CASUS NOSTER [XII]

MUNDUS NOSTER

O, My Love, behold our Earth

which we have left

all those years ago:

The lushness of the green that we knew

so very well

has been replaced by dryness—

grey, brown, black—

and the air we breathed so crisply

has been tainted with smog and thick

blinding smoke—

our eyes can only take so much

of the haze.

The Garden we adored so much

Is now nothing:

Its gates and walls fell

as Adoshem struck His fist upon our land

and stripped the Garden of all of it’s green—

if His creations could not keep it,

then no one on this Earth would be worthy.

As you and I look down now

we cannot help but pine for the beauty which we felt

and took in with our eyes and mouths:

The succulent growings from the Earth

and the waters that flowed and dripped so coolly

down our throats.

We left the Garden,

we lived our lives

(had our sons, one more holy than the other),

moved about the Earth and found a land

to be our new Garden,

through not nearly as glorious as that of Adoshem’s.

Though it was His, it was ours.

For the first (and only) time, we felt the sting

of death—

you fell first and I wept,

for the one who was my Temptation was gone

and I had known no Earth—

Garden or otherwise—

without you.

Then I fell, too.

For the first time since leaving the Garden

I saw a blinding light

and remembered it dearly to be

Adoshem;

but this light was far brighter than before,

as you stood there beside Him, ready to greet me

with your loving arms and your tender lips.

When we asked Adoshem why

we deserved to spend eternity with Him

after our transgression.

He told us that it was because of love:

Love is the reason we fell, but our love

made the Earth a new Garden—

more vast, more encompassing,

more dear than any sensual pleasures He could have made

in the Garden itself.

Our love made the Earth ours.

Our love made His Earth ours.

As we looked down upon the Earth

we say it so:

Lovers embracing and mothers and fathers

kissing their babies on the forehead,

man holding his fellow man up

in times of dread – O my Love,

we did so much!

These sights

were so much brighter

than the flesh of the Fruit

and a thousand times sweeter.

We vowed to keep our eyes on this Earth

as our Eden is no Eden

without each other,

and this Earth became our Eden—

as we moved,

Eden moved with us

to all, man and woman.

So, my Love, join me

as I implore those who today inhabit

our Earth:

Keep the Earth an Eden

with love.

Finis.

CASUS NOSTER [XI]

BANISHMENT

We looked up and saw the sky above turned

grey—something neither you nor I had seen

in the Garden.

The booming we heard cracked in our ears

and left us nearly deaf—

the ringing over and over again

until our ears were left dripping with blood—

a redness that you and I had never seen

inside this Garden.

I reached for you next to me in the bush,

but you had already risen

and stepped out into the clearing,

unafraid of what form we would see

Adoshem.

I curled up on the ground, my arms grasping my aching belly,

my hands gripping my back and my knees

pushed up against my breasts—

I was rocking;

I was weeping.

I looked over to you, saw only your feet

standing uneasily upon the grass—

you were silent as I wept.

The thundering continued and you stood

still; what seems like forever passed on,

my eyes had dried

and you kept standing.

I arose

slowly—

my hands were

shaking—

my breath was

heavy.

I pursed one arm up against my breasts

and the other hand over my nakedness—

the wind was cold, as there was no sun

with which to heat the Garden’s thermals.

My skin crawled with each blistering gust.

You stood there, letting the wind entrap your face.

I looked over at you:

your hands were placed gently over

your nakedness, your eyes were firm on the darkened sky—

your mouth made no movements.

I moved my arm from my breasts

and reached over to your hand,

which was much more calm than mine.

You entangled my fingers within yours,

then we both clenched each other’s

tighter

as the sky opened up

and a blinding light came beaming down.

We ran back into the bush

and hid, peering through to the clearing—

still shaking.

Adoshem appeared from the beam—

his face was stern,

but his voice remained unraised.

“Adam, Eve:

Where are you?”

You began to step forward

but I pushed you back with an uneasy hand.

“We are here, Adoshem.”

He looked me over as you emerged from the bush;

His eyes still on me.

“Why were you hiding?”

I could tell that He knew;

He just wanted us to admit

our shame.

“We were hiding because we are naked, my Lord.”

He looked over at you,

now standing next to me.

“How did you know you were naked?”

I looked over at you, covering yourself still—

my hands were doing the same on myself—

and we both looked down until you lifted your head

to Adoshem.

“My Lord . . . ”

“I know what you have done.”

We both fell to our knees

and began to weep bitterly.

Our mouths inhaled the grass

as our breath pushed harshly from our chests;

our fingered curled around the earth

in our last attempt to stay a part

of this Garden.

You rose your eyes back up to Adoshem.

“The Serpent – he was here and he spoke . . . ”

His voice raised and boomed over the Garden;

the leaves shook on the trees and the birds

took to the sky in fright.

“The Serpent is none of you concern!

He has been dealt with—

he is now the lowest of all of the beasts

as I have forced him to crawl on his belly

for all of time.

“But you, my Creations,

have failed me!

I gave you all this Garden

and all of the pleasures that you could take in

while asking only one thing from you—

and you failed me!”

I arose quickly as you stayed on the ground,

weeping;

I ran up to Adoshem

and looked at Him in his deep

entrancing eyes—

He reminded me of the Serpents,

only I feared His more.

“My Lord,

think not Adam responsible for this,

for I tempted him—

I am the one who gave him the Fruit

and I am the one who first fell

to the Serpent’s advances.

“I am the one who fell.”

“You both fell!”

His words burned my face harshly.

“You both disobeyed me,

you both betrayed me,

and you both let your temptations

rule over your reason;

for this, I must banish you

from the Garden.”

You looked up at me next to Adoshem

and I looked back at you

as our eyes watered again.

This place—

our home—

gone from our grasps.

Our bodies would never again feel

the grass below

and our throats would never again be quenched

by the cooling rivers which flow softly

in the Garden.

Adoshem looked over to the gates

and they opened,

showing us the bleakness of life

outside of our sheltering walls.

God’s voice calmed itself again

but remained firm.

“Go.”

So you rose, still sobbing

and came up to me.

We bowed our heads to Adoshem

then began the

slow

grueling

trek

toward the gate.

As we walked side by side

you reached over

and grabbed my hand.

They remained locked in one another

until the gate closed behind us.

