This is the darkness
here in the bright sun
as the snow melts – the place of want
where a cold soul grows colder.

All stallions, away!
Beat the path to the sea
and wait for your sire to call.

This is the darkness
here in the damp solitude
as the snow melts – the place of need
where frigid fingers fumble for the proper tool.

Falcon, Fly!
Find pray as you find it
and eat your fill.

This is the darkness
here in the chill first of winter
as the snow melts – the place of loss
where a distant sun scoffs at a distant man.

Away dear heart, Away!
Fly free in search of hope.

i see the beetle boring a hole
into the hurt of the old oak
where grandfather carved a heart

antennae flitting about in a flirt of disaster
a hint, perhaps, that piety is an emptiness
filled by the descent of one into the forgetfulness of all

the sun, high and cold, repeats himself
to the shadows as they dance for him
and him alone until night

six legs clasping to the bark
holding fast those jaws that dig
into the length of such fading life

i see the beetle pause before the pit
bored into the delicate beauty of that ancient tree
under which I kissed my bride

on four legs, a subtle rise to greet my rage
a statement of ennui, perhaps holiness is filling
like a prayer for the well-being of a mortal enemy

the sun, behind a tuft of cloud, obscures himself
before the sullen squish of fingers
then, neither glad nor unhappy, he returns

i see the old oak
before the fall
and cry.

she said, “if you want to write great things
you must think great things”
i thought nothing
of it. I wrote on.

she said, “if you want to think great things
you must read great things”
i read in her eyes
nothing. I wrote on.

she said nothing else,
as I thought about what she said.
I wrote on.

Yes, I am a fraud.
It’s a tragedy, really
I was five, wishing
to be a frog, praying
to be a frog, wanting
to be a frog, until
I said it out loud
and realized what
an odd thing it is
to dream of smooth flesh
of green fresh
of cool joyful diving in
of leaping towards
of singing to
the realization
that I am not
God or a frog
Yes, I am a fraud.

a gnat body on a sill
reminds me
like a prophecy

cold cheese, a summer
sausage seeping oil
like a rusted barrel

a fly corpse on a wood floor
reminds me
like a grocery list

uncorked wine, a spotty crystal glass
with a red ring on the bottom
like yesterday

dirty pajamas on a wicker hamper
reminds me
like a casket

long about the break of two
a closed left eye
a taunt of blues
a raven tressed lass in the nude
in a window
fingers being rude

long about the pass of one
an eye half opened
a brunt of sun
a long locked lass with unlocked gun
in a window
wondering is she done?

long about the thought of three
two eyes open
a leafless tree
a pale-fleshed lass tries to see
from a window
just across from me

long about the hour of four
two eyes closed
a hard slammed door
a raven tressed lass in painted gore
in the window
where she stands no more.

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.