Dinner Party (from Glen, 8/17/88, Forest, MS)

Her bare back beneath a low-cut summer dress,
tawny under evening trees.

Thick dusk sticks close to the patio
like hot clothes to be cast off.
The night's warm breath comes from her.

That explains her lure. It is hard
not to look, not to run
my hand along her slender spine,
gently, as crickets rub their legs
together in soft symphony.

It will not happen. But the thought
will hold me till we part, and longer yet,
late alone in the dark, pacing the floor.

Stowaway (from Glen)

Far from the river,
over a hundred mile,
the rhythm of the water
seems near. He listens.

Nodding and tapping time
to a blues record. Horns and huzzahs
ring in clean ripples
through the dark, and fireflies

float close outside.
The dark disc turns on its player
like a paddlewheel
thrashing brown water.

Coming Through (from Caroline)

Salty waves of a tempest sea
leaped wildly over, engulfing me.
Sun and stars in their course spun round,
hurtled straightaway to the ground.
Mountains scaling high the air
fell on me-- I did not care.
To conquer me the universe
grew insane, grotesque, perverse.
Yet I endure because-- I will;
Undaunted, undiminished still.
Subtle, primitive,
smoldering colors of Colorado--
Unearthed,
quiet fire,
the essence of smoke signals.
Feel the warmth of Indian Summer.
Dusky mountain shadows and morning stars.
Wildberries glistening with moisture like dew drops, desert roses to prairie fire,
from copper canyons to new earth;
colors of a western sunset.

View from a Bus Window (from Caroline)

Scared, tortured face of a shattered hillside
twisted in death agonies of blasted buildings,
broken bleak foundations.
Foolish steps leading nowhere,
do not look back but forward.
There will be a resurrection,
sure renewal and rebirth--
metamorphosis of progress:
a superhighway.

Aquarelle (from Glen)

My arms ache,
my dry mouth wants water.
The bedroom smells
of fresh-sawn pine.

Sunset wind
tickles white ribs
of slanted window blinds.

Shadows, stained tea-brown, seep in.
All that has happened will happen again.

Sidney, Nebraska

The new moon sets,
Wolf River flows dark down to Colorado.
The one far sound
A car out at the crossroads.

The blacktop runs to gravel, runs to grass,
Black mesas jut sharp shoulders to the night.
The prairie speaks in rolling swells of ink
That swamp the four far corners of the sky.

Not even insects sing.
Late August saps their strength
And snaps a cold wave clear across the plain.

The only world alive lies in the air;
The flaming chain of the Milky Way,
The sideways fuzz of faint stars,
The ever-upward falling of the dark.

Phrases Discovered in a Plastic Word Game Toy

Cosign my white speedo
Ryan White in a geode
Bedpan slut has orgy men
Glad toy, crown me in peas
Crap on my gloss weenie
Eat Gumby's poodle
Crayons in wild heaps
Crispy gamete sound
Embryo logic pants
See big claw nip, yes Thor, moan
Slaw being prehuman
Mange wilts B.C. hairdyes
Ed shits warm, blue gloop
Mighty bean dossier
Sausage boy, chew on me
Luby's is a gonad owner
A demon is our light
Sin is bawdy glamour
Help me, send in cat boy
Urgent meals on whips
You are sloe gin
Large men spew doubt on hay
Onanism: wet bed play
Caesar, hemp is bounty
Diner's club has money to wag pie
Grab my topless Donna
The road less Gumby
Don't be a wimpy asshole, G.I.
Gaseous Idol by Chet M. Prawn
Michael Stipe rues day
Uncle had two orgasms, yipee!
Blender paste gains my cow
Lead giant cows
Atom buyer designs chip
New Delhi pigeon boy arms cat
Modern penis globe
Green pus with bloody maniacs
Genocide wastes Romulan
Pansy mules on goat bride
I was a limpo shotgun derby
Limbaugh sorta wipes one
Satan eyes women crop
Iceland tree pig has busy womon
Dialog tense in shy camp
My sea dolphin gets a boner
Oprah gets nude man-boy
Big ripe melon head says "cunt"
Medusa whore gasp nicotine
Maine Coons bite puds
Audra is wench plenty
Pussy eating homo in bed
Nylon crap is a bite
Opie guards Latin women
Herb tea made NYC gossip

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis (from Glen)

A glance, a heartbeat,
the delicious parts
of a machine.
The falling of a leaf.
Streams running to the sea.