AN EXCERPT

from a poem in progress

i am not Prufrock—i am not half-dead

with rolled-up pants and thinning hair on my head.

i am still too young to face the dread of tea

sipped out of flowered porcelain cups; i am free

for i have only lived for half as long

as the man the Modern Bard depicted in his song.

i know not of beaches, i know more of sleet,

and mermaids were not the visions would keep

my lusting wincing through to the hells and tomes

of a series of ranch-style homes;

my visions of beauty were tinted by the rains

from ugly smog from flames of jobless pains

so any girl that could take the water

was one that flame my poetic fodder.

i do not scuttle—i tread where i walk;

but still i seem to prance more when i talk

(according to the lecturers to whom i speak

when my eyes are not looking down or full of sleep—

it is the lot of being my age, i suppose,

to skip the awakening breath the clears the nose

that prepares us always for the day—

but in our beds we'd rather much stay).

i am here—i cannot come and go

for if i go, my grave will let you know.

because i've got a mane so thick upon my head,

i am not Prufrock—i am only quarter-dead.

That Poem [A RESPONSE]

like my first kiss—which was awkward,

untimely, and rushed—

my first relationship—

which was not thought through all the way—

and my first fuck—which was dry,

raw, and unknowing (who knew it had to be so wet?)—

that poem

did not bear much truth

or thinking.

when you speak of California i somehow think

when you speak of California i somehow think

of you, two or three years old,

sitting in front of your father's television set

with a cup of skim milk sitting on your tray.

Under the sea!

Under the sea!

you strike me somehow as a Little Mermaid-kind-of-girl.

i can see your blonde curls bouncing

and your pale hands clapping along

to the nautical rhythms before you:

Un-der da seeeee!

Un-der da seeeee!

you said you used to love the beach

when you were little:

but now you dread the sand inside your skin.

i think the video tape went dead from tracking too much.

i want to be buried without a coffin so my flesh

i want to be buried without a coffin so my flesh

can be fed right to the soil and each little

flower around my grave will have a bit

of me within its core:

i want to give the little worms a place to live.

if i have a favorite season it is sleep.

if i have a favorite season it is sleep.

awake is like summer in too many ways:

grueling, lasting longer than needbe,

baking me, making me sweat over nothing;

and dozing is like spring: it's on again

then off; it's rain and then it's sun; it's wonderful

to walk outside then unbearable.

if i had to place it sleep is like winter:

i have to stay where i am because my feet cannot traverse

through the streets when they are;

but i want to keep myself from the freezing

so i wrap myself up tightly in a blanket

and hold myself so that i can avoid

the process of waking (which to me is autumn).

remember once, i was a boy: [A POEM REVISITED]

remember once, i was a boy:

long before my hands bled

and swept my body in filthy

desires, i kept my heart from

fullness

until

grazing moonlight

with your breasts

dancing swiftly above me

and your thighs crashing

as white foam of waves

upon my fragile shores—

they were torn up by my fingers

(lust is a thing ungodly:

ungodly so far as to tear

all my eyes far and deep;

and all those ungodlies

will fall upon my hands)

hardly, cold and swift

Our Gyres*

the Gyres swirl around you and i

and whirl us around in a spiral hourglass.

* * * * *

before we knew who Christ was,

you and i raised our chalices

and had bulls slaughtered for Apollo

for his blessings to write

our poems in dactyls

(DAH duh duh DAH duh duh DAH duh duh DAH duh duh DAH duh duh

DAH DAH)

where we spoke of the sea and fallen Troy

as Hector lay beaten bruised and dead

around the walls of the city.

like our fallen hero you and i were swept up

round and round

until our arms and eyes melded into one:

a fusion sealed by our lips

until our bodies were pressed against one another's

in the dire force of the vortex

where we fell.

* * * * *

each dimension in their dualism

built upon themselves,

spinning down down until a point burst open

and we droped below into a new era:

the hourglass turned upside down

so the sands begin again.

* * * * *

the sands of Israel--this was our home now

but instead of writing in dactyls

we kept it simple: four beats because those

in the fields with their sheep can only sing so many melodies

(they have to be able to remember it all,

like children: David had it right

when he made his sing-songy words the Word).

we followed Christ around like scribes--you made perfumes with Mary

and i washed His feet--covered in dirt and mud--every day.

at night we snuck away from the camp

to write a poetry for ourselves: four beats

were never enough for our bodies, four beats

were never enough for us to sing our full praises

of God for giving us these bodies

to play with.

we thought we knew pain

until we saw those nails go through His wrists--

like those points that pierce into the blood

we once again fell through the middle

of the double cone

and fell into new sands in time.

* * * * *

how appropriate was it

that we saw His death and now

all we could yell was His name

in our plunge?

time turned upside down yet again

to let us fall back to our original position:

we saw the moon overhead wax and wain

until it vanished from the sky

and we (once again) fell upon the point

of blackness.

* * * * *

there is no metre now.

there are only words.

the moon is barely waxing--we can only see a sliver:

how cruel when before we saw the turning over

of dimensions?

we went from seeing our history captured

in glass and sand

to simply waiting.

we have one thousand nine hundred eighty-nine years

eight months and four days

until we can see the gyres again.

now we have no Apollo,

no Hector,

and no Christ (despite what our mothers say):

there is only you and i

and almost two thousand years of waiting

for the next swirling caving Gyre.

* * * * *

let us make our own--

not our of time and place,

dimension and space,

but of lips and hands,

breasts and chests,

tangled limbs and lovely words

and swirl it all together

in a mixture of love.

Yeats never said that we had to wait

for the next Gyre--

we can make our own.

*http://www.yeatsvision.com/Geometry.html

let's see where this takes us—

let's see where this takes us—
this early-morning love:

i awoke speaking sweet somethings into your ear

i want the world to be jealous
of everything that we do in this bed.
i want god to look down upon us
and remember all of the beautiful things
he has made.

my hands over back and shoulders, brushing your hair
out of your face on the offchance that you
would wake up and kiss me
(like you never do - you always just fall
right back to sleep)

i love your lips—i love your shoulders
i want mine on yours; we won't have two anymore
because they'll be one:
our four will become one

the sunlight shifts through the blinds
and reflects in your lightened hair;
i can see the little specks of dust in the air
rest upon your forehead
which i ride up to
to kiss

On My Way

a song originally written when I was fourteen and trying to be Jim Morrison—revised with as much as I could remember

I'm driving down the highway

the California sun and waves

are all I have

There's a full tank of gas

And some coffee on the dash,

But I just laugh

I'm going down the coast

To see my baby's most

Sexy stare

I can hear the ocean break

And all in all I want to take

A breath of air

Baby, I'm on my way.

Baby, I'm on my way.

