from your body,

but

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.

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.

You?

Caught

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.