Thursday, August 10, 2017

no latch


he wants to be in your company
in the corner away from the dance floor
because he does not dance,
that's not his scene

it's difficult for him
to bridge, to admit to the
emotions across the abyss
of all those years of programming

he'd rather his hand on your knee, perhaps,
or around your back,
so long as he can feel your pulse
against the heat of his searching

and i've closed the latch
on you, i suppose, if you want
to consider it truthfully and
can face the facts

that his desire is not so far
from my experience, that my
exclusions are as darkening as
his hopeful inclusions are lightening

lately i'm in love with the
idea of him, how his hunger
is your iris-opening, and the
spreading is in full gorgeous view

i'm guilty of so much latch-letting
in my life, of harboring my lovers
in a lightless labor, huddling them
in the shadow of my ego

expecting them to bloom in
the dark with just my spoiled
breath the heat they needed to
find their true flower

but i'm discovering the
folly of this, of seeing
the man in the corner wanting
and seeing that his is a real passion

that he sees in you what i know
in you; that there is no lechery in
a full-fired falling into the arms
of those who would fully fly

with you, and be carried by
you or carry you, so that in
either way you are not left
in a cold dark place by anyone

i am guilty of driving the latch
home after closing the door,
and peering into the narrow slats
upon my proud capture

but i am sure now that love
is best laid open, freed of the
pull of tides and yaw
of billowing conceit

that we love best when
spread to it and receiving
it unbound, believing and
coming back home

no latch

Friday, August 4, 2017

intellectus sonet


you've approached her through that age-old passage
sure her inducement rises with your hand
engorged by the hubris of your passion
then foiled by that which you don't understand:

mouth the opening of her intellect
breathe heat on the aperture of her mind
erect a statue to her introspect
then have intercourse with all that you find

she'll then hear the beat of your native drum
invite her to discourse and she will come

Thursday, July 20, 2017

my baby, she got toes




























my baby, she got toes
sunk so deep in that morning
grass that she says, daddy,
i can't walk.

and i say no, i can't
pick you up, you need
to walk honey, it's just
from the dew

my baby, she got hair
blond as the sun, and it
shine in july the way the heavens
weep down on the forgiven

and i say, i love you,
and she look at the
tree with the horse
swing and she laughs

my baby, she got eyes
that consume the anxious,
fired multitude of all those
raging lovers

and adorns them with the
taffeta of her innocent
kissing lips and kindly
cooing breaths

my baby, she got a
hold on life as firm
as oak and she won't
let go for nothing

and she grasps my hand
as we walk toward home
and she whines about how
the world is too cold

my baby, she cry in her
sleep and it sound like
the release of black birds
from a consuming wood

and her momma, she wake
and stroke her head and she
whisper, home home
home baby home

                                                                                                                    i read a story in a magazine
                                                                                                                    that said a momma saved
                                                                                                                    a beach ball that was blown
                                                                                                                    up by her teen son hours

                                                                                                                    before he was killed in
                                                                                                                    a car accident and she told
                                                                                                                    the reporter, "it's all i got.
                                                                                                                    his air. it has his life in there"

my baby, she sing to me
in the back seat to the
radio and i don't
know no other nectar

that sounds sweeter
and i don't know no
better to just shut up
and listen to her

my baby, she got toes
growing clover up in
between them that make her
cry for my arms

so i pick her up
and her arm wraps
'round my neck and
together we sail home

i see the future in the
sky full of dying stars
and i feel the cleansing
of the light in that old dark

i don't care about nothing
in certain moments when
my baby wipes her grassy
feet on my shirt and giggles

