The mule was braying
by the weathered fence
Telling the sparrows,

“We can only love
as much as we hate

There is only as much peace
as there is rage.”

The plump passerines flew about,
lovely, looping, laughing
twitters on summer air.

Until the mule
sad and hurt, watched them
away

“we can only find
what we lose”

he said to no one
not even me.

Oh Platypus, where are you?
Your mother sent a message
that you are lost, and I love you
too much to forget your kiss

The spur that left me longing
for just a little bit of death
is a love I can not forget.

Oh Platypus, where have you gone?
I left you there, happy and eggless
in the shallows where the water
was a warm place to forget the world.

The spur slid into my arm
as I lifted you up for a kiss
how could I ever forget you?

Oh Platypus, where could you be?
Mother sent a message, and told me
that you are lost, you are lost, but
i love you. Do not forget me.
Please.

Suppose I cracked open my head and a thousand images drained out onto the concrete. Suppose you could see religion in the blood and atheism in the brain cells. Suppose my left leg twitched one last time before I was gone, and it sounded like a little breeze through the cat o’ nine tails?

Would you write that poem?

a soul is a boneless basil covered chicken thigh
in a mushroom sauce. first the chicken is sauteed
to fill the pain with flavor, then mushrooms added
to brown them just a tiny bit, before the broth
soaks them.

it is served with wild rice, buttered and salted,
and steamed asparagus.

If you don’t understand, first, how the soul is made
then it is nearly impossible to comprehend
the nature of forgiveness, of gratitude and of course
love.

I recommend the chardonnay with that, or
if you are like me, perhaps too wild, have a smoke
and a large bit of brandy

savor every bite, every moment
until even the moon forgets what you ate
and why.

the street was dark
the girl was wearing a miniskirt
the buick was speeding
the cat ran across from driver’s side to passenger’s side
the road was slick with wet leaves
the kid had his seatbelt on
the police took forever to get there
the ambulance driver puked
the two telephone poles were both broken
the smell of cooked flesh hung in the air
the radio was blaring
the other kid tossed something out the window
the sound of broken glass was hard to hear
the other cars slowed, but didn’t stop
the coroner was there an hour later.

whatever willy said

This is the thing, suppose the night were a pumpkin pie
hurriedly eaten bit by bit by little ants that spit
it out into little piles of goo, and the days
supposedly were you on a yellow bulldozer, pushing

in all the ants and all the goo into giant piles

transformed so that you couldn’t
hardly tell which nights were which and what ant was what – even the
illusion of pie disappears like some sort of enormous
needle in a galaxy devoid of anything resembling
knowledge of the spirit.

Imagine, for a moment that the bodies of the ants dissolve
slowly in their own juices and the smell of pumpkin.

Hope means nothing to them, the night
is lost in the boundless piles you’ve made for
some unknown reason. You can’t separate
the parts from the whole, or even discern each from the
other anymore. Dreams are neither pie nor bulldozer nor ant.
Realize,
you have determined the shape of all you see, and it means nothing.

I do not see the kitten on the wall, twisting in the leaves of fall,
Maple seed that spins to ground, from high to low without a sound!
It’s still too hot to dream of frigid air, perhaps I’m still too young to dare?
That damned kitten, she’s still unknown; In summer’s heat I dream alone.

Some wicked man with an orange cat, is sure to laugh but not at that;
He knows the pain of softest fur, the poetry of the things that were
before a boy knew true desire, and only loved some kitten’s sire.

Tiger, Tiger, burning Keats? Nay lad there are rhymes far more complete
Let go the little deaths in prayer, away with all the pain of care
I do not see the kitten, dear. I only see the breadth of fear
measured in a broken heart, a love unknown – and still apart.

Darling, let me be creative for a moment,
let me tell you a kiss in swahili, so that you believe it
in Russian.

Darling, let me paint you for a moment
let me use colors like maybe and hopefully, so you understand
the relationship between time and space.

Darling, let me sculpt us for a moment,
let me shape us in marble and geographical maps, so that you are wary
of other men you can not place.

Darling, let me write for a moment,
let me describe the universe in mountains and stars, so you can create it
with me.

Romance is a pen without ink
that writes every word in memory
& hopes someone might see
the outline of what they prayed
when they kept on writing.
If it’s anything else, please
hold my hand. Tell me you love me
pray with me for another day
full of food and wine.
If I am right though, give me paper
I will jot all of us down and know
that you know me so well.
Our story there, un-inked
on our two hearts alone.

The silent majority told me to tell you
shut up.

So, I’m going to tell you, It’s ok,
I love you.

The silent majority told me to tell you
go away.

So I’m going to tell you, stay with me,
I love you.

The silent majority told me to tell you
they hate you.

So I’m going to tell you, it’s ok,
I love you.