And There I Stood…


And there I stood
at the threshold of infinity,
wondering when
the tides would cease to swerve,
when the moon would
turn to face me and weep,

when the lighthouse
would become darkened
by the sempiternal emptiness
of unanswered questions.
And then I chose a star to hold,
to cherish and protect as the path takes on new direction.
I speak to a destiny that radiates possibility,
that dissipates the tribulations of yore
and casts them into the pond
where I once thought the answers awaited me.
And here I sing robust melodies
bejeweled with red stones,
warm and smooth to the touch,
filled with a luscious silence, a knowing.
The future reveals an exploding genesis,
its particulates raining upon my head
down my face, attached to my song,
christened by the scintillations

emanating from my bosom.

Art: “Blue”
Wassily Kandinsky

A Spindle Emerges…


A spindle emerges
And worlds retreat into unknowing
On all sides.
The vortex has been reborn
And it figures into the life of spaces
Turgid with the fallen heroes of reminiscence
And motion inflamed.

And around it goes,
Taking time with it and dissolving it
Into hollow particles that move along
Slightly curved corridors
One by one, after a fashion.
And blackened thoughts
Begin to coalesce.

The corridors straighten out
And empty into vacuums of potential being
Sealed by a single, winding thread of excess darkness
Occasionally punctuated by iridescent
Moments of awareness.
Clarity happens best when edges are
Seared and smoothed out,

Connected by the wings of galactic angels
And cosmic vagabonds that sprint in every direction.
Tonight they will all break free
And be seen no more.
The vortex will be shattered and consumed,
Spaces will bend until collapse,
But memories will resume, fully-realized, on all sides.

Art: “Constellation: The Migratory Bird”
Joan Miró

In Time (2010)


We shall reflect upon the meaning of our disgrace,
Grasping truth unencumbered by blinded eyes.
Fugitive moments eagerly await the call of memory’s trace,
To stand before the day duly countenanced by obscurity’s demise.
We’ll hasten to discard every cloak and vain disguise,
And submit to all that the interest of honesty requires.
We’ll journey through forbidden caves of deceit and compromise,
Abducting strange thoughts, denuding secluded desires.
Fate guards the door of timeless secrecy to which our crime aspires,
Every path to resistance impeded by overgrown weeds of shame,
Ravished by the guilt that remains long after the fact expires,
We kneel wearily at the feet of judgment, ignominious passions with no name.
We are what virtue has disavowed.
We are what freedom has disallowed.

Art: “Les amoureux aux clair de lune”
Marc Chagall

Take my final utterance…


Take my final utterance
and disperse it below,
avoiding the mention of heathens
hanging by the edges of
denuded moonlights and visions
steeped in worry for the possibility
that refused the piercing psalm
of the one-eyed cockcrow.

Consume this docile flower
with my laughter in mind,
and the slight stroke of your hand
against where my face used to be.
Recall the quiet sway of brittle trees
poised for celebratory gyrations
in honor of disjointed myths
and weather-beaten pantheons

of mindless gods.

Art: “La bonne aventure”
René Magritte

Sweet Resignation


Sweet resignation,
And all that needed to be said
Funneled into my chest
With a touch of liquid resentment.
Joy calls out beyond the edifice
Of vain thoughts.
Weltschmerz is a boiling stream that
Runs through the swarthy
Steppes of frozen sky.

Name one reason to
Sing the tunes of rats and
Transform them into fairies,
And I will give you my words,
Followed by my darkened vision.
Losing earth is a lot like
Making love unbalanced,
Jolts of fire and recompense
Interspersed with naked heavings
Quickly sated without cause or method.

Abduct my memories
And carve them into sprightly wings.
Before I take flight,
Dedicate my listless heart to
The city’s edge,
Where some yearnings failed to sprout,
And others continue to grow.
Remember the dusty pathway to the
Only open window to the
House on moonlit creek.

Art: “Sunset, West Twenty-Third Street”
John French Sloan

Excise me from your womb…


Excise me from your womb
And guide me through
Shifting plenitudes of dust
Redolent of those jagged moments
When fiery wreaths were hung in silence
But still ruled the day.

Sift me, then scatter me on all sides
As your lips begin to blow and cast
My name into deciduous glass
And candied trees that refuse to melt.
Make way for tomorrow
When toothless gnomes make love
As universal peace awakens,

Walks to the Sun and back,
Sits down and thinks itself blind.

Art: “Scissors and Butterflies”
Francesco Clemente

I have awaited your arrival…


I have awaited your arrival
With anticipation and acid.

Douse this body
I have prepared for you
With both, until the color of pain begins to show.

Stretch it vigorously
Until its knees begin
To give way.

Journey until success is no more,
And walls begin to crumble.
Make known my nakedness

Unto an unsuspecting Moon.
Burn marks visible.

Art: “The Storm”
August Macke



I am on the lam.