Their preciseness lies
finite and whole,
seen through many doors:
Periodic table, canvas, syntax,
the same unity. Different forms.

These are not just shadows.
but a world. Science sees,
art feeds the physical with creativity.
Is not this writing real?
It could only be.

1 Hectare, Eastern Europe (from Glen)

His plot's small, but it seems to suffice
to grow a few greens, so he tends it religiously
on his knees.

The summer sun's hot, but it doesn't show
in his clothes (grimy grey coveralls,
the same ones he wears when it snows)--
though beneath the brim of his blue cotton cap
beads of sweat bulge on his brow,
running into his eyes as he looks down:

He touches tender plants with his hands,
each a small child. He is father to them,
husband to the land,
savior to man.

Awakening (from Glen)

My body pulses heat against chill vestiges of night.
I am light: and rise from the still-shadowed berth
to drift outside, a channel ship
riding out the roads to sea,
to bright beckon of dawn in the east,
where gulls stretch their wings in joyous riot,
dappling bright bands across the beach.

Red, orange, yellow fire sweeps the shore;
a fading frame I soar beyond,
buoyed by the breeze, climbing high.

Ethos

Abstracts and bad dreams, our ethos will tell
which gods we have made
to which people have prayed
like fads they will fade

Lead my Flock of Anguished Thoughts to Lie Inside my Thawing Soul

Give that man a hand, he's found the meaning of his life,
yessir, thank you sir, I owe it all to inner strife;
for so many years I looked no further than my petty ways
until the day the world's confusion led my thoughts astray;
and now I've reached the firm conclusion,
though I don't intend to shock,
but it's a crock

Why

Life is like a burned-out candle
but it's more than I can handle.
Mystic veils
chanting, ranting,
try to find a truth to live by--
living by a sham
(why complain? who gives a damn?)

Why is the sun in a darkened disgrace?
Shrouding the moon like a tear on your face
I can't see why we have to pretend anymore.

Why does the sun cross the sky without end?
Parading the seasons again and again
I can't seem to figure out what I'm here for.

Why
Tell me why I must cry for your love
Why
Tell me why, does the answer lie
in what we say
or what we do;
Can you deny me this moment with you?

Why have the stars in the sky stopped their twinkling?
Why have your words kept me up all night thinking?
Why did I leave you, could I have been wrong?

What I'm Doing

Perhaps you are wondering where all these puerile poems came from; perhaps you are wonder when they will cease. Well, most of them were written by me when I was a teenager or young adult in my early twenties. Some of them (the better ones) were written by my lifelong friend Glen, and they had wound up in the same binder that contained my own pieces. One day I looked at the binder and felt sad because I doubted that I would ever read these dozens of carefully collected pieces of paper, some with typed words, some hand-written. Suddenly I knew what I should do-- transfer them to this blog! If nothing else, it would force me to read them all one more time. After copying them to this blog, I would then destroy the originals, making them perhaps more ephemeral, but also giving them a slight chance of being read by someone other than me. So that is why I am presenting poem after poem for your consideration.

The photos that accompany the poems generally have no thematic relation to them. They comprise the hundreds of random photos that I have taken over the years with my digital camera. Some are interesting, some you probably wonder what possessed me to snap the shot in the first place. Though many of the poems make me cringe with embarrassment, almost all of the photos give me a tiny spark of joy. There was a little frisson of wonder and excitement when I photographed each varied subject. I guess I'm more of a visual person.

Anyway, the poems combined with the photos provide a faint psychic outline of who I am in this tiny but interesting life I have lead.

I Woke Up

I woke up this morning
to the sound of terminal rain
to the sound of moving parts
to a bittersweet refrain
that said:

We are moving faster
We are moving faster
Where we do not know

I woke up this morning
to bind myself to time
to move about in the circular paths
of someone's grand design.