Monday, July 17, 2017

shed


there is a spirit of her
in the things she wears
when she disrobes and
disarms after a long day

and she leaves a pile of
clothes in the bedroom
and with them she leaves a pile
of echoes in the
small heap of pants and
blouse, socks and bra

and she loosens her
life and unlatches her
clasp on a certain reality
outside these walls; her
release of a cold day
is the emission of
her essence particles

in the atmosphere of this
place i find her everywhere:

the favored pillow that crowds the
headboard;

the aborted sandal beneath the couch;

the worn hair tie hung on the knob
of the pantry door;

the fragile handrail that creaks with
the weight of the years;

the rim of the cup left to wait on the counter;

the heavy bracelet, adorned and
dimmed in the darkness of a shadow;

the blanket she pills in the night while she sleeps

i revel in her presence
in every moment shared
together as lovers

but feel her absence the
way i sense the waves of the sea,
how they rock the soul
when i can
hear them on the air
miles distant from me

all of these things
and every one of them
not witnessed thus far
emit a spectral ode
heard in the bones
of those future comers

who traverse the
streams of the dreamers
and are in tune
with the vibrations
made by the heartstrings
of former lovers

i believe in ghosts in
that simple way: they
haunt from the discarded
molecules of their flesh
when once they walked
and felled clothes
and touched doors
and breathed into linens

these small bits of souls
shed as easily as my
lover shed her clothes
enter their dormancy
and wait for a future
listener who will
catch them in an
unsuspecting moment

they haunt not from
a pouty rage, but as
a way to reconnect with
that of the living;

they want nothing more
than to be fleshed
again and making
love or leaving rooms
or crying into palms
or applying make up

my lover's left garments
i scoop up and pour
into a washing machine that
will spin out the dirt of
a day, but her mark
is already made

in a future,
they will smell her and
feel the heat of her and
taste the salt of her and
picture the curve of her hips
and hear her breathing at night

the way i love
to know her
she will haunt
them

Thursday, July 13, 2017

the lily, for good



























i recognized the face
of the girl who passed
away recently and to
whom friends were
writing messages of love
and loss across the sterile
wires

we went to high school
together, i'm sure of it,
yet we never spoke and
today the idea of that
leaves me in an echo
chamber with my own
clanging sorrows

i sit and ponder
the face of a woman,
once fully-fleshed and
smiling, who smiles now
no more

whose flesh is forever
seized and withering
but whose soul has been
released to the eternal ether
of the breath of the Goddess
to be re-breathed some day

what changed for her?
- i wondered this -
what transpired that she
be taken now and not later?
what thin variance came
to alter her path?

outside our living room
window stands a congregation
of gilded lilies, weighted
down by a spritz of raindrops
that fell the night before

i imagine the droplets
as souls sent on a call from a
god made caustic for having to
release his children to their
deaths in the name of sacrifice

and they all fell
freely in that darkness,
millions of them across
my small universe

and came to rest
on blades, petals and paths;
steal, rock, and the wool
of the animals in our
pasture

no prescription given,
no forthright agenda
but to descend in earnest
to us here and make whatever
change was open to their
impact

each of them
willing participants
in a ritual of
enlightened
love-offering

their cause known
to no one, no thing,
no beast, not even
to each other

i believe that
my lover, my most
sacred familiar,
is opening

the warmth of
a newly discovered sun
perhaps or the nutrients of
a freshly tilled
earth are pushing
her to flower
anew

without my hand
so much this time
and i stay awake
in reverie of her
new growth
but fearful of my
own waning
influence

i observed the
petals of a particular
lily in our garden
whose flesh was now
dotted with these
felled jewels

and my eye caught
one single droplet
clinging to the lip
of the lily's petal
and i stayed it with
the shutter of my
camera

i've since returned
to my writing and
wonder now what
would become of that
single crystal bead
whose passage began
in the dark with a single
mission and ended in that
precarious hang

will it have fallen
to the grass below
and nurtured something
there, leaving the
lily to her other
agents? and will that
reduce her chances
of flower? will it ruin her?