I've got a bungalow down in Venice

And, if the moon will let us

We'll save tonight

This highway's gettin' cold

And this car is far too old

To drive me right

But I'll face the asphalt day

Just on the chance I may

Hold you soon

So as I drive by ocean sand

With my cigarette in hand

I'll sing this tune

Baby, wait for me.

Baby, wait for me.

This drive is getting long

But the radio's still on

I can hear your name

The road is quiet as the sun

Rises from the dawn

As I do the same.

Baby, I'm on my way.

Baby, I'm on my way.

Ambulance on North University Ave.

the sidewalks fell silent to prepare
for your blaring sirens—the people scurried
and babies wailed as their mothers
pressed their palms over their fragile ears

get away! get away! get away, o!
the beast comes running, hungry for blood!

a red galaxy swirled overhead—
the vortex sucking in the milky beams
that flash and reflect themselves
in the window of the buildings around us

get away! get away! get away, o!
the beast comes running, hungry for blood!

the blue streaks over the sides of its
hefty boxy body, the eyes of those walking
filled up—brown, hazel, green, all of them nothing
when bathed in electric blue

get away! get away! get away, o!
the beast comes running, hungry for blood!

all that splendor of screeching horns,
whisking lights and shining streaks
all fell silent and still 0 then its jaws opened
and engulfed an old man's still body

get away! get away! get away, o!
the man is dead and beast is full—waiting for us.

A RESPONSE

i do not drown: i falter.

a life preserver you are not;

but you are the beating on my chest

that makes me breath again.

i can take it from there.

i can't help but look down

when you take me up to the top of your cliff

and i can see the valleys where the rivers flow

where we once swam and where i

(once (maybe twice)) forgot how to swim.

i do not jump—i do not fall.

Couplet

it gets harder to look you in the eye

when you are floating so much higher above me.

A RESPONSE 5 [A Poem Revisited]

you don't need to say my name in your poems:
i'll know which ones are about me,
and for those about which i am unsure

i will ask
(even though you probably wish that i would just read it
and nod my head and go "uh-huh" and leave it at that,

but you know me).
besides, if i want to hear my name, i will ask you for it
(but it will be muffled under our bodies).

and i will always be i regardless of I things

as to keep my head from swelling up

which you—or your speaker—says it does

so often.

someone is none of my concern

for i know that you are one and i am one

and together we make two;

but we are together, so that makes one.

our ones make two which makes one.

does that make sense?

i'm not the one who's good with numbers:

you clip coupons and return bottles

while i vote for politicians who will do all that

for me

(isn't democracy so keen?).

we both know you will do no such skewing of which you speak—

you know well what you are doing, where you are going; you know that i

am left-handed.

i don't think poetry fits on a scatter plot

despite what we both learned in our respective

Introduction to Poetry courses.

A RESPONSE 5

oh, you thought i meant . . .

you thought i was saying . . .

wow, this is awkward.

i know that you are not I

in the confines of these glowing screens

and sounds of pounding keys (mine much more booming than yours):

i just meant that you (Allison) are an I

and i am an i—

this was not a commentary on your speaker who i wish to know more dearly.

(and i will always be i regardless of I things

as to keep my head from swelling up

which you—or your speaker—says it does

so often).

and someone is none of my concern

for i know that you are one and i am one

and together we make two;

but we are together, so that makes one.

our ones make two which makes one.

does that make sense?

i'm not the one who's good with numbers:

you clip coupons and return bottles

while i vote for politicians who will do all that

for me

(isn't democracy so keen?).

we both know you will do no such thing, this skewing of which you speak—

you know well what you are doing, where you are going; you know that i

am left-handed.

i don't think poetry fits on a scatter plot

despite what we both learned in our respective

Introduction to Poetry courses.

A RESPONSE 4

it's a funny thing, really.

you are I

and i am i:

you have bound yourself to such an immense

fantastic thing, while i keep myself

down to the i: incomplete, unhuman.

i would not go as far as to say that i

am a man, but perhaps a transition, or

perhaps a boy with an early case of facial hair.

i remember that Autumn well:

you seemed well standing alone,

yet i was waiting for you to crush me

with each of your powerful words.

however, crushing does carry nearly as much of a shock

as melting.

i would love to be wrapped in your blankets,

but somehow (especially today)

your arms seem so much better.

                  to be one with you; but, my love,

two bodies become one and two breaths

become one in our little games; one is more than two.

now on your tercet:

you are o-so tricky in your poems!

look at what you have left me:

no end-stop, how cruel!

how can i even attempt to ponder

what you were pondering there?

spacing? poetic, yes,

but this poet tried to keep it all left-alligned

for our sake, but if you want

to play that game,

i'll suit up.

and, if you recall, i wrote poems

in response to your poems

long ago;

it's just that this time i am trying

to re-melt you;

whereas before i was simply trying

to get you to say my name out loud.

To My Cousin

by god i thought that you would break the chains

of caramel binding—perhaps not break them

but rather use them, wrap them around the pale necks of men

who looked down at us and then tried to pick us up

with the almighty dollar; you and i were going to laugh

in their faces, hold them down and teach their children

how to keep their guilt in their wallets.

you and i were going to take this town in our hands

and feel the buildings crumble in our palms—

we were going to feast on autumn leaves and concrete

and wash it all down with the blood of those who used our grandfather

to build their empires; we were going to don

our swords and shields (bearing the image of the Vijen)

and down their walls brick by pressing brick;

it was our turn to be the Conquistadors.

i prepared to hoist a cup overflowing with brew with you;

we would drink to our conquest of things that were

unobtainable to us before—unobtainable to our mothers

and fathers because they felt the need to bow down

to the desires of those above us and use babies

to weigh themselves down; you and i would get drunk

on power and dreams, on desires and glory—

our own, not our mothers and fathers.

life threw you a bone and you choked.

The H Word Part II

surprise, surprise!

it's still there!

Seeing Ralph Williams Outside of UMMA

      today the LORD appeared to me again:

how Adoshem did float above the ground

while seeking holy children which to pass

His blessings; Nature laid a path for Him

of roses, cattails, dewy grass and sun

the flora cushioned both His leaping feet

and rays moved on to kiss His aging face;

although His face grew old in dire time,

His hands made gusts that underlined the shear

untidy winds that reap the Earth of seeds

which He then put inside the ground to bloom.

      an angel there accompanied the LORD;

she spoke to Him to understand his Word—

the flailing pleas to His sweet babe and all

to never let His beauty willingly

become a corpse while at the hands of Man—

she smiled as His lips begat the praise

of what His men have made in grueling sweat

and thought, which understanding leads throughout

the world that He has made in booming voice.

