The September Sonnets: XXX

for Ann Arbor

1.

what remains utterly still

in the blustering wind

on your concrete columns

2.

through cemented clouds

solitary beams kiss

the tips of her hair

3.

here the tulips wilt

and cover up

chrysanthemums

4.

as they fly

the newspapers crumble

and tear

5.

the autos become

hellbent on

dodging and weaving

6.

in the night rain i see

the dull glare

from colored rain boots

7.

in the middle of the grass

puddles run down the sewers

where falling water is screaming

8.

in the night

our ears and noses turn red

as the only truth

9.

the pollen rises into the

moistening air

and deep into our eyes

10.

the branches tremble

as the wind rustles them

with no regard

11.

when only needles remain

we will stick our trifles

on towering pines

12.

out and about the squirrels

are, burying their

acorns in the yard

13.

here is the stature

that fall commends

when saluting the world

14.

here is the city

that autumn calls

his one-and-only girl

The September Sonnets: XXIX

dear Autumn you made this day so lovely

and easy on my dreary eyes, marvelously awakened

by the count of yellow leaves upon your still-lush boughs

that hold their babes do dearly tight

now Autumn you lied with Spring to birth

this child of yours—a mild cloudless thing

who sings castrotti in the breeze

that lulls my dreary eyes closed

o Autumn, this day is a step up for i

and my dreary eyes to lie themselves upon

the face of God who baptized this day

with warming, calm sunlight

now Autumn let my dreary eyes

forever gaze upon your sweet facade.

Grey Morning

the dead light beam of this unpretty sky

is oso stone-like in its ghostly stillness

and firmness—the sky scrapers cannot cut

this floating sheet of rock.

the wind knows no boundaries: it blusters

over the land and chips our faces

raw—but even it cannot budge

the sky's fortress walls.

maybe someone hopped the Pearly Gates

without invitation, and God

(being stubborn like He is)

erected this petrified Heaven

to keep the undesirables out;

or maybe Apollo could not ride today

because his axel broke

or his horse fell ill—so he beckoned Medusa

to turn her head upward

so no one could see his failure.

all i know is the sunlight is

the dead light beam of this unpretty sky.

The September Sonnets: XXVIII

be mindful, Atticus, of your daddy

when he hangs his hat above you

and tells you he's home—he madly

strayed to skyscrapers and left the blue

to stare at the grey. when he knocks

the snow from his boots, keep in mind

that this on all the earth is where he docks

his tired body.when he comes home you will find

that his face—devoid of grander joys—

has seen such things beyond your being;

beyond the sight of you, his boy—

a warming sight, but a sight beyond seeing.

though he's lost his Mecca in return to bland,

he gives you your Mecca in the form of a tuna can.

The September Sonnets: XXVII

a song—folk—key of E

Sunday morning, and the chuchbells are ringing, churchbells are ringing loud

out the window the children are singing, the children are dancing round

inside our bed our bodies are sleeping, our bodies are lying still

next to us the incense is steeping, burning on the window sill

today is a day for love: we don't need no Jesus above us

Sunday morning is a time for beds: we don't need no God to kiss our heads goodnight

Sunday morning and our mothers are calling, our mothers are calling out

outside the branches are falling, the branches whistling now

inside our bed, our hands our intruding, our hands are intruding ourselves

inside my room,the Bible is waiting, the Bible is still on the shelf

today is a day for love: we don't need no Father to kiss us

Sunday morning is a time for beds: we don't need no Mother to miss us there

Sunday morning, and the people are waiting, the people are waiting now

inside our bed, our sleep is degrading, our hands are caressing down

September

i'll take this September the same way i take April:

lightly. when the leaves begin to fall i know once again

i'll fall in love with this season of change. per usual

i'll ask God why o why he keeps the sky purple

when i wish so deeply for it to be deeply black—

i'll keep this tongue flicking from my mouth to once again

capture a lovely between my thumb and forefinger:

i'll pretend i know what i can for her sake

and nothing of my own. it's all what

i'll do for a return to nighttime declarations

insightfully jumbled upon a blank computer screen.

i'll keep jumping with ever crack i walk over.

i'll always remember that the leaves are dead

and breaking them with my feet is unholy

because one should never disturb the resting dead.

i'll hold this season dearly to my heart as death rings

its bells to remind us that what once bloomed in April

is now buried under barren branches.

i'll play dead among the leaves as to not be disturbed.

i'll wander this earth searching for some form of life

so i can justify talking walks in the wee hours of the morning.

i'll find a way to make the moon smile at me

like it did all those months ago when i was not alone.

i'll take a drink from the copious waters where i bathed

in the summer to feel God's tongue on my skin.

i'll remember who God is for once.

i'll take this September the same way i take April:

i'll be alive.