i think too of the girl
now gone, and wonder
what element might have
collided and clung to her
then fallen away and taken
with it a different fate

and whether had i spoken
to her in a long-ago
past might have favored
her and her own glassy
droplet of life in some way

or if i take a
picture of my lover
i can arrest her
in her frame and
preserve what i think
she is ought to be

and then i'm
reminded:

i must not indulge
fantastic thoughts
about the power of
my own influence
over the cosmic
and the chaotic

the wind blows
and the rain comes
after all, no matter
how i wave my hands

and that i am
not outside of this
but deep within

and the girl is changed
and the lily is
and my lover too

and me

yes. yes of course

Sunday, July 2, 2017

love is curtains toward a view





























i'm waiting for my turn
on the stage with
the seashell footlights
shining silhouettes
against a cream-colored
scrim

i'm waiting my spotlight -
how can it be so
not simple?

i sit in a bedroom
with white curtains,
a fan oscillating on
a desk, cooling my fever
while behind me is the
bed in which we
made love last night

i can't make my art today
for the humidity and
the brawling children who
are hateful with the heat

you can go,
she says - go
upstairs, you can
go - write

if i were a play's
hero-character today
i would be the one
who left his dreams
for a lover who
hated the lips of life
and sucked from him
passion

until he found the
love in the light of
a caress in the dim
hallway of a theater
playhouse, his
breath stopped
for the sake of
renewal then

my lover told me
recently she might
take up smoking
as a way to lose weight
and my first impression
was how sexy it would
be to watch her purse her
lips around the end
of a cigarette and take
seductive draws

the way women used to
look to me in the movies
of the 40s when
i feigned sickness in
order to skip school
to watch classic movies
on my grandmother's
cable television

behind the white curtains,
out an old screened
window, across a variable
way, is a barn standing fast:
an empty assertion of age
and history

in the leading man
of a show i would make
them all laugh and cry
and they'd send me telegrams
by the fistfuls
if we're following this
sort of nostalgic current

the barn was painted
last year for the old
man who lives there,
who looks out his
window frequently toward
our house, i wonder if he
feels a pull in the
heart when he watches us
making love, missing
his own life-love lost years
ago

the idea makes
me sad and watching
the curtains float
makes me want to
curl beneath the
sheets behind me
and smell her

sometimes love
is curtains toward a
view we're afraid
to see, waving -
sadly parting,
while a fan manufactures
a breeze that we can't feel

that's not true,
i'm being moody
and infatuated with
pity as i sit here

the curtains are
irrelevant

we'll make love
again tonight
and tomorrow
and in a dream,
afterward, i'll
give my monologue
in the dark to
great applause while
she smokes

Sunday, June 11, 2017

be present



how do i approach the edge
of my everything and leap with the
conviction of a man in search
of a fickle faith?

i am the promises
and the comfort of things
i offer to a select few,
but beyond that i am
mostly deferred by the
dead and living among me

who dog me
as spirits chase the
frenzied man
into corners of
vacated houses

i want that i should
go sightless into that abyss
like a sea captain commands
his ship into the night gale;
his is the power of a
man twice possessed

to leap is to say yes
and to say yes is to bow
to it all; the fear of it
consuming you is what holds
me fast to my line

i know
i know...
tell me though again
with your lips to my ear
and i will leap

faith is a chemical
reaction in the fiber of
the soul, breaking you
down as rain does to
wood left in a pile in a
fallow field

it lulls everything to
earth, founders the erect,
breaks your cells down so
that in time
you are absorbed into a
magnificence made of the
minerals of life

i'm open to it
because i know the
truth of you is in its germ;

because the future
lingers there with you
and just how spectacular
this horizon is when your
arms remain wide to my
reception!

faith is listening to
the flower suckle
the rain

it is tasting the
crimson blood of
the virgin

it is smelling the
air after a storm
has prowled the land

it is touching the
fertile moss hidden in the
hollow of a fallen tree

it is seeing
you when you are
not in front of me

spirit me here
to my right place! and be
present and repeat
in my ear
the story with
your fine faithful
breath

any story

i don't care

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

the soul is the master of itself

he frets:
what passion is this that
comes dawning over my horizon
like a prowling feline?