      His grin denied the sins of mortal Death

which tempts His children with its brutal means;

but when He bore his teeth to tempters' eyes,

the evil sees the World Utopian—

a paradise created within time

that Adoshem has made with every verse

and every undulation from His tongue.

      resisting urges pulsing in my soul,

i strolled on by, pretending not to see,

pretending not to want to run and kiss

His face by means of holy praise and love—

instead i placed desires to my lips

and kissed my Love, His best creation.

The H Word

the lap lap lapping of your tongue and teeth

grazing my too dark neck holds me

tense, my arms ribs inclining as my hands

grasp the rumbled sheet where i lie

and you traverse me with your lips

you've got those blue daggers

you've got those blue daggers

embedded in your head and a forest

of entrapments nestled on top;

so many hunters lost their bearings

when trying to navigate the intricacies

in your being to find an elusive love

that only few have felt returned.

the fractured seams of twenty-one outbroken

years creeps over you as you take

your boned hands and push my chest

and my body down to the floor

where they wrangle me like howling dogs

that are hungry.

your fingers arch over mine to wring them

to nothing; a crushing that leaves me

dripping and wishing for more.

A REPONSE 3

LORD knows that you don't
need me:
need makes it sound like you wince

at every drop of blood that drips
from your fingers (which i know
you do but i won't tell anyone).

i'm like a baby—i cry if you don't hold me
and i eat you out of house and home;
if i could drink your milk i would.

i am the baby here,
strangely enough because i am older
by two grueling months which seem like decades:

i remember in Autumn all you had
was the air on your bare hand—
and you seemed just fine (without me) then.

i need you because i am hungry
and i can only sleep if i have your breath
as my lullaby.

REJECTED POEM [A POEM REVISITED]

[gravis alp]

ONE

i count my life in pages now
and everything is double-spaced.
i think in Times New Roman
(i used to fantasize in Courier).

i can't measure my life in coffee spoons
because i drink my coffee black;
and i always throw my teabags away
so i can't use those, either.

and coffee cups, forget it!
why pay for good coffee
when bad coffee is free
and i can wash the cup right afterward?

TWO

i eat dinner at ten,
breakfast at one.
lunch at five.

i used to wake up early
but now i drag.

i used to go to bed,
but now i just go to sleep.

THREE

i'll know when i have a drinking problem if i ever measure my life in beer cans
because bottles are so much classier.

FOUR

i haven't cleaned in weeks
because i'm just so busy,
but not busy enough to stay away from impromptu "poems."
i used to be a poet, remember?
now i'm a student
and school really gets in the way
of good poetry.

FIVE

you know you're grown up when you buy your first can opener.

SIX

i used to write songs for pretty girls
but then the pretty girls went deaf
(except for a few,
but they don't like my genre).
how can you sing to pretty girls
when you can't even talk to them?:
John Cusak did it right
(minus the stalking thing).

SEVEN

accomplishment is measured in pages now—
no more than five at a time.

EIGHT

i love my winter coat
and its little hood,
but i hate my winter coat
in the middle of October.

FINIS

this will never see the light of day.
i'll just drink it away in a month and a half
when i (legally) can.

A RESPONSE 2

whatever we write will be written
and whatever lies in the aheadofourselves will stay there:
i already have a style guide; you read it on my floor

(and though you disagree with it
i respect our differences because
like everything else i love you).

you may have whatever reminds you of home:
everything you do reminds me of home
because my home was so much less of a home—

your mother wrote poetry and painted
but my mother didn't have time for all that
inbetween daughters and a son

your father studied something
and my father only studied
the lawn which he had to cut

so now i will be like my father and give you my cut
and, like my mother, i will write another little tercet
inbetween a thousand other little daughters and sons:

i dream of being your blanket in the winter,
your shade in the spring,
and o so much more in nightfall allyearround.

as i plucked the strings of a worn guitar,

as i plucked the strings of a worn guitar,

my love came singing; her voice adorned with

moist assonance in her lingering tongue
and her toes tapping the Earth to my awkward rhythms

then her voice grew larger and filled the hills
with their reaping echoes
the trees shook and left themselves bare
and thirsty for more straining in sight

i kept plucking, fighting my urges to leap up
and kiss her dripping lips, laced with smooth alliterations
from her thoughtful lyrics—her dire words

leaving this world with such wrenching sweetness

and i just kept plucking
letting her words leap far beyond mine

SONNET: Fourteen Ways of Perceiving My Own Death

FIRST QUATRAIN

LINE ONE

there's a step that this girl takes when she sways

over the sidewalk

where she strides to abandon

the one who lurks behind her.

LINE TWO

when reading a story,

the phrase i I was born...

means that the story will not end well.

LINE THREE

how many times have i dreamed of dying
with her thighs over me
and my body under?

LINE FOUR

whether in a painted urn
or a carelessly-dug plot,
or even under a pile of fallen rocks,
i wonder where my pale cold body
will finally dwell.

SECOND QUATRAIN

LINE FIVE

when slipping the ring on your finger,
someone in my family will undoubtedly yell
well, he had a good life while it lasted -
am i right?

LINE SIX

i often think about a blaze of glory -
then i realize that i am afraid of fire.

LINE SEVEN

i have too often had those
i'm-going-to-die-right-now moments;
and then i wake up for the third time
that night.

LINE EIGHT

i am a crownless king:
my enemy will plunge a dagger
to steal my power away
and in doing so he will kiss my cheek
and lovingly call my "sire."

THIRD QUATRAIN

LINE NINE

my love will open the letter
from the soldiers and weep
because hers will not be coming home
on this or any other night.

LINE TEN

my son (god bless him)
wonders what i will leave him
after i die
(besides another shitty poem
like this).

LINE ELEVEN

there are monsters under the bed,
but i like to think that they are there
just to keep me in check in my fright.

LINE TWELVE

i was born in winter's frigid death -
i at least deserve to die in summer's humid bliss.

FINAL COUPLET

LINE THIRTEEN

i supposed it's the luck of the draw
that keeps me walking here
for now, for years to come.