Like a fish out of water, so I felt.
As before the shrine of success I knelt.
I was blessed for doing things as I was told
I was blessed for waking up on time.

I woke up this morning
with a tear drop on my cheek
those around me smiled with compassion
made me feel like such a freak.

I spoke up in voices
that were safe but weren't mine
and though they pleased
they didn't ease my mind.

I looked about through eyes though bleary,
for the first time could see
the emptiness behind the smiles;
the forest for the trees.

I woke up this morning
though I did not get to sleep
my senses awoke;
my nostrils filled deep.

I got up this morning
I looked out my window
The air was filled with forlornness
I could hear a growing crescendo
that said:

We are moving faster
We are moving faster
Where we do not know.

Roll Your Soul

I want to feel your heart tonight
I want to get to know you better
and get the beat alright.

Wanna take you to paradise tonight
Gonna take you home again
Gonna get you through this lovely ecstasy
and then...

     Gotta roll your heart
     Gotta roll your soul
     Gotta get your AC/DC on
     and let your neon glow!

Oh honey, lay it on the table
lay it in my arms
gotta trust me baby
nothin's gonna come to harm.

Wanna take you to paradise tonight
Gonna bring you home (I don't know when)
Gonna get you through this lovely ecstasy
Oh honey, and then...

Bend

As you round the last bend on your final day
and you throw in the towel
and stand there with nothing to say
Do you fear your maker because you've led your life
down the barrel of a gun,
on the edge of a knife?

Eidolon Eyes

The essence of a million magic midnight moments
captured in a single smile
leaves me breathless, leaves me without words
to show my warm, replete, relief.

No, your eidolon eyes cannot disguise the things you feel for me;
two blessed bodies in a web,
our tears of perfect passion shed
the warmness from your flesh,
the warmness from your eyes.
We lie in a carnal mesh;
I want it to be
oh I want it to be
Yes I want it to be like this for eternity.

Will Be Done

Mountains crumble.
The Titans stumble to hell.
Victorious gods.
Immortal frauds cannot fail.
As they rebuild
the world they have killed
they know its future that cannot foretell.
The pain they feel is that his will be done;
Their glory gone, it passes to no one.

Men of iron
hear the sirens of fear.
Corrupted power
shows that the hour is near.
And as they discover
that they can't recover
they do not even ask themselves why.
The pain they feel is that his will be done;
Their glory gone, it passes to no one.

No one knows where they are going,
all are blind, all unknowing;
pressure growing, signs are showing;
can't you see, why can't you feel
that soon his will be done!

His will be done.
Their world has begun to die.
Hopeless healer
tries to conceal its demise.
And as they decay,
their sins holding sway,
His will again wipes the globe clear.
The pain he feels is that his will be done.
His glory gone, he passes it to no one.

Afternoon (from Glen)

Sprays of flower color
close slopes of grass
still green before the sun
can burn them brown.

Summer holds life in hot hands.
Rain is an interloper,
refreshing the blood
of the soon to be slain.

And what of me, weaving in the heat,
tiny shadow trailing behind
like a beaten soul?
Must all flesh wrinkle and die?

I will never be a father.
Life died waiting for autumn.

Reading Letters (from Glen)

I come to exhume spirits,
go beyond ghosts to find you.
I sit at my desk and cold night air
stirs the curtain at the open window.
The street below is silent.

I am quiet too.
I do not want to wake the dead,
only look at them and hear their words again,
a dreamy melody among these folded sheets.
The papers rustle, a soft singing of angels.
I read until the singing ceases.
I hold and hug you and lay you down to sleep.

Pilgrim

I have never been a pilgrim
out for Edens, out for Nirvanas,
for then I'd be out forever.
I am just a pilgrim
out for love,
out for understanding,
out for lunch. 
Much more realistic.

Art (from Glen)

Go ahead and take your knife,
rip me open to save my life.
Tear through the skin,
abdominal muscle,
a layer of fat,
the body's defenses.

What is your name?
Not work,
not Bach,
not logic or order.

Your name is Sylvia,
or Wendy, young,
younger than I am now;
I know your name,
but I can't see your face.

I remember a redbush, burning in May.
We walked without shoes in the sun by the school.
We held hands then and again in the fall.
You gave me five poems and left in December.
I remember your words and that's all I remember.