i am unawares
and ill-prepared, my
heart now inflated,
my mind thrown into flux

make it stop!
(but stop it slow)
make it cease!
(but fill me first)

i'd say to him: consider
every new love is an 
exercise in delicate variations
of chaos, its violence truth to the core

he paces in a stir and says
to the muse who brought him
here: i don't know but i'm alive
it's you! it's you! bless├ęd you!

but i'm torn, have i gone too far?
but maybe not far enough? i've been
struck by this and it's sent me into
undulating fits of joy and fear

i'd suggest to him: you see,
you want to master
the reigns to something
God set wild in The Beginning

you desire to be
transported just deep enough
then halt at the line you've
heeled in the sands of your heart

yet the soul is the master
of itself, boundless, and
it holds what it holds and gives
back to the universe unbound

and it humors none who'd
be its champion, beguiles
those who would attempt
to beguile it with reason

so know that if you leaped
(and you leaped, you leaped)
you did so with the wonderment
of a man soul-seduced

and while a breathless descent is the
expectation: a short, furious
fall ended by the impact of
colliding stars,

if you listen, open your
eyes, breathe, and feel
the pull from without
and the heat from within

you will realize that
the world leaped from you
in the moment this passion
came to play

you have the lover
now in an airy sway above
the cosmos, so dance
with her

and leave love to its
uncontrollable devices

Thursday, June 1, 2017

little. league

i remember matty
from little league who'd
broken his arm from
elbow to wrist
while going after a
sharp grounder to short,
how he wailed in the
dust of the infield while
we players all looked on

i stood absently in left
field watching the chaos
of running grown ups
and seeing the faces
go white as the boy was
carried off the field
by his father, who let
a cigarette dangle between
his lips, the smoke slipping
soundlessly across his son's
pinched face

a week later the cast
was already covered with
the scrawled names of matty's
favorite teammates and girls
from school and it was the color of
dirt and the left field grass where
he'd been relegated

his father
fired obscenities at the
coach as much as the ump
in that game, don't think
he didn't

'for christ's sake paul,
he can still play,
it's his glove hand,
he can squeeze it -
squeeze the glove, matty! -
why is he out there
in the fucking reeds,
paul?' and later, he told the
plate ump he was
a blind piece of shit

matty had replaced me
in left, so now i was
out of the lineup altogether
and that was okay with
me, i couldn't hit
and the coach never
looked at me without a
scowl

so
i sat the bench and watched
the drinking-buddy
fathers of the team's most
favored kids strain the third base
line chain-link fence and
smoke and bark at their boys and
slap the asses of their wives

later
we marched in the
memorial day parade, the
favored boys in a rowdy boast
in the front led by matty while
i hung back, told the shortest always
carries the team banner alone

the baking heat bore down
on the bills of our caps and on
our necks while a gangling high school
senior played taps and my father
took a picture of me with his
instamatic and waved

after the reading of
Flanders Fields and the
jolting fire of the rifles and the
inaudible prayers by clergy we
ate ice cream from round cups while
matty thumped his cast against the
porch railing of the vfw

'it don't hurt,' he said to
us, swinging the arm down
and letting the cast bounce off
'i could hit you in the
head, Turner, and it would only
hurt you, not me at all,' and the other
boys laughed, their faces
turned to see if i would say
anything: mount a defense

that was the defenseless summer
when matty's boys looked at
me and laughed most days
and i did not tell my own father how
i hated baseball, my father who stood
apart, on the first base side, away from
what he called the smoking drunks.
i sat in the dugout ashamed at myself
too much to look at him

