hornby island morning

I love the way the ocean plays with sandstones,
making bones about it,
breaking parts and pieces, leaving holes.

I love the way the sun plays on tide pools,
blinds eyes, fights back.

I love the sun's gentle attack upon the broken glass of sea,
the relentless life-breathing of the sky,
the orb that dies each day to replace death in another place with light.

I love the way the crabs play,
desperately crawling into holes
ground into the shoals by the surging, seething lawless sea.

It's a game, this sideways scabbing:
searching for security,
finding none
save in a motionless mock invisibility.

But I love the game;
the attempt;
the mad, roiling,
life-chocked
boiling sea.

It reminds me of me.

desire embraced

When hollow promises drop unbid
into hallowed spaces where they have no place,
when empty phantasms shake loose
the moorings I have sunk for a now immoral face
(made so by the hypocrisy of mind detached from will),

I spill headlong over the abyss,
relishing the kiss of the desire I'd love to hate -
though honesty forbids I make my life a lie
and say I do not will for me this fate.

What is a man, is me,
is this gathering of dirt, and blood, and flesh,
this mystery of soul, and will, and mind
that, so entwined, conspire to rob me of my rest?

I am a contradiction, a force opposed
by that same self in which its force abides.
I am a lie that has been daily told -
a tired facade belying conflict which it hides.

"Batter my heart, three person God, with you"
the poet, ages past, in this same tempest wrote -
a voice as battered as my own,
or Jesse Dryfhout's, who wished his limbs were broke.

Perhaps this turmoil is from God a gift,
reminding me, and us, that this is not the way it ends.
Well I, in truth, would hand it back unwrapped,
demanding that its giver make amends.
Yet who am I, this lump, this tattered will
who'd turn the world upon its mispresenting head?

I am a speck, a lump - it's true -
and yet I am my world, my home, my bed.
If peace be banished from this place
and Deity has sent these storms for me to bide,
does this give console to me in my pain,
when all my world is lived, by me, inside?

Faith, I guess, is not an easy task,
yet is not blind, and never bows before a lie.
So I will move, my eyelids split, with open face
in places where exposure is all right.

I will say that this is me,
and, fearing not, will be whom I've become.
I will hope a hope to someday change inside
back to what I'd been, when I'd begun.

after a duel

The question is, my dear, if your rage
can be an instrument for the completion of a page.
As lust once drove the pen from left to right
and passion kept me penning through the night,
could your dark anger launch my mind - propel an age?

Once the prophet John fell to a woman's ire
(a spite for years she harbored - fanned as fire)
and though this act no poem brought to be,
could this have led the Man out to the Tree
(a story of which, some may say, men will never tire)?

Could your crass emnity a muse give rise?
Could words begin when love ends in your eyes?
If this be so, my love, then I would have your hate -
for what be love, to writers who but wait
where pens lie dead - where inspiration dies?

While love may live forever (and it may)
the poet cries that nothing gold can stay:
not love, not passion, nor our burning lusts
can stand 'gainst time's eviscerating gusts.
So I will weep, embracing loveless day,
if by embracing, words may come my way.

the snow

And I,

I am an albino in the snow,
eyes light, fading in.

I am white as sin,
white-washed by the Men with all the TVs and the pens.

I am alone again, in my conformity,
living an immunity to warmth wrought by consumptive individualism.

And I, I am a democracy of one,
a plutocracy made cunningly of flesh, bone,
and a lusting after rights,
blustering through drifts of the mind,
grasping blind with blueing hands.

And I, because I can't stand it (the mystery),
I make angels lie beneath me in the snow,
crushing and creating them with flailing arms and legs,
leaving them to die, suffocating.

And I, I suffocate questions with words,
wrapping them with blankets of cut-crystal words, hap-hazard made,
shaping gods of snow,

imagining I know.

Wondring where to go.

