MY FRIENDS AND I, WE STOLE THE SUMMER
My friends and I, we stole the summer
and its rain
in stumbling secret conversation
about the brilliant ways of the city
…all of its joy
and all of its pain!
In a little room I call my friends
and speak of a journey which never ends
while they all disappear
one by one
…and I may be left
…ah what a Pity!
to share my words
with the setting Sun.
Eyes glazed in dumb fatigue
…and thoughts behind
were ill defined
…a thick morass which sank a league
to coral forests made for Hell.
How does a turnip learn to bleed?
How are the sharks and stars aligned
for this great feast of human greed?
But in the end they are!, they are
the destiny of humankind!
WORDS ARE THE 0NE SMALL THING I TRIED
Words tend to fail me!
Outside a forest of ivy climbs
the weedy hills of our yard. Entombed
in dust a nickel shines
upon these mounds and gullies
where come the Fall red sunlight bloomed
and will, for years to come.
The older years are so good
…the eyes upon my lover’s art inside
as the hands in the dark feel wood.
Words are the one small thing I tried
while such visions strike me dumb!
ESSENTIAL DREAMS AND ART
in dancing marks
in fish all full of color
in the market place
or under coral waves
among the sharks
it all comes to our passion
and it all comes to our graves
and matter barely matters
in this, my lover’s sweetly abstract style
a portrait of the self, mine or hers
is what she eats and what she saves
where still lifes heap the platters
with much more than a sense of passing fashion
but with deep flesh
and even deeper soul
…what could be left?
…we are but curs
curling in our cresh
and desperate for our God!
We are but orphan lambs bereft
…and, at evening,
hold each other
….fall asleep and nod.
PARANOID ORPHAN FANTASY
The smell of smoke and methane gas!
…a haunt of trailer ghosts which kill,
those wild weeds growing in the grass
of a lesser will
…a pin prick lessens all such pain
for all such boys grown old too soon
and all such girls
who likewise pass
a test to leave all life behind
and stumble up a concrete step
and enter metal’s thin disguise
and sit in chairs with cigarettes
and gaze upon a midnight rain
and gaze, in fact. beyond such clouds
to life beyond the far side of the Moon!
FROM ONE OF HELL’S MINOR CIRCLES
Smoker puffs for fifty years
trailing aromatic thoughts
makes a dead weight of his tears
barely sighs when all is said
…barely sighs but mostly coughs!
Ceremonies of the dead
…how to live not being there!
Passion’s plum…more wine than bread.
But ah! the lovers in their love!
Not even mad sex can compare!
How could you not be tender?, you
who live among each other’s love
instead of dreaming such sad words
among the flowers and the dew!
CHRISTMAS ON CONTENTNIA STREET
With private moods of calm desire
nights beside a wooden fire
in winters made of long ago
whose youth endured such paths through snow
whose rented room was destiny
…small gifts beneath a naked tree!