LINE FOURTEEN

someone once asked me
how do you think you will die?
why, i have many ways, my good man;
let me tell you some!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

[for my play]

MALCOLM: The Groom, mid-twenties, half-Mexican

AIMEE: The Bride, mid-twenties, white

LINDA: AIMEES’s mother, early fifties, white

CORINNE: AIMEES’s sister, late twenties, white

JEFFERY: MALCOLM’s best friend, mid-twenties, white

STEWART: MALCOLM’s father, mid-forties, white

ROBERTA: MALCOLM’s mother, mid-forties, Mexican-American

FATHER LINDLEY: a priest

NANCY: Corinne’s daughter, age five, white

SETTING: The living room of MALCOLM and AIMEE’s apartment. The play takes place over the course of a few months.

once again my body fell victim to

once again my body fell victim to
its own dire groping: the call to flesh from arms

strewn across our bed in the middle of the night
and the wide gaping jaws of your impassioned

mouth - my own bellowed in distress as an
echo of agony; and how your back was arched

over your arms which grasp to keep

your blood from churning too much over itself,

which seems only to happen when you

and your hips are sitting still

Couplet

that smell of you still ling      ers
upon my

                        sparse

            skip

            ing

                                     fing       ers

for days now my face has known the gentle doting

for days now my face has known the gentle doting

of the prickling Spring rain; the poke

from each thin drop protruding my

ashed fleshy cheeks, chilling them with

brisk outward mist, now without

their corse pricking cover of

my now-shaven beard

we are a species of repetition:

[for alp]

we are a species of repetition:

that song you sang dayindayout

broken into syllables

(rah

rah)

bounced along within my head -

like the sing-a-long ball at the bottom of the screen

of every childhood television show

& the steps of a jagged boogie

keeps the mad rhythms in time

as you show me again when i fall asleep

my dreams are filled with deafening wakes

and breasts a-flame

i have been lit

over and over

and over again

because now i know this song

only because of your dear jumping steps

and the inflection of your alto

along the caverns of my bed

each syllable a romance within itself -

repeated through all of time

A POEM REVISITED

hardly doomed:scathed this girl became

an or: a yes not no not

however maybe; hurled between the less

up to more; she became the can

to make it will; now fully doomed;love

Gravity

-negative-

(

nine.

point.

eight

meters/

per/

second

)

squared

my dear

my dear

i will

sit

& go

slow

to watch

your mouth

open

in death

A Dream about Laurence Goldstein

i awoke aching to remember that poem
that you boomed throughout my slumber:

those distinguished gray snarls on your head
stood still as your fist came pounding
upon a podium of pine - thundering
with your stomping spondees (dripping with
little "uh"s here and there) - your breath
drawing in deeply, commanding the air
to aid your lungs in their projection
of your stampede of photographs in your words

your eyes gazed up into the florescent lights
that illuminated your crinkled forehead and left
a deathly glare within your thick bent glasses;
your teeth showed vigor as your lips gaped to free
each piercing noise from your muddled tongue

there was a slow-motion depth prickling my ears
with deafening claps of mono-syllabic pride,
a cacophony that made the throats of those around you
bleed from their nail-like echoes; you are a hammer
with your SoCal pretension (not at all a bad thing)

as my chest thumped with each of your words
i listened with my ribs rather than my ears -
so (i'm sorry but) i can't remember your poem;

only the beauty of power that we have discussed

For Leigh

Pirandello is
a Modernist -
do you all know what
Modernism is? -
James Joyce is one
for you English people.

we know, Leigh -
tell that to the Actors
because Lord knows they don't know.

in nights like last when i hear the rain

in nights like last when i hear the rain

i wish to awake and run out the door

into the dampness and filth of early spring mud

and find stagnant waters pooled in the

limp, moist grass, drop down to my knees

and feel the soil cake my skin -

my hands darkened with earth and my face

ready to plunge into the cool, shallow waters;

i rear my head back and push through the air

until my face lies saturated and i drink -

i let the waters of rebirth sooth my throat

and wet my parched lips until my breath is gone -

i inhale the waters of the earth and spring

until i lie in that puddle wishing never to rise

An Elegy

epitome of man, i held you dear
as winter blew itself to Earth so near!
but now the Sunlight bears its gleaming head
so now i sing for you, the Lost and Dead.
the thwarting that we made against the earth -
which lay engulfed within our smold'ring hearth -
now lay about our knees in rough defeat
as juices flow into our mouths so sweet!

but now i've made you victim of the blade;
and nothing more upon my face you'll shade -
for you have seen your Death upon my hand:
a suicide brought up from my command.

so now i bid your body sweet farewell;
i pray it be a heaven where you dwell -
i missed your darkened soft and rumpled curls
as down the drain i watched them swirl and swirl.

Fallen Planes

a song

VERSE 1:

In this city dwells

The light of abandoned dreams of men

Who all cry and swell

When they are left again

The rooftops seem to blend

Among the setting sun and sky

The way our faces mend

This gap that lies between our eyes

PRE-CHORUS 1:

Papers fly like birds

That carry a stranger's words

CHORUS:

Then our fallen planes

Fall in love among the streets

Where the lonely reins

But not over our am'rous sheets

VERSE 2:

When that time of day

Comes 'round to make you feel alone

Think of what I say

And if it lingers in your bones

Then in haste I'll write

The words that make it all seem clear

And in their dire flight

They'll come and make me seem so near

PRE-CHORUS 2:

The city sits and waits

To see the love it separates

CHORUS:

Then our fallen planes

Fall in love among the streets

Where the lonely reins

But not over our am'rous sheets

INTERLUDE

CHORUS:

Then our fallen planes

Fall in love among the streets

Where the lonely reins

But not over our am'rous sheets

CASUS NOSTER [X]

CASUS NOSTER

The bite boomed

throughout the entire Garden;

You would have leapt back

from the shock, had it not been

for the sweet delectable taste

in your (now aching) mouth.

You held the Fruit up to your mouth

and looked at me with wondering eyes.

But somehow still

You were not wondering

but I could tell that dearly

you knew:

You knew the bounds of the heart

that I had felt

when my teeth sank into

that gleaming Flesh;

you were able to feel a thing

outside of the bounds

of this Garden –

a longing known only by

me

after I tasted that

firm, supple flesh

of the Fruit.

Your breath quickened

and your lips watered,

dreaming of more flesh

of the Fruit

or mine.

You said nothing.

I grabbed your shoulder

softly

and shook you gently.

“Adam:

What has befallen you,

Husband?”

You turned and looked at the gates

and your face was blank.

“What have I done,”

you asked,

“since my creation?

I have tilled this Garden

and cared for it

on command alone.

But now,

I know not how command

is meaningful

when this new

impassioned inclining

lingers deeply within

my being.”

I went over to you

atop the hill

and under the Tree

to look out at the Garden

with you.

Our eyes looked over this land

that God gave to us:

The greenness

and the liveliness

all seemed like nothing

now that this love

was deep within ourselves.

I turned to you

and you to me;

you grabbed my shoulders

and I your hips

and we pulled each other

closer

closer

closer

until our moist lips met

in a manner never seen

in this Garden.