'how come he doesn't play
you?' he once asked and i
shrugged. 'would you like
me to say something?'
no
no
god no

at the vfw
i did not say anything and matty
said 'pff' and dismissed me with the
casted arm and the
boys laughed, goaded by
a bloating sun

i walked the mile and a half
home alone in my Norway
Cardinals baseball jersey so that my father
did not have to wait with my mother
in the heat while i had ice cream

and as i walked i wished
i had a harder face turned toward life,
hard as a smoking drunk or a boy
with the bravura of a fearless bull

i wished i had a broken arm in a cast
and not such a broken head

Friday, May 26, 2017

i yearn for the unveiling release

i yearn for the unveiling release
of the artist who can open life
with the stroke of
the brush against canvas

she paints with blood,
and each approach is the
forfeit of her virginity
again and again

such an artist longs for
an appreciation of her
existence and must stand
naked before the canvas,
ready to give birth -
a rendering on the weave
of her pale womb

and the pains of it are
tidal, each stroke
a violent lashing
against the quay
built with chaos

i have an image of her
in her flesh holding the
instrument of her art
while i burn in my place

i consume her
while she stands
there, devour her
with hungry teeth
sunk slowly

if i truly risked it i
would press against her,
in her nakedness, and
beg to feel the pulse
of it in the skin

her head tilted, hair pulled up,
neck serene, the flesh
risen to the touch
of each purgative stroke
of the hand

how the hips stay square,
the feet apart, the shoulder
of the working arm tense,
the bicep and forearm
taut, and from heel
to finger tip a shuddering

and all of her everything
transferred at once to the
flat canvas now made round,
made deep, made open
by her deliberate pressure

i would beg to feel that
energy as a hand searches
for the heat of the
sun-bathed stone after
a cold swim

she paints not what
she sees, if she is being
true, but what she feels in
the rhythms of her
surrender: life beneath the life

i am jealous of
such an artist, clothed
as i am and remaining
clothed as long as i
drown in my fear

Monday, May 8, 2017

her smile is the thing


my mama, she holds the puppy
in one of her black and white histories
and her smile is the thing

a bare-footed gypsy in the 
early years of her epoch,
building up those resistances

i think i might believe that 
that smile is for me-in-waiting, 
because i called for her even then

her youngest child, who
would be heir to her runty,
her lush lips and lank

and i would be picked on for it
during the early school years,
but she loved the hell out of me

the best way she knew how,
with her little body and 
deep well of blood-fever passions

there is everything in that 
picture that needs to be to 
tell her future

the uncomely summer dress,
whose hem is soiled by the
daily drag on the ground,

gives voice to a life in the 
shade of a forced frugality
on a teacher's salary

the toes in the dirt sing to
a future of days treading an
eternal path of stones and ruts

the arms, in a desperate clutch,
cry to a soul made out of the
effusion of a heart's radical charity

but her smile is the thing,
the beacon for so many of
life's migratory love-makers

who will find themselves
on a reckless sea, thrown and
imperiled, raging and raw

her smile will cast out and
in that sweep, capture them and
hold them fast for a better port

i know this as much
as i know those small hands
and tranquil, sufficient lips

my mama, who played
in the dirt with her bare
feet and hands and who

grew up wanting me in
her womb and loving me
in her wondrous way

felt no poverty but that
which was poorly placed
at her feet by others

i have her smile

i have her smile

Friday, May 5, 2017

lost joy found

i see in you a flicker of the joy
that hides now in the well of this grown man
a flame lit when he was an active boy
a prince of all the fields in which he ran

a certain seed was planted in the rows
within the hallowed virtues of his youth
it is with love and life that something sows
to bring to fruit the wellspring of his truth

and in a time he sees the goodness drowned
by all the labors of the evil kind
who whisper death to joy without a sound
and swallow all the passions of the mind

but now i've found the courage to be brave
and rescue this: a flame from certain grave