My glory.
Everywhere I go I am pursued.
I am a self-perpetuating offense.
I must escape.
Funny farm, but with no cows or jokes,
just cold brick, locked doors, high fences and stifled dreams.
And needles too.
Can’t get away from here.

A little girl recounts a sad, lowly tale of a lost slipper.
A dapper little pink and white marshmallow she is.
I am frustrated.
So is she by the way her face cringes grotesquely like a hybrid angel-goblin.
But her story matters. Does mine? To another?
Visited by Lazar the rep, with whom I had spoken to earlier on the phone.
Sound familiar?
Taller than I took him to be.
Lean with an aura of self-imposed dignity.
The smell of his lambskin coat intoxicates me.
A clean, brisk, tight musk permeates my soul.
I was busy at the time.
Roxanna, ah yes, she has a story as well.
She has grown into a voluptuous jardinière, topped with a bit of perky aplomb that arouses.
Everyone has a damn story.

Someone responded to me finally.
Taken apparently by my obscure wit.
Quitting this guy’s church, my offering is paltry but he didn’t have to make it known to everyone.
A gaunt man with robotic features wearing a jacquard apron trails me wherever I go.
Too bad I am stuck here in this place with him.
“Do they know you in this place,” he asks.
Getting late, time for a little shopping.
A sepia-toned silhouette at the checkout window engaged in a spirited conversation with an attentive and apprehensive other.
‘Tis the end of something (school, work, freedom, not sure).
Got into a fight with P.J. from grade school.
A hulking mammoth of a man.
Still has that lazy eye.
I’ll fain give him another.
Oh yeah and that other P.J. needed his ass kicked as well.
That crimson beast, that moose-eyed supercilious bohemian outdoorsy son-of-a-bitch.
Yeah, that one.
How crazy is that!
Damn, late for class. Not gonna take the test.
Screw it.

Janice singing and testifying, taking up the whole sermon with her greasy gesticulations, her sanctimonious theatrics.
Give her a stage for the Pharisees.
Old Buzz from the call center clowns around in the seat next to me.
Flirting with some corpulent bubble of a woman with studded nails, as if it mattered.
Some resistance there.
I give up.
Damn late for class again.
No work to turn in either.
Eight weeks behind.
A year and nothing to show for it.
Hardly anyone on the big six-wheeled multi-passenger Cadillac today.
Probably because yesterday was a holiday. Most are still in varying stages of recovery.
I see, I see…Hey wait a sec!
Why the hell am I driving this animal?
I’m a bit nervous.
Swerving but maintaining control.
Steady as she goes!

My nerves are wracked; my hole in the heart has gotten wider.
So wide that it is violated at will by spirits with oblique intentions.
Heather from the hospital shares her story.
I like her story the best.
What an adorable woman.
I cannot resist.
I want to melt into her faster than an ice cube cast into the springs of Hades (a nice vacation spot I hear).
I am going from classroom to classroom, picking off guileless soldiers and soldierettes, and those who dare to get in my way.
I am a machine, again.
This time for real.
Or maybe not.
Where’s my piece?
It may not be here, but the intent is undeniable, as my soul jerks back and forth with passion moving with the threat.
On offense.

Navy installation.
Half suited up, half in pajamas.
I don’t care.
Shosty’s Sting Quartet number 8.
A beautiful tragedy for the beautiful people.
Maybe for the exceptional among the base-born as well.
They are after me again.
Same half-renovated building, same rickety elevators.
Same metallic taste of tap water.
15th floor, no 16th is safer.
Less exposure, but harder getting down.
Nowhere is safe.
Prescription drug recall?
You can’t be serious.
Insolent service rep (who isn’t?)
Forms to sign.
Maybe I’m leaving after all.
Can’t walk straight.
I think I left my neurons in a mason jar on the LCSW’s desk.
This desk is new.
New staffer too.  Very articulate.
I am probably safe now, or probably all the closer to destiny.
An old man to my right is going through the same rounds as I am.
Not so alone anymore.
Not so pursued I guess.
Apartments, the paint fumes are bold, robust, but I still kiss them like I would have kissed Heather.
Tree-lined streets.
Baby Jonathan is all of three now.
Can’t believe so much has passed.
He’s so cooperative now, and smart too.

Art: “Relativity”
M.C. Escher

The Spirit makes its rounds…


The Spirit makes its rounds,
It warbles and gyrates.
It graces my hand.
It bends, glides, swishes,

But it doesn’t see me, yet.
For I am not ready.
It will come back soon.
And then it will engulf me,

Perhaps while I am asleep.

Art: “La Branche de Prunier, fond ocre”
Henri Matisse

We dangled…


We dangled
From insistent shadows
With unciform fingers.

Leapt across yawning
Interstices of moments
Barely closed in on themselves,

Knee-deep in molten latticework
We may adjourn here
For the while.

We recall stories of
Nascent stones, completely dry
And brittle to the touch.

We will eat them,
And will roll about the
Contours of these meadows

Awash in the coolness
Of a dawn sanctified
By its own forgetfulness.

Art: “Snow in October”
Tom Thomson