The September Sonnets: XXVI

in elegiac couplets

who is the one that will take these couplets and speak of them no more?

Darling Lolita of course—mother of verses so pure.

softly she seizes them, holding them tightly inside her once spry hands

obeying not one god—only the writers commands.

scribbles from her hands press against trifles so barren

time flies, passes and she, tired and dead is again

left with this poet's ungodly and sickening pleasures, so playful:

silly yet still deafened—silently waiting for dull

lulls to undoubtedly push her now dry eyes into the slumber

she craves sweetly and true: 'til the inceptions turn

silently, brightening up her once stale lines, covered with hard prose,

God, life, children and all. verses are always her foes.

still my Lolita deciphers what poets' unpoems could all mean:

blissfully she laughs hard—wondering what she has seen.

The September Sonnets: XXV

a song—folk—key of ???

here's to you: my dead and burned-out sugar cane

is it true that we will never sail again?

who's to blame when the sea foam clouds our eyes and mouth?

i can tell when i can hear the ravens shout

it's time to taste, it's time to face

the time that time forgot

it's ours to break, it's ours to make

it all alright for us to take

i knew you as she who takes up summer days

with a slew of sands and salt from ocean waves

what's in store for the one's who can't dream anything

anymore? what will make the autumn ring?

it's a shame, a shame, a shame to let this go

but take, but take, but take it up alone

The September Sonnets: XXIV

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a

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The September Sonnets: XXIII

in

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tions

cont

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let

The September Sonnets: XXII

a step in time,

a moment of declination

with a bout of inspiration

makes us divine.

an empty heart

in a moment of peace

is left alone at ease

to solely embark.

an hour of leaves

the day of relief

from the contours of grief

only one believes.

today is a day

for love and dismay.

Receptive Vocabulary

upon waves of porphyry she sailed

in her schooner burnished

that imbued my spirit once again.

unpugnaciously i waited while her tongue

spoke its cloudland words—

each breath a sweet equipage

carried her syllables like a dumbledore

to my ears, hardened by decrepitude

from your tumbling unheeding gyre

as we sat and ate sumac buds and dreamed.

The September Sonnets: XXI

the church tower

slender

fragments the night

sky

with unpumiced

stone;

the light a second

moon;

the bells immense

crickets

hushing the sleepy

city

with their blaring

chirps

The September Sonnets: XX

while walking home the lights above me

stood still and the street sounds hushed

when the blaring came: the weary men

halted their conversations and the girls

(four walking in arm) left their soprano

in the dust. the screech of the sirens

from three blocks ahead evaded me

as i stepped out into the silent street

thinking the world had fallen quiet

just for my advance. then it turned

the corner as my foot planted on the concrete

—almost grazed, almost dead

by an ambulance's uninterrupted path:

irony is almost being killed by an ambulance.

Williams Street

i looked up

wondered which light

was yours—

the lights from the apartments

in the lone highrise

blend into the sky

like the stars,

each floor a constellation

and the satellite on top

the North Star

The September Sonnets: XIX

is obligatory misery to much to ask for

after the roof caves in?;

when the ivy growing on the back door

becomes the poisoned kind again?;

when the porphyry breaks into pieces

that no one sweeps up?;

when the poems we write become facetious;

or when i think of how you tup?

is it so much to ask that you hide

your illustrious smile?

i cannot read when it's light out.

when you arise, i smell your pride

and your detached denial:

what do you have to be miserable about?

The September Sonnets: XVIII

tempered raindrops hit the sidewalk
when my mother came into town—
all the horses found their stables
and leapt up, hoping to keep their hoofbeats
steady. when my mother came into town
the fires faded out because she can't take
the heat so much and i can't either
as i lie in bed naked with the oscillating fan
blowing over me: my mother tells me
to put on some clothes from miles away.

when my mother came to town my father
followed her: my godmother and godfather
too—all of them came to see the church
i live by. i hid in bed, naked.

The September Sonnets: XVII

the earth comes back to us

in this moment of pure starlight

through our open window—there's

a breeze rustling over our skin bear

and resting itself in twilight

as the branches become the sky's truss.

we give nocturnal declarations our trust

so we can embark on our feverish delights

without concern for any man's cares.

it's time for us to engulf the air

as we—panting—harbor sights

of mouths—agape and frivolous.

let us breathe in all we know

let us fall into the undertow

The September Sonnets: XVI

what happens

when i

become

a husband—

not a lover—

to you?

who knows who

will hover

not

above a man

as some

deny

his passions?