Withal Without

The fight to face
The gadfly fear
Of being alone
Alone here within my skull
With chemicals and memories and pain and all
Waiting (for what?) in this empty house here
Vision blurred, eyes full of tears
Withal without
A hope for feeling fine
Into mother earth I step out...

Winding Down

It's all winding down.
Every thing's winding up dead.
High School students graduating.
Uranium turning to lead.

This is the Last Whole Earth.
All the others are gone.
Entropy's mower cutting the grass
Of life's eternal lawn.

I'm standing beneath towering trees
Wondering at earth and sky;
The sad/glad vision of endless life
You see when you're going to die.

I would like to sit beneath these boughs
Like a buddha, till the light shines through
Some truth I can hold and save and use
But there are people I must see to.

urban backyard (from Glen)

Even here I feel nature.
Nightfall smudges the clutter of houses,
awnings, phone wires, power lines,
and sitting still on the back stoop
I am surrounded by life.

Dogs, fenced in, yelp at the silent stalking cats.
Birds talk too, in brief repeated trills
or mourning doves' haunting hoots,
and with a faint flutter of wings
two cardinals alight on the side gate.

A cricket sings somewhere.
Bees home in on their pecan-tree hive
and hovering above the porch floor, a butterfly,
silent and shadowy, seems to mark a sacred spot,
a monument, a grave for the day.

Symmes Township Suicide Club

Down the road at 90
Falling rocks and caved in trestles
Lose it at 100
Packs of wild dogs and killer frogs
Axe murderers in the vicinity
Hidden bogs and fallen logs
And sudden loss of virginity
It's suicide with symme-try
Get to the corporation line!
Get to the corporation line!
Gotta be out by five of nine
Gotta get out of here in time!
Point me down the road to Indian Hill
Hurry me out of this homicidal hell
Their bikes are all polished, engines are tuned
Leather vaseline coated
Hair slicked back and well groomed
They ride at nine, under the full moon
Your chances are slim tonight
Your headlights are dimmed tonight
It's not safe in Symmes tonight
With the Symmes Township Suicide Club
On the loose!

spring (from Glen)

A pair of old shoes by the toolbox,
set on the steps at the cellar door.

Sycamore tree reaching a peeling limb
over the back porch, painfully bending a knee.

Great gusts of wind gnash round the house this noon.
A spirit with something to say--
but what? Is it the way the screen door slams,
the leaves, blown down from above, as they dance
in skittery circles on the brown grass?

St Francis Bird Bath (from Glen)

My face frozen in afternoon sun,
I bid birds to come visit me
like children, one by one.
December frost rims my chin
and I fear my flighty friends
have no need for my ice pool,
not even to drink.

But I can wait.
I shall stay still, noble and statuesque
perched with arms outstretched;
Christ carried a cross.
I will wait for my flock.

Nukes on Parade

Those problems you've got:
"which deodorant is best?"
"my baby is pissed at me"
won't mean diddly-squat
(if indeed they ever meant anything)
because I can feel it in my bones:
we're heading for
nuclear war
yes the skies grow black
in my mind
fill with visions of SAC
the jets of doom
fly across my lonely room
but my mind is overactive
radioactive
isn't it strange
for a nice young thing like me
to be so afraid
of armageddon nightmares
nukes on parade
mutants and generals
and cities aglow
waves of ICBMs again
and again
and punk rockers enjoying it all.

Ploughs in Heavy Snow

Try to sleep: forever night.

That dragging rasp on the road through town,
a change in pitch when it hits the incline.

Trucks come and go. Yellow strobes
bounce off low clouds, the only motion
in darkness that is white.

It will always snow.
Freezing as it falls,
the same filled frame,
sequences in a dream beyond time.

Evil Maria

On.
They want to turn you on.
You're just like a machine.
You respond to the routine
of the high luster virgins
who do a DNA dance
in their tight-as-a-nut robot pants
while their transistor lovers
leave the bar and take a chance,
case the gyrating host with an x-ray eye glance.