Tuesday, May 2, 2017

the love of many

i'd wish for you a second lover's lips
to sing the praise of your passion's passion,
for the largess of your engulfing love,
how it spills from founts to
overtake the seas

love is not a bound volume, to be spent
judiciously or loaned with the frugality of
the moneylenders, but a thing refreshed by
the vitality and desire of the giver, who cannot
stem the tide any more than cease her heart

i'd wish for you a third lover's lips
to suckle at the bosom of your
engorged wants and soothe
the oppression of the constricting
vestments of the prepossessed

drowning those who would march in arms
against the native urges and authentic
conscience transfused to us from the
Original Mother, yet suppressed in the name
of a specious piety

and i will remain your first lover,
your primary, lips uttering a prayer
to the Goddess of the Divine Universe,
asking for Her blessings on us on
the eve of this embarkation

to entreat her with a question: how
does one divorce oneself from the
flock of the sedated, and approach
the true divine, the epic universe whose
manifold nature is the model for love?

for there is no sin in the love of many
so long as the lovers partake in a feast of
harmony with their eyes equal to the
same horizon and the sun, at her zenith,
illuminating all

there is a moral chisel against convention,
a subterranean river that cuts through
the hard rock as veins beneath the
surface of the skin, pulsating with the
genuine power of the soul

the heart has more than one chamber,
after all, and a multitude of ways
in which one approaches her and leaves
her, bringing life to her and carrying life from
her, and her strength is in the love of many

i'd wish for you a life of lovers, on a
migration toward the source of light,
gifting what you have in abundance,
to unlock all the gates so that it will

flow openly as it was meant to be

Saturday, April 22, 2017

no pyre

i'm minding the folly
of my own conceit
that burns in my
breast for men whose
art i envy

in life's balance the
gifts of the creators
are pyres set upon
their mountains
and lit for all

burning the corpses
of their creations
to let the ash rain
down upon the heads
of all receivers

in my darkest
i have fallen into
a valley and the
summits rise up to
cast me in their shade

and urged by malcontent
i scale their jagged
slopes to gain the
peaks and douse the
flames that burn me

such is the blindness that
befalls a man who loses the
sight of his own vistas and
comes to rely only on his
feet to move

a man whose jealousy
has embalmed the
spirit of his creator and
wrapped him in the swathe
of self righteousness

and on the last scaled mount,
turning 'round to check my
progress, i see the fires are lit
anew and sending up great
plumes once again

except mine, which stands alone,
unfired and distant, cold and cast
in the clouds of neglect and
wanting the return of its master
to bring the fire back

Sunday, April 16, 2017

one hundred thousand thousand and one

every moment now is past
and therefore marked and
the names for each are etched
onto melodic strands that
you drop into a jar

one hundred thousand
thousand and one marked
moments that make the jar
a perfect measure

of the virtuous time
and pleasant peace
and tidal epic that you
once shared

the jar a wide-mouthed
ewer of crystal that you
place upon the window sill
of your aggrieved mind

and when you reach into
that blessed chamber
you swirl, with a child's
fingers, the dowry within

because a good man gifts
a daughter a certain trove
of one hundred thousand
thousand and one blessings

that no other can read
or attain or approach
or wash away or believe in
or dispel or ruin

what is yours is the memory
fashioned between the two
of you singly and without
the authority of others

and in a day, any day, most
nearly every day, you will
hear the words singing to you
as echoes in a deep wood

you will reach into your glassy 
globe, your crystal keep,
and swirl the subjects with
a child's devoted fervency

and let a word come to
your hand in a magical
fortuity and pull it out
to give it renewed breath

one of a one hundred
thousand thousand and one
wonders will sing in your palm
once again

as if you were back there
in the moment it was born
and he will be there as if
sitting beside you

and you will feel as
if the time has not fleeted,
has not been spent, has not
rolled on, but rather has hesitated

hovering in a small place
just for you in this conceding
luminescence in which God has 
allowed you to once again bask

before replacing the thing,
the gift, back into that
place in your jar
on the sill of your mind

i knew not the man,
or the name of the far-sighted
sprite that you birthed
together, father and daughter

but that is why it is yours alone,
your one of one hundred thousand
thousand and one time-woven
remnants of life's labors together