King of the Tree People

bring me a crown

of lilacs—will be king

for us on the frontiers

and maids will make my throne

from clay and mud.

i will lead them into battle

armed with daffodils and

soiled twigs against the city states

around us.

Scena Nostra

in phalaecian hendecasyllable

(XX|—∪∪|—∪|—∪|—X)

at the bottom of hills our stage is set and

our feet stand without purpose while the olive

trees behind us (unruly) sway in summer

winds. the slab where our tunics rest is worn and

empty. nude is your body under silk—your

curves rest tucked under violet patterns swaying

on your breasts like the breezes blowing from the

seashore. circles surround us—they are made of

stones that the slaves of our fathers carved in the hillsides

so that men and the gods can see us play so

well and wantonly. clouds are curtains, falling

for us. masks that are painted sit to hide your

Carthaginian skin—the men would throw their

pomegranates and figs if darkened skin graced

Zeus’s stage. in the Grecian summer, maidens

come to play with their flowered crowns and dear flutes

for Athena. the chorus men shall sing their

inklings bearing their faceless masks across the

pits to petrify man with droning voices.

hide your curves, my unresting darling: gods do

not want women to take their stage; but play your

legends boldly with candid subtle acting—

lest Poseidon uncover doomèd sweetness

and sends Easternmost waves to thrash our stage. but

let us radically take control on stage while

our tongues lap the delightful words of poets

before men and the gods, before we go back

to lap tongues as professions bearing our love.

The September Sonnets: XV

if i could
i’d write sonnets
in dactyls
(even in Latin)
but sometimes i can’t tell
what should be
long
or short;
there’s no instance
of one man’s language resting
in peace in
Shakespeare’s homely
injustly
simple song.

dipthongs are unmanned,
for we in
Romulus’ realm
judge letters by
their place
their rank
their comrades
for they in
more copious times
wished strong vowels
only copulate with X’s and C’s
when at the helm
for (to them) vowels are pretty girls
who are nothing
without the hard strong crunch
of these sturdy lads

if i could make elision true
i’d sacrifice such trinkets
in the name of sound
my own namesake letter
would be left in
a scroll’s dust
for when such weakness comes
Virgil
Catullus
Ovid &
Horace
simply jumped around
to get to the end
with their potent words
in the people’s
trust

i am an agent
for my tunic’s delight
how i wish
my sonnets
could be read by students eager
night
after night
after night
after night

Julian's Truck

poor little Julian: your truck little and red

will not make it through the night. a big mean man

(whose wife has pancreatitis for the seventh time

and who never ever ever drinks) took her down

like David did Goliath—though this time

the giant won because his ego boosted with every sip

of the vodka he never ever ever drinks.

poor little Julian: your shiny new toy

was stolen by a bully with wild white hair

and a thick slurring toxin on his breath. he came

to crash into you and take out your hopes and dreams

with one false screech from worn tires

this man’s mother (or maybe

his wife) gave him too much candy in his lunchbox.

poor little Julian: your night has been shattered

like the taillights you claim were working

when that bad bad man couldn’t find the brake

and couldn’t find the hospital where his wife lay

(for the umpteenth time) in a bed waiting for her husband—

although we are curious because visiting hours

end at nine.

poor little Julian: you became our after-dinner

entertainment for the night. your disgruntled cursing

through my window hushed the crickets

and told the robins nesting in the trees

to stop their damn night songs because you

(my good sir) had something to say to the man

who made his van a home in the back of your truck.

poor little Julian: your night caved in

on you and all we could do was watch

from our second story window while the police

hauled the bad man who never ever ever drinks away

and you sat mourning the lose of your used truck’s

pristine rustic shine—it’s all gone now

but we had a good laugh from it all.

The September Sonnets: XIV

headlong came the wind over the zenith

of the stars and images made in the sky

and above our heads—only our eyes can synth-

isize the turmoil going on inside

the malnutrition of almighty God around

our pupils and our backs against the shing-

les of this worn-out roof; what comes

from tonight is a sight we can bring

into the future and into our homes

where a blurry photograph takes it all

and forms it into something we can relate

to, an image made up of words short and tall—

all one thousand of them floating in space.

the state of inflection as we look up

and dream and drink from a soiled cup.

The September Sonnets: XIII

the talk of the town is the way tomorrow

creeps up on us like a centipede on the wall

inching toward our warm moist mouths

while we sleep everso soundly.

sunrise is the decreeing contentment

telling us that we cannot run west anymore:

the east is going to catch up with us

and make us flip to another page, write another story

or make another mark in the trunk of a tree

to let everyone know how long we've been here—

though we are not here, always:

we are moving still like the sun moves west in the sky

and we stay still,

moving.

The Wine