the moon, she stole my soul
tonight, the stars, the endless black
i said to her, beloved one
do not give it back

the moon, she stole my heart
tonight, the stars, each ringing bright
I said to her, beloved one
you are such sweet delight

the moon, she stole my dream
tonight, the stars, each one singing
I said to her, beloved one
what is the future bringing?

the moon, she stole my soul
tonight, the stars, the perfect cold
I said to her, beloved one
passion does not grow old.

suppose i were a turtle
and you the eagle
soaring above
beautiful and bold in the sunlight
dangerous and strong

suppose I were swimming
across the pond
as you saw me from above

would you dive down
snatch me away
and leave me an empty shell

please?

The melody of quanta on the levels
where energy is matter
blisters away the notion
that glassy eyes can shatter

The dancing bits of nothing
collapse into themselves
until a billion billon stars
are as books upon God’s shelves

The footfall of the angels
becomes yesterday in flux
The finger tapping tawdry truth
slides into a dirty bed untucked

The sheets awash in sweet sweet
sweat upon a pointed nose
I’d ask, I promise but you know
nobody really knows

Faith’s a form of beauty
and beauty is what’s real
so ask the almighty something
what does it mean that we all feel

The dancing bits of anything
building into light
until a billion trillion moments
turn each life into delight

the bum on the undergroud
watches people watching
their calendar and the door
to the loo. realizing he is free
to die at anytime. an american
slips on the edge under the trolly
screaming

and that is that, independence
found in the motherland.

it is a holy day
perhaps the yelp was goodbye?

the bum gets up, adjusts
and sits back down. watching
people watching their calendar
of course they do not know
it is the forth of july here too

and that is that, dependence
found in the offspring.

it is a holiday
perhaps the coroner will understand
why the american was here
in the first place.

Mama, I love you.
My middle name is loose
My nose is running
down the street to the elbow
scraped, dashed
a peppering of blood
blue sky retreating,
mama, I love you
Don’t steal my nose
I have a eleven fingers
up the street
one potata
two potata
three potata
four
five potata
six potata
I can’t stand it anymore

Mama, I Love you
I am a sun of a beast
my name is wiggling
my ears waxing prophetic
all the stock in me
has lost
I’m in a pickle
salty
vingar… a brine of boy
hooded and falling
down. Lundging
bridges covered
falling down
Mama, I love you
the smell of cut flowers
the oak box
your first name is Lucy
you have heaven
under your fingers
up up to the blue sky
come back

Mama, I love you.

The world, she don’t need a changin’
The stars they don’t really care
says the Moon all ‘o’ faced and frightened
under a sun that’s hardly aware

The world don’t wan’t rearrangin’
despite what the bees and aunts say
The sun rolls over again and again
but kind words don’t make a new day

The world, she seems quite tired
don’t believe it, she’s teasin’ yer ass
The moon, I think he’s a winkin’
at the sun, ’cause he ain’t got no class

The world, she won’t be a changin’
and the bears can bear the sad tale
But the moon is pock-marked and hurtin’
watchin’ all the little apes fail.

Like every moonlit kiss
that sips the summer breeze
I smlle for you and say just this
“Please, my darling, please”

Like every sunswept endless day
that rolls on ocean’s tide
I laugh for you and then I say
“And as this.. my love’s as wide”

Like every cloudy day apart
that owns the gray between
I smile as I give my heart
and do not tell you what it means

Like every ‘every now and then’
I tell you, “This is love” again

i am thinking of you
and your arm hair
well, technically
not your arm hair
but the idea of your arm hair.

I am thinking of the length
of your arms. the girth of your wrists,
of what they mean
in context.

under raincoat
in the middle of central park
on a thursday
long before we met
before your hair had time
to settle down
from its 80s height.

I am thinking of you
and your arm hair
not so technically, more
conceptually – the philosophy behind
every hair
up to your armpits

I am thinking of the color
of your arms. the shade of your flesh,
the hue that reveals
what you might mean
in context

under clean cotton fabric
cool and in mad love with one summer sun
that seems to stay
for you
warm and kind
and bitter sweet
because it knows
that youth must fade.

I am thinking of your arms
reaching toward the sun
on a perfect day
before we met
before you knew anything
about me.

this is a poem
about long arms
or possibly, short legs
I can’t tell which
because it is only half written
and there’s no invisible lemur
to explain to me
how a poem about long arms
should be written without
feet. I could tear a dactyl
off, or fly in a careful lizardly fashion
Up to the top of the mountain
that was the tallest in the world
40 million years ago. But flying so far
slows down the poetic process
and hurts even the most regularly sized arms.

And I am not an arms dealer.
I deal in hearts
I’m flush with clubs
and give it in spades
until the poem dies.

I mound it all up, all of it,
all of it until
it makes some sense
or it doesn’t.
then I bury it
in your subconscious
and hope you don’t realize
what this really says

inspiration does not come
in bright colors, or long skirts
It wears nothing
and arrives unseen

I tell you this, so that you can run
like stockings
away from the wolf

inspiration does not sing
hymns or carols or dirges
it sings nothing a capella
and you are a fool if you accompany him.

I tell you this, so you can run
like stockings
from a knee to an ankle

inspiration is not silent
except in prayer
but it never prays
on anyone but you.