Thursday, April 13, 2017

jennifer's sonnet


i sit to write a psalm of spring and love
when morning sun has made her light be shone
through frames of glass and cast from up above
this violent view has left me all alone

a crooked thing that bleeds into my room
was once the purest form of all that's true
the sun, a bride, and life her lovely groom
are separate now in time and rent askew

a friend whose sister's breath was taken fast
is witness to the evil of the game
that slants the light and life when giving pass
and takes its toll when filtered through the frame

the pain of death is how it foils the heart
by taking light and breaking her apart

Saturday, April 8, 2017

body in the river


it was the beginning of april
and the local river had glutted her
banks and shouldered away a man
who'd jumped from the bridge.

when i met a lover who
was a poet and who told me
she was put on this earth
only to change people.

she had full lips,
which is all i
cared to know
about at the time.

she believed also in past lives
and claimed that her prima persona
had originated in 19th
century eastern europe.

i told her, when she asked
what moved me, that i mostly
loved the Byrds, Simon and Garfunkel,
and much of the Dead.

so she wrote a poem
for me that claimed
we'd met on a battlefield
of vietnam as medics, lovers.

it called me, the way an open
door at the end of a dark hallway
calls to a child sprung
from the throes of a nightmare

so i leaped

she smoked a lot and had
experimented with drugs while
attending an ivy league
college and she was an impatient lover.

her mouth was too big
for her face, i thought, and
she said she distrusted men who
spent too much time on foreplay.

but we played it out
all the same, met and
engaged, pitched forward
and back fully.

the snow had been
rained down to weak,
fallow patches in various
spots along the road.

every walk alone outside
smelled like overturned
soil and the renewal
of past conversations.

i found myself walking
a lot those days
and not bothering
to wear a coat

because i wanted to
feel the bite of
the spring wind in
my feverish bones.

the kind of jarring waking
up that comes with
the hard resetting
of a runaway furnace.

or like the plunge in
december waters after an
immersion in the purity
burn of hot springs.

i told her i cared about her,
but i didn't really;
i agreed with her that
we should run away,

but told myself: only to a field
in vietnam, or the capital
city of lithuania before its
fall to the imperial russians;

a long-off escape
in a distant separation
with that cold wind
i felt now stinging the eyes;

to some place
just enough out of the
reach of my own
feeble, dying imagination;

to convince myself that she
was as romantic and
as important to me
as she was to herself.

she didn't love me -
i knew that;
she loved how
the smoking bothered me

but that i didn't complain;
that i had not been to europe
like her; that she had a degree,
unlike me;

that she had expansive stories
and an exotic history
and a resume written
at the knee of the literati.

she teased me about
my unimaginative domesticity,
my narrow, provincial reference,
my impairing lack.

and after that brief
fire, when june came,
she was gone in a
bland ceremony.

against our wills, somewhat,
but not really, and for the best;
i walked the banks of the river
afterwards, from the opposite way.

the cold wind was
gone, the blood back
down to a reasonable
temperature.

they found the body of the
man in a downriver town, bloated
and bobbing, run aground among driftwood.
changed.

i can't listen to the
Byrds anymore;
the Doors, the Stones -
without feeling transposed

i heard years later that
she had a husband and children,
lived in some city as a wife
and no longer writes poetry

i do

Monday, March 27, 2017

Keep digging. You might just find yourself....


P.S. The content on these pages is copyrighted. You need permission from the author to reproduce anything in total or in part. 

thank you for your support

The book continues to get rave reviews. 

And Corrine and the kids couldn't be more proud.

Thank you to my readers. 


All of you.


"Your book came!"





Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The new book has dropped!



The new book, "the girl who loved dorothy the most," is now available for orders through Amazon.com or by contacting your local book store.


the girl who loved dorothy the most