After,

we pulled away,

our eyes still locked within one another’s

as our lips were before.

“Adam.”

“Eve.”

“My Love.”

“My Love.”

Suddenly our hands met

and we rushed from atop the hill

and down to the bushes

by the hushing river

where we spent our nights –

our breath was quicker

and my heart

was pounding deeply

as it never had before.

We moved into the clearing

by that soothing river

and quickly took to the ground

as we had before –

Only now

this was not from any command.

We entangled ourselves

within each other

and let our flesh graze over

each other’s lips –

again and again

our lips met

in moistness,

dripping of something much more sweet

than that Fruit.

Your voice grunted

and mine ached

higher

and higher

until for once I felt

my body tense

and yours heavy with its pushing –

warmed in the cusp of daylight.

Then,

in a move so unheard of,

I grabbed your wrists

and pulled you down

to the ground,

and I climbed upon you

to (for once)

push.

Your body was still moving,

your breath was still heavy.

I had broken you

with my body.

Time passed

and our bodies grew limp,

strained from that pushing,

that love

in the daylight

and without command.

We lied on the ground

together,

you held me dearly

in your tired arms.

Our lips met again

and again

and again.

We knew we were no longer

among the Beasts:

we had our pleasures

and they had their command –

we evolved beyond command

and simply took our pleasures.

But with those pleasures

came something

uneasy

within our bodies.

This thing we had never felt –

like love

only much more unsettling.

We looked down at our naked bodies –

still soaked with our pleasure’s sweat –

and felt unright.

You and I scurried over

to the nearest

thickest

bush

and hid within its lush leaves

until we heard that booming

come down from above.

i trampled

i trampled

through fields of mud;

and with each

moist

dampening

stomping

step,

my soaked feet sing

praises

of the newborn

Spring

A RESPONSE

not a poem

i'm truly sorry.

i shouldn't have been that way.

i'm sorry for everything wrong that i have ever done to you (because the list is probably so very long).

i love you.

please forgive me.

i love you.

A RESPONSE

too much is all i know:

too much beer and food

too much poem every day

too much thinking

too much awakeness in thinking

truth be told i love your words

and hate my own

i wonder if i just keep talking

to get them out

i'm starting to run out of words

A RESPONSE

if only you knew

what i

maybe

perhaps

thought

could be

wrong,

you would want

to put your hand

around my neck

too

CASUS NOSTER [IX]

CASUS TUUS

The bite boomed

throughout the entire Garden;

I would have leapt back

from the shock, had it not been

for the sweet delectable taste

in my (now aching) mouth.

You startled awake upon hearing the flesh rip

from inside my teeth.

Your head jolted up

and your body flipped over

letting the stiff grass pierce the still-moist skin

on your back;

your face agape and your mouth

wide in fear;

your eyes began to water

(something still strange to me)

and your eyebrows curved in –

I had only seen them do as such

when you were on top of me.

Your eyes jolted over to the Serpent,

still next to me;

I looked over and saw him

grinning.

“Beast!” you cried,

“I am to command you

and Adoshem is to command me;

thus any command given by God

is of all in this Garden!

No one is to eat of the Fruit,

Man or Beast!

Adoshem will banish you

from this place!”

The Serpent crept up to you,

seemingly floating,

until his face was almost against yours,

and he stuck out his tongue;

in his sly squirming he moved away,

never taking his eyes off of

you and I.

He moved farther and farther away,

his thing unloving lips still curled

in that maniacal grin.

You looked at me,

blankness in your stern face;

your eyes red as they gazed upon

the bitten Fruit

in my hand.

With passion in body

(not like the passion we had

the night before) you swatted

the Fruit from my hand.

It fell down to the Earth

with a THUD that boomed

throughout the Garden –

still that booming was nothing

compared to your voice

as I looked down in shame:

“What unholy thing have you done

in tasting the forbidden?

How have you, my Partner,

betrayed the trust of Adoshem –

the One who gave us this place

and commanded so little of us?

What were you in mind hoping

to do with the Fruit?

How could you let such

a diabolical

insignificant

beast seduce you

and tempt you to disobey

the command of Adoshem?”

I looked up to you,

into your raging eyes

which were gleaming red

like the Fruit’s tender sweet flesh

and I finally put my hand

upon your sticky smooth

face.

“Adam, do you love me?”

You looked at me;

startled, confused,

unsure of how to take

my (now) simple question.

“What do you speak of?”

You reached up with your

rough firm hand

and tore mine from your face;

your eyes widened

and your lips firmed up

in questioning.

“When my lips

tore the flesh from that Fruit,

I knew that I loved you.”

You grabbed my face

and shook my lightly –

your hands were stiff.

“What is this that you speak of?”

Your voice was now aching to know;

all signs of rage had passed.

I sat down, my bare body now somewhat covered

by the grass below –

strangely it felt right –

and pulled you down with me;

my face beaming as I grabbed you.

“You must know this feeling:

I wish to be with you

forever.”

You plopped down on the grass

with me, your face now

somewhat calm.

“We would have been together

forever,

had you not doomed yourself with

such disobedience.”

“But the confines of this Garden

are nothing to me now;

I want to be with you

regardless as to whether our bodies

lie in these gates –

I wish only to be with you

in this feeling –

this love.”

You looked at me

and then at the Fruit,

still on the ground,

then you looked over to the Gates

where we saw God’s winged men,

now scrambling in a panic.

“What is there outside of this Garden?”

I picked up the Fruit

from the ground

and held it out to you.

“What lies beyond

is something that I now feel

inside.

What is inside this body

and soul

is much more splendid

than what is inside this Garden.”

You slowly reached out,

your fingers curving over

the bitten Fruit

until you lifted it

and looked at me again.

“What is it like?”

“Like knowing what is right.”

You put the Fruit

up to your mouth

and slowly yet fiercely

took a sweet

supple

daring

bite.

(though i have never seen the ocean) i dream of one day

(though i have never seen the ocean) i dream of one day
bathing you in saline waves and letting the foam
collide and dissipate on your back; the little bubbles
poppoppoppop until there is nothing but a glimmering sheen
on sliding down your smooth pale flesh

my hand will ride over your body, the water will grace
all of the little flecks of skin and the stiff peaks
of your breasts: they form a valley through which
warm crisp waters flow, a canyon traversed only by
yours and my pressing fingers

your dripping thighs will be caressed by mine;
rubbing over one another's as the ocean breeze
cools them down from their carnal burning and shaping
over one another's - the rocks between our toes are nothing
compared to the firmness of their passions

our lips are one with the waters: the moistness blending
and mixing until we do not know whose waters are
whose; still we wait to see how long it will take
for our lips to fill in the ocean waters

(which i have never seen)

CASUS NOSTER [VIII]

CASUS MEUS

“What is love?”