An Ode to the Devil, Who no Longer Exists

Dance, beelzebub, dance.
Flutter so gracefully, with such an air of feigned indifference
that I forget your foul intent,
that I regret that I had meant to thwart you.

Waltz lovely, languid imp,
that I might leave off the worry warbling in my besotted mind -
that life is, somehow, unkind.

Help me, through your malevolent caresses,
to turn my lust from truth and love
to the drug of self obsession / self repression.

Dance, dance, dark elves,
you batwinged imaginations painted so ludicrous in panting, drooling detail
in the public pathos.
Dance that I might forget the reality of principalities
both of this world, and not -
of beings shot through with the beyond,
of old awarenesses now gone.

Dance, devil, your amnesiatic dance,
that I might prance my way across floors gleaming,
antisceptic seeming:
that I might live but for my self.

that I might give nothing but what matters least,

that I might feast upon the flesh of poor,

that I might use wealth to garner more,

that I might show love the door.

Dance on, fell feind,
and take my hands, dancing, as you snicker on towards hell.

I wish you well.

spore

I fall,
considering darkness light
when once I grow accustomed to the stain of night
where,
in the tarred depths of what yet I cherish as my soul
there grow like mold
sad sicknesses,
born like spores on the skins of whores I've made
through adulterous looks.

Not them, but I
am he who ought to die
stoned in the street,
drawn out of my fantastic falsities (fatalities)
and quartered where lies become alive, exposed.

I'd give a breath,
and another,
and so on
to recede along the hairline of truth
(mined with a million divergencies)
back, back, back
until I am once again but a spore,
an unsullied sperm -
before I am a worm.

I would say to me:
"do this, do that,
and stay the straight, and sound your horn.
The fog is thick -
so be you warned!"

But time, that inevitable fire,
mates itself to no man's yearning -
waits for no man's power to suppress.
It just stokes the fires of living, lying
and keeps on burning, dying.

determination

Never, ever give up!
said the man
said the wrinkled smiling man
said the man with the big, smoking voice.

Never, ever give up!
Never, ever, ever quit!
said the man
said the fat, determined man.

Never give it up,
or the boogeyman’ll getcha!
said the man,
said the snarling, scheming man,
said the man
with the masterfighting plan.

Never give up!
Never, ever give up!
(and buy a lot of war bonds)
said the man
said the man from the country with the guns,
from the land that never runs.

Never, ever give up
said the man
who had ants in his pants
who had rants for his stance
who gave rise to a patriotic prance.

And they never gave up
never, ever gave up
and they fought until the last of them had died
and their enemy was beat
and the blood had filled the street -

Now don’t you find it neat
how they never, ever, ever gave up?

psalm eighteen

When the day is through, oh God,
I think of other things than you:
the daily dalliances and dreams of imagined fulfillment,
the things I feel that I should be,
the things that bind me and remind me
that I am not yet free.

First morning thoughts, oh God,
are likewise not of you.
For when the night is through I find myself awake
and take again the upper hand against my mind,
welcoming thoughts of first arousal,
caring first for carnal needs.
"Relief! Relief!" my body cries,
and my replies, eliminating wonder,
blunder on enamored by a host of dust-made things.

Throughout the days, oh God,
when sun or rain plays across my supple young skin,
I begin in the living of my many moments
to forget to taste of timeless wonder.

I live, I laugh, I love,
and I forget the sweet sad song my deepness sings,
the longing that the singing brings
for the Singer of the life I now so thoughtless live -

so careless,
so ingrown.

fall

Autumnal breezes gently lift the fragrances of death
in traces crost the spaces of this browning lawn.
And though there's fear that is implied upon this breath,
I find comfort in the fact that after time it will be gone.

For, while it's true that nothing gold can stay
and soon a dying falls on all that's green,
Iknow that though it all will fade to winter's gray
my faith is found on summers I have seen.

cursed be the winter

A fie on suns that do not warm,
but mock my shiv'ring bones;
that glory, changing bread to stones
and making death of life once formed.

