red
on the handle of a sword
a butterfly

the heaviest shovel-full
of october snow
melting last

a red leaf dances
down the long city street
unnoticed.

I remember the sound of Mary’s voice
as she screamed at her brother
” Get your ass in here and do the damned dishes.”

I remember her dark hair in the brown recesses
Of a poorly designed kitchen with an avocado fridge

I remember the color of Mary’s lips
as she told me she was going to move away
to Cincinnati or Peoria or somewhere warm,
“I deserve better than this,” she said.

I remember her brown eyes in the dark shadow
of a short hall between the dining room and creaking stairs.

I remember the hurt in Mary’s eyes
as she saw how unattractive she really was
in my eyes. waddling up to bed
alone.

I remember her.

The key to Cleopatra is not in the men she bedded
or the asp that took her life,
it is in the mystery of beauty.

I see her silhouetted against the centuries
a fine greek nose, a curve of hip
echos of her voice in Shakespeare
her dark hair still in the breeze of ages

Perhaps, the poetry of her words
became little Caesar,
became reason enough to kill her?

Beauty is to hard a thing to break
to chisel out – even with time –
and time has revealed her
harder still.

It was surely a hot day in Egypt
when she kissed the snake,
cold blooded, sharp toothed, dry skinned,
choosing her fate
not accepting it.

Perhaps, the poetry of her choices
became the seed of destruction
in the new empire?

Beauty is a hard thing to break
to saw and shape – even with tools –
and time has all the power
of her tools.

I see her, clearly, over miles and time
staring out into rage of destiny
wearing courage like a jewel on her heart
forgoing the frippery of hope
for the finery of faith.
I see in her the certainty,
beauty does not break.

I belong in Massachusetts
because Florida is too flat and nasty
because New York’s attitude pisses me off
because California is plastic and cracked
because Virginia is the wrong shape
because Oklahoma is cruel
because Colorado is square
because Minnesota is … Minnesota?
I belong in Massachusetts.

Let me tell you about love:
Love is the the smallest flea
waiting to leap from the head of a pin
nothing more than this, nor
less. If you believe love is larger,
perhaps you do not understand
how large a flea is? if you believe love
is smaller, perhaps you understand
less. One day, it will leap.
You will not see or hear or know
where it has gone, when it left,
if it will come back, but still
you feel its bite. If you think love
is more than the feel of its bite
that it has heft, then tell me
how much it weighs. On your mind
love weighs less than the flea,
in your mind, it weighs more
than all the world. How to deal with this
truth? Be more like the flea,
I suppose, waiting.

All the little slave boys
roam Rome with smiles
greeks and cypriates and moors

All the little slave boys
sing Psalms with smiles
as they run and they laugh and do chores

All the little slave boys
live in small rooms with smiles
as each of them dream and behind cedar doors

all the little slave boys
roam Rome with smiles

my daughter points at heaven
with tiny fingers, and smiles
when she tells me, “beazer’s behind that cloud
daddy.”

my daughter points at her heart
with tiny fingers, and smiles
when she tells me, “he’s a good boy daddy,
i love him.”

my daughter points at a big poof dress
with tiny fingers, and smiles
when she tells me, “this is the one
daddy.”

what sofa breaks under me
with such angry alacrity
I can not dare to tell

but as it breaks unkindly
with a rage behind me
i think i break as well

insanity is a harsh critic of the sober
but a kind nurse to men like me
who wear yesterday like a bonnet
and tomorrow like a tutu

it will be three hundreds seconds before
the first shot is fired across my tongue
releasing my mind to feel
nothing – until then, insanity
i hate you.

when the voices are quiet except
for the soft sound of the football, of bourbon
waltzing on the back my tongue,

i think, then, it is fair to ask for the truth.
until then, it is best to beg
for either a quarter
or a lie.

insanity, it seems, offers neither
and therein lies my problem.

Oh beauty, sing the sunlight
dance the stars and be
the only testament of true love
for the moon and me

Oh beauty, call the mountains
whisper river and tide
the psalm of a truest love
that springs up from inside

Oh beauty, be the ocean
dream the kindly deep
a peaceful breath of true love
a kiss as you’re asleep

Oh beauty, sing the sunlight
dance the stars with me
a poetry of gentle motion
and the full moon’s symmetry