I had to know.

No word had ever crossed my lips

or mind.

No such thing I had ever felt

uttered from any mouth,

God’s or Adam’s;

but this Serpent thin unwarming lips

spouted such a word.

He smirked and looked at me

deeply;

his red eyes set on me, his visions

leaving my stomach churning

yet my mind yearning

to know of this feat of which

he spoke.

You (still sleeping) did not hear a word.

The Serpent loosened his coils

from around the branch, the Fruit still entangled

in his tail; then his head turned back

and he began to slither down

the thick sturdy trunk

until he was once again up

above the ground

and his eyes were (once again)

back in mine.

“Love” he began,

“is what God does not want you

to know of – love is what would keep

Adam

with you

and your body

forever.”

I looked over at you, still sleeping.

How, I imagined, could you ever

leave me? leave this place?

leave this Garden which we have made

our own?

“What is it?”

“It, my dear, is more than

is confined in the gates

of this Garden;

it is far beyond any and all

things you know in this place

and it is what will keep Adam

bound to you forever.”

My eyes began to water –

a feat Adam nor I had seen

in the Garden.

“Why would he not be bound to me

forever? Why do you speak such

despicable things? We rule over this Garden

together – we obey Adoshem

and keep this Garden for Him –

we make the beasts ours

and the flora is ours for our mouths;

Adam tills the land for Adoshem

and I keep him rested and fed

so that God remains pleased with His creations.

We are bound to this Garden;

Adam is bound to me.”

The water on my face was warm –

the salinity ran into my mouth

and my breath became harsh,

unsteady.

“He is bound to you in body

and body alone – his labors are not

for your sake or his: they are for God’s.

He does only what Adoshem tells him:

he lies with you because Adoshem tells him;

for that and nothing more.

But with this succulantness,

he would be bound to you forever

and you would be bound to him

in a manner beyond the confines of this Garden.”

“How do you know?”

“My dear, I know things of love,

and this is a thing of love.”

He turned his head back to the branch

where one ruby Fruit hung

from the end and it dangled

in the gentle breeze of the Garden –

a drop of water trickled over

the thick ripe flesh

and onto the grass below where it

disappeared.

“He will say with me

forever?”

“Forever.”

I reached up,

my eyes still streaming,

and with my pale fragile hand

I plucked.

I slowly put the Fruit

up to my moistened lips,

looked over at the Serpent,

who moved his head toward

you.

I saw you there sleeping:

your back still glistening

from your sweat, your body

moving with each inhalation.

How badly I wanted to feel that breath.

I grazed my teeth against the flesh

and slowly yet fiercely

took a sweet

supple

daring

bite.

A RESPONSE

my love:

you and i will start off small-

little tercets now;

maybe a sonnet or two;

a sequence when we are well-versed;

a TV pilot;

a screenplay or five

(we start our own production company - M.A.L. Films

for "Mark Anthony/Allison Leigh").

finally a style guide:

How to Write Together for Lovers

or somethinglikethat

there are so many histories that we will write

and the most beautiful poetry we will make will be

called Camilla and Alex&er

let us write those spots in time

and let them gleam in the world,

but, until then:

my jealousy of that heater

is only matched by my desire

to be the only blanket you'll ever need.

A Poem Revised Three Times in One Sitting

11:10 AM: the vacant booming echoes

entrapped in eyes on a photograph -

color brings out too much

in the lines of spectrums; and frames keep the eye

bouncing across glistening beams and swiftly over

the dire greyscale still

Ode to the Run-Down Theater in Monroeville, OH

the sign above you said

Now Playing, but the stripped paint

broken doors and blacked-out windows

said otherwise -

driving down Main St. in rural whoknowswhere

makes me wonder what made you go under:

the drive-thru liquor store

and gentlemen's club (which still looks oddly

like a garage) seem to be doing

just fine

the antique furniture store next door is filled with

all of the items that were around when you

were first built - that old green-padded

dining room chair, the velvet sofa;

the faux-crystal vase reminds me of your old lights

that used to glisten in the night sky but now

are dulled and burnt-out, like your old

silver screens (that probably had a hint

of real silver)

i wondered what on Earth that FURNITURE sign

did on your marquee - i think that in a desperate

act of pleading, your seats were stripped

from you and put on a black market just off of Main St.

in order to keep your screens lit up for just

another decade or so - just long enough to see

the next incarnation of the Coca-Cola logo

that your customers would carry with their popcorn

on their way to see Night of the Living Dead

for the umpteeth time

i just pray to god that your last blaze of glory

was not The Blair Witch Project

or something terrible like that

A RESPONSE

M

reminds me of my plainness
a one-syllable abrupt timely thing
that leaves nothing for the tongue
to fuddle over or anything for the lips
to purse themselves for a false kiss
that one could grant the air as it
trickles down from the warm streams
of the mouth; and i remember that he
from twothousand years ago was only
the second; and how he from now fortyfive years ago
thinks nothing of the moniker that
perhaps is the reason why he is so plain,
so flat, so undrawing to the world -
like the cacophony of a single ugly sound

A

a cry from my Mother Rome:
how well it molds the first ugly thing
and makes is something more -
something of power that greets the day
with a brand-new-fuck-you attitude
claiming the land and all of time
as his, as one, for the sake and the sex
of a beauty that keeps him pushing
against the world, a timeless struggle
to move onward, to move through barriers
brought upon the old - he was young and
reckless
i am young, reckless in some right
but not enough to bear the dagger
that he did, my namesake.