A pox on orbs that melt the mists
and stream warm dreams into this heart,
but never end that which they start.
So be they cursed, with both my fists.

A hex on arctic blasts of chill
that make a mockery of day;
that chase the warmth of suns away;
that breathe alone to kill.

And down to Hades must they go,
the northern winds that all the season harrow
the frigid fibres of my frosted marrow,
and be they warmed down there below.

Full cursed now be the rising of the fated
suns of winter's days that hide
and to winter winds confide
the stolen warmth of men they've hated.

But blest be suns that one day bring
a bursting bud upon a bough;
renewing life where death is now
and heralding the heats of spring.

Full praise I give the melting airs
that waft the smells of flaring flowers;
that carry with them heaven's powers,
freeing suns that, once begun, burn off a winter's cares.

sonnet # 1

A crimson burns within my eye
reflected off the dying day's inferno,
filling all the sky
as blackest night is on the way.
And all the screams of all humanity
grow silent with the night.
In darkness hushed,
as all insanity fades along with light.

But fearful silence heralds when
the day returns to burn again.

review

Back, back, back
to the past, past, past
the little elf-man takes me -
the impish rogue of my memorializing mind.

He [that incorrigible trickster, prankster]
drives me to distraction with his endless retraction.
And though I sometimes resent
the co-dependence of our memorial affair,

I cannot help but know
there is no moment lived forward
[not one],
which is not at once lived fully back.

my innocence

I want to believe in something more than trees
and romantic lies about girls and roses
and chrubic noses on cherubic children
eating popsicles in a perfect summer sun
beating gently on a placid earth and causing no cancer.

I want to get excited about something
unlike the pleasures of dancing girls
and swirls of all the lies I've ever treasured
about the way things seem to be.

I want the simplicities of milk and cookies
and not serious grown-up words like "obfuscating obesity"
that no one seems to see
seem to be keeping humanity
from understanding Us
and enjoying chocolate chips
without crying about our cholesterol.

I'm tired of lying to myself
and the scoutmaster so I get a badge.

Tired of lending my toys
and then smiling with only my mouth
and saying, "it's really God's stuff, so I don't mind sharing"

Tired of caring more for being remembered
for being memorable
than for really liking the way it feels to hold a pen and write about not writing about
ME, ME, ME all the time.

Tired about complaining about not being understood
and complaining when others understand
and point out I'm not really all that special -
having the guts to tell me to my face that my guts are just like theirs
and my cares tremble
next to those of children not born in suburbia
and also pretty much the entire population of sixteenth century England.

So tired I think I'll let go and try to die into a place where I don't exist anymore,

Where happy endings are unknown because
who wants to end a good thing?
And singing in the shower's not just fun,
it's the law,

Where the only crime is to pass time without a smile,
and to while away the moments to nothing
with nothing but frown lines to show for it
would be frowned upon in polite society.

Where propriety and civility are vulgar jokes
because, Lord knows,
if only we weren't so guilty all the time
we could get naked with eachother
and say what we mean
when we say what we don't.

Where sex is not a game
or a dirty secret that most of the time
we regret we were ever told,
but something breathed
and believed no less natural than eating,
and no less fleeting.

Where children play tag through boardroom meetings
as bored members stop to laugh at their antics
and forget to be frantic about deadlines
and payments on shiny toys
that assure them that they are not their fathers.

Where we could pick a flower
and not see what we think it should be but what it is
and eventually we'd stop picking flowers and just let them BE.