They've been scouring Metropolis
for an evil Maria.
at all the robot hang outs
on the chance they might see her
and take her home, well greased,
plug her in, and at least
exchange sparks and a laugh or two.

Maria's been programmed
to activate glands,
and she always makes her mark
when she lures them into her gunmetal dark.
her TV eyes measure every robot move
as this machine-age guy slips into her sterile groove.
Then the biggest surprise in the life of this sex-robot
is when Maria takes forever
and everything he's got.

Evil Maria left her robot lover
drained and unconscious in the alley;
a shattered libido recorded on graphs
a series of peaks and valleys.
And somewhere in a box of silver
good Maria slumbers, waiting
for the day her womanhood is regained
and the cyborg finishes mating.

So if you happen to be in some nightclub
catching the machine age scene
and you meet a girl with electricity
but no spark--
well, I warned you, because she might be
Maria.
Mechanical Andro-Responsive Indexing Automaton.
On.

(none: I wrote this back when I was 16 or 17 and was obsessed withe the classic art deco
Fritz Lang movie Metropolis and was blissfully ignorant of patriarchal images and themes. Also it was the Age of Disco, so there's that, too.)

North Woods

Land of shadows and silence
burns with cold smoke like pine.

You who fly by night, read the empty echoes.
Lake's still silver streaks speak in signs.

Grey lords of the long season,
not a single star or a green needle fall
or leaf go gold in autumn
that you have not known.
Each comes full with time.
Each has a place for it alone.

Summer wildflowers bloom and grow
on endless afternoons,
every petal precise.
When the winter of the Wolf Moon blows
they slumber under ice.

Veins

mainline feels fine
when it's heavy fare
'sokay, it'll go away
I'm already halfway there
and soon I'll need some more
it was never this way before
virgin veins in ecstasy
pierced by heaven's artillery
I became god on command.

Can't You Feel

Can't you feel the wheel
rolling over you?
Can't you feel the steel
that is ripping?
Won't your dough even grow
in the oven... hot?
Don't you want to know
if the weed you smoke is pot?
Does it make you smile?
Make you grin?
Are you imagining
your tummy full of gin?
Can't think straight?
Better watch yourself.
There are those outside that hate you,
gonna make you lose,
gonna get you,
gonna get you
in those disco shoes.

I've been hit and run so many times
it isn't funny
but in the end
yes in the end
it's kinda intangible.

Look at me
I'm just a kid;
never had a chance
caught me with my pants
down.
Somebody get the number of that truck.

Flood

Lady in black,
stop the rain.
The river's rising,
fields are flowing.
Muddy water's lapping at the levee,
Families fleeing floodplain for the bluff.

Dark mother,
sky is crying.
The wind is rising,
night's full of tears.
Centuries of sorrow blowing on the storm.
Mommas need a dry place for their babies to be born.

Coal-dark soul,
full of sin.
I am rising,
no roof over my head.
Raindrops make soft patter,
gently rock me down the river.

Starman's Guide Part 2

Protein factors stare me right in the face
The tapes roll by of the human race
One man's infinity is just another's empty space
Here where uncertainty quivers
At the eighth decimal place.

And lace curtains add the little touch
that, except for the fusion drive hum,
lets you almost imagine you are home;
the smell of home cooking
on the front porch
and a generation's lazy dreams
of flying mother nature's silver seed
to a new home in the sun.

Next Door (from Glen)

Randy's got his Model T torn up again,
balanced on blocks half-out, half-in
of the garage under the house.

Rear axle and drivetrain
draw hopscotch lines
where he lay them on the driveway.
He crouches under the car,
contentedly tinkering at midnight.

He's hung his workman's light
below the rear right wheel
and shadows of the spokes
project a giant Japanese fan
against the garden wall.

Randy's black hands probe
the known beloved bearings,
vital greasy gears,
casting shadow characters
on the stage-fan of light.

The Fall of the Roman Empire

Kiss me

I speak Latin

Kill me

I worshipped false gods

Sex  money  power

You know what they say

Autant d'hommes, autant d'avis

Whatever that means

It means

I'll bet any scholar

Up to twenty dollars

That I know the real reason

That the Roman Empire fell:

Keeping track of emperors

Was hard as hell.