MA

only half of what this is supposed to be
but only a true part of what i am:
the ugly, abrupt, unbeautiful follower of Christ
plus
the cry of power deep within a Mediterranean root

how this makes such a strange thing

i wonder who is the champion
of your strange lovely thing

she said

she said
rise and pluck me
from the branches of Earth:
i bloom ready, my juices are sweet
and ready for your tongue
to take it and make it widen
your eyes and your lips
purse - now pluck me
with your lips
and taste my love.

i obeyed.

at age four my nephew has found

at age four my nephew has found
a muffled voice - a song sung through
the muddles of a lazy tongue
for he, like me, finds his roots
in a long noble line of lazy tongues

Death showed itself

Death showed itself
withing the moistness
and sheer soft plight
of your quivering
lips

The NODA Poem

i found God scattered across the Ohio Valley -
He took the form of red and white bricks
as His kiss on the land with
oil and mud blanketed the foreheads
in the paleness of those who sing
His praises fully, while i await
a different kiss, one much sweeter:

i saw your lips just out of my grasp
across state lines, through the smog
of the Midwest - it cleared up the deep blackness
in the clouds and paved whiteness
onto the Cuyahoga, brightening it
and dousing the flames ignited by all of the God
burning across the Ohio Valley

your kiss

your kiss

f
a
l
l
s

deeply

softly

onto mine

waiting

to fall

the visions of Christ sitting above

the visions of Christ sitting above
my dear mother's forehead will always
keep their gazes on me

moreso than my mother herself

death (bound by the tangles of your hair)

death (bound by the tangles of your hair)

crackles in my fingers, a stone-cold mixture

of sunlight and air, of the new moon tampered

by the swirling clouds above our heads

until the sky opens and inhales the Earth

within its darkness, the somber wakings

of our eyes through the deep wandering

through to our hands, the skin melting

as the stars which beam through the vastness

in the caverns of our love, the breezes of

formed our dampened bed, like the leaves

that bloom over us as the sky opens

up and inhales us both as the deep deep

inclinings of our love inhales us both

The Blues

an old swarthy black man never taught me

how to play the blues:

the blues i learned came from Detroit:

a white Catholic man (not a Southern Baptist

at all) and it had a little oomph in the bass

notes - it had a primal pounding of 4/4 time

behind it, and a wailing known only

to choir boys

i will write a blues song someday

but i am neither black nor white

so i wonder what i have to be blue about

the deep reverberations

the deep reverberations

of her voice pulses through

telephone wires until they

strike my ear as harshly

as her lips once struck mine

harshly

i often wonder what she

i often wonder what she

does with her hands

while we are in our beds

tupping together while mine

stay wrapped around her

to caress her back -

hers disappear into the vastness

of the sheets

in the dire shifting

in the dire shifting

of the never-still waters in

this puddle

the frigid cold grazes through

the March wind

and ceasing all ripples

in this once-moist

standing water

Ode to my Apartment

the thick air of this musty

ratty place keeps my breath

bound in the rustic paint

and the chipped wood

Our Sunlight Slain

a song

i know i can't claim

the refuge that you push on me

in the night

with our sunlight slain

your love's spark and kindling

are burning bright

with your body's pains

you grab me to pulse again

in your bed

i can count my gains

on all of the troubles there

on your head

still i know that you

can stir me like autumn winds

that blow the leaves

into spirals through

the lushness of summer's sins

that you relieve

when i dream of death

i fear not the burning sting

of God's commands

i just hold my breath

and know that your voice will ring

with me in hand

my oldog Sasha was byfar a noble dog

my oldog Sasha was byfar a noble dog

she was a nightly streak whose blaring trumpets of war

took the form of deep barks as her boy was pursued

by howling snarling beasts, her gentle softness

replaced rapidly by fierce pouncing and chomping teeth

as she fought off the evils tempted by the flesh of

a tiny running boy

she would curl herself up into a mound of fuzz

breathing and moistness in her tongue and i

would let my tears from childhood aches

and schoolyard bullies & my mother and father

as bullies fall within the entangling of her fur

her little death was a simply cracking of my chest

like her teeth sinking into the flesh of other dogs

and her little death was a moistness that no amount

of thick black fur could absorb

"you're doing just fine, kiddo"

for Lyall Powers

"you're doing just fine, kiddo"

somehow a credo, a motto,

a canto for this youth to sing

in any language - his own to sing

or another canare* -

he sang through the little crown

in his left front canine where he spoke

in dactyls, his soda

bottle spectacles were his eyes

from which he saw the world

in iambs (kerPLUNK), the tan

flannel suit (making him sweat

so profusely) flailing as his big

booming steps as spondees

lept up from his false spirit of

Brooklyn:

"we real cool" he told us once.

he beckoned the larks of England with

daffodils and London Bridge,

next to of course Rheotke Powers i

loved you, for i am more than cool but

apparently i was doing just fine, kiddo.

*Latin: cano, canare - to sing

now your voice

now your voice

leaps

to me

through clouds &

god's pitiful

sky to where

i sit

to wait for

your voice:

my lost kiss

good

night

Spring awakens her supple head

Spring awakens her supple head

and pushes her cover of snow off of

her body, blooming itself in melted frigid

coldness; her her branches diverge

in the full sprouting of the leaves,

once again creeping themselves up

from the old barren wood -

the stillness of the water is where

she bathes herself, washing the stones

and cement from her (now fertile) green belly

where new lush green babes await their birth

and to be plucked from their earthen bassinets

to make new lives for love - from the hands

of this boy to his girl, who (also) becomes

much more awake in the Spring

how can i understand the plight of the teenage girl

how can i understand the plight of the teenage girl

when i was without one? i had a nasty habit at age 16

of falling in love with women: not girls but women who knew

the tender explosions of carnal love and the rough

trappings of tattoo needles, engagement rings,

and (most horrifyingly) babies - one in particular

claimed rosary beads were the way to go, even as

something was plucked from her supple worn womb.

so tenderly they would kiss my cheeks and let

the wetness of their red lips ooze down my face;

and they would smile, thinking that i was somehow

man enough to take it, but what they didn't see

was my infatuation engulfed with boyhood fantasies

that left me with so many sleepless nights.

how often i dreamed of that smooth salty kiss

upon my (then) virgin lips, the shock of a subtle

pulsing within hips pale or tanned, fleshy or boney;

these women were the ones to show me what to do

when i finally did fall in love - "don't be afraid" -

fear was not of what i was doing:

i was afraid of somehow falling in love while between

those hips about which i dreamed so much

but never truly got to taste.

thus i was afraid of taking those teenage girls (still virginal)

and making them women; making them the harsh

visions of those crushing thighs and beatings of

worn and strained hips and forgetting to kiss them.

Fingers and Honey

a song

in our city there are lights that you outshine

and you follow them in double time

making sure that you are both humbled and bright

keeping myriad orange up in the sky

so today is a day

where "i love you" cannot say

enough for the night

which blankets you so tight

in my car i saw you dancing in the road

and your body stirred me with its rhymes

i got out and watched how all your dances glowed

somehow strewn beyond God's four/four time

that song was a song

which kept your pulsings strong

so i only tried

to capture you in sight

in your songs i heard the singing of a love:

one who took the world inside her hands

lifted it so that she kept her head above

all the pacing of her love's demands

this one is the one

who keeps my fingers wrung

around all the sounds

of the strings that you have strung

your face in this place

will keeps it honey-laced

as i only try

to make your love my plight