Because everything bad is a lie
we repeat over and over and over
and pass on to our kids
so they won't forget how screwd up we were
and get a grip on how getting a grip and not letting go means
tighter shackles
and furrowed brows
and prosthetic smiles
and resenting children for being happier than I can remember how to be -
seeing no further than the end of my nose,
and having trouble dancing freely in the rain.

nocturne

Dreams are hopes and promises and lies:

hopes,
because in them dies the killing reason
that shouts "impossibility"
at schemes and dreams that show there's more to life
than the sick, sad, paltry present -
where everything is bent,
and everything is broken;

promises,
because they make you die
to your sick, sad self
and live a while for someone else,
and live the love that doesn't need and won't let go,
showing others they mean much more than dust -
than choking, ending dust;

lies,
because everybody dies
and they never see it come until
too late to scream
"WAIT -
I just need one more day, or hour, or breath
to do before this death a thing I dreamed of long ago!"

Dreams are hopes and promises and lies,
and everything between.
And if you Live, they live.
And if you don't, they die.

america the beautiful

French fried finger eaters
and Coca-Cola kisses,
beer-stained wife beaters
and near-death misses.

Reconstituted juices
feed preservative peoples,
dripping through the sluices
while repainting plastic steeples.

MEANWHILE MEANING'S GONE IN HIDING
AS WE CHASE OUR SHADOWS RIDING
BLISSFUL TO OBLIVION.

Easter's full of Playboy bunnies,
Santa Claus our X-mas carries
as we chase our status-monies
pumping poisons onto prairies.

Nothing matters but the cash-flow,
looking out for number one.
Pain on TV's kinda funny,
can't stop laughing once it's done.

MEANING'S DEAD AND GONE IN HIDING
AS WE CHASE THE SHADOWS RIDING
BLISSFUL TO OBLIVION.

Hollywood now fabricates us
lies we pay for seeing
as the web we're drawn into
prefabricates our being.

Bodies now are born to spend
on times of sordid screwing,
dryly giving empty vent
to inner turmoil brewing.

LOVE IS DEAD AND GONE IN HIDING
AS WE RACE THROUGH TIME WE'RE BIDING
BLISSFUL TO OBLIVION.

the next best thing

And then there was the next best thing,
which I bought, and thought,
"this is the best thing -
not those other, lesser things.
No, THIS is the next best thing after the last.
(which, if pressed, I must admit was not the best; but anyway, was bought last, becoming the last best thing before the next)."

Trust me, it all makes sense, though so seemingly dense,
because if it lasted, it wouldn't be the next best thing.

It never is, or was
and that's because the next best thing is but a puff of air,
a fickle god who doesn't care and doesn't love.
In fact, it doesn't know what love is,
and so instead it bluffs
and gives the next best thing.

procreation

What's this crazy rush to procreate?

Don't deviate:
job, house, debt, cry...
make love, make kids, make ready to die...
consume, consume,
until you end.
Do not pretend, do not presume to ever 'scape your cage.

But me, I'm breaking free -
pretending not to be what I've been so long...
singing songs, dancing with the furies, eating worries,
catching flurries of breaths true-breathed.

And you, a liar
say you will acquire 'til you've arrived
and all your cares vanish with the poor...

but I know more.

how to be alive

The first thing
is not to succumb to the sucking at your soul
by all the nameless powers
that want to make you comfortable
so that you fit, comfortably,
into their money machine.

The way to do this is to do things
(oh, so many things)
at inopportune times:
like howling at the moon in the middle of the day,
or playing like a baboon when you meet the president of a large corporation,
or peeing in an urn in a crowded train station.

This will remind you that life is short,
and that being pretentious is like pretending,
only it's not any fun,
and nobody ever notices you and wishes that they, too,
had the will to live,
and be alive.

satisfaction

If I were fat
I’d spend my days wishing I was thin.

And if I were thin
I’d spend my days, wishing I was strong.

And if I were strong
I’d spend my days wishing someone cared.

And if someone cared
I’d spend my days wishing they cared more.

And if they cared more,
I’d spend my days wishing to no end,
for friends, for health, for wealth and bread
and power at my door.

And if at last I got my wish
and had it all - had everything,
I’d leave behind this wishing farce,
I’d leave behind this sad facade
and wish, oh wish,
that I was God.