She walked along the road in bright sunlight
near the railroad bridge, searching
for something in her bag. Her face
wild, her muddy blond hair scrocked about
in every direction but the wind, she glanced
at me as I passed, noting her beauty
silently. She continued over the bridge,
I, the other way. The sun said nothing
to the only cloud for a million miles.

Richard believes in kindness
He sighs as an old lady talks to herself
as she pushes a shopping cart down Merrimack St.
every day.

Paul believes in love
he cries as an old drunk man collapses
in the alley off of Palmer St.
long after midnight.

Mary believes in charity
when she sees a ratty man picking bottles from the gutter
she screams when two youth rifle through her trash
on Riverside St.

I believe in something else
something else
entirely.

I watched the old man on the park bench
wince as he tried to clench a fist
shake his head, dip his his chin,
wipe his brow and eyes with his left hand
then mutter, “life is short, so damned short,
but God, sometimes …”

He looked at me, with a tear in his eye,
his head bobbing in time with the realization,
“sometimes,
it’s not short enough.”

I handed him a five and walked away.

I dream of peacrab running sideays preening
and of turkows moobbling in the field
I dream of the long-necked ravraffe,
black winged and ready to lope among the dead

I dream of Cockertles zipping in the dark places
six-legged and hard-shelled, nearly living
forever. I dream of kookoofish and cuttlebirds,
tentacles of octodiles the sharp front teeth of Beavidees

but most of all, I dream of the impossible
a gentleman.

the crabs were not crabs
they were gulls feigning
a skip to the side before
flight.

the gulls were not gulls
they were whales exhaling
a long held breath before
a dive.

the whales were not whales
they were squid seeing
the tiniest dreams in the absolute dark until
dinner.

Understand, please, the eternal question is the same
regardless what you hope the truth to be
a question hangs in the cold dry air
between us:

Is it enough to snap the picture
to capture a single moment
in a single frame
for all time until tomorrow?

Or must art be revealed
to a single seeing eyeball
in a conscious frame
for all time until death?

I do not know, the tree has fallen
and no one was there but me.

a man in a thigh-length black leather jacket
smokes a blunt outside a bookstore
watches the books breathe
kicks at chewed bubble gum on the sidewalk
walks down the street a piece
to the browning grass and wishes
there were swans

a hundred fifty years to late to talk
of transparent eyeballs, or skirt the edge of a pond
in the woods, he says to no one, goblinish or manly,
with a rough voice and a clear head,
“my mind is so little, so so little.”

the books stop breathing as the moon comes up
and the smoke clears and the blunt tip of his boot
kicks at every missed step, every missed opportunity
to breathe with them. he notices the gum stuck to him
like all the rest of his bad ideas. the face of a swan
peeks back at him from the starry dark

90 years too late to drink illegal hooch,
to speak easy of flapping legs, of hard licks,
of bullets and steel cars that have no give
in the coming crash, he says to no one, rich or lost,
in a wet voice with a clear mind,
“my head is big, and it just has no time to be anything but big.”

he heads back to the bookstore and hopes
the books will wake up to breathe for him some more
he wipes the gum on the ground
walks the piece back up the street
forgets the browning grass
and hates the swans…

God, he hates the swans.

What of small birds too slow to find the sun?
Do they fly, or wait feathered in chill of nest?
Wisdom says nothing of them
because they do not dream.

What of tall mountains too rough to know love?
Do they stand, or crumble in long snows?
Foolishness is silent on their craggy side
because fear and longing become them.

What of grains of sand too small to be the world?
Do they sink, or roll the briny shallow of banal shore?
Man says nothing of them
because they do not believe.

No, I am no angel, I am a whore.
I promise you, I have a price.
I wish I had dignity, but I can’t claim such a thing.
I know that I can be replaced;

You, though, are above all price,
you are kind and wondrous celestial –
the holy creature of dignity.

Where I am a man
of mere relative worth,
envying the holy you,
you are the being of intrinsic worth

my gut tells me there is beauty
somewhere being beautiful
under clouds that do not know my name

i listen for a moment to hear
long hair collapsing into the most now
bright eyes exploding like a bear
Into the smell of rubbish

my gut tells me there is beauty
everywhere being beautiful
in the cold dark where my name means nothing

i look for a moment to see
soft flesh climbing hard flesh toward the almost there
kind fingers scratching like scorpions feet
along the hot dry sand

my gut tells me there is beauty
anywhere being beautiful
on the edge of the world where my name is forgotten

I sing for a moment – your name
your heart beating along the most me
blood flowing like a jellyfish
into the void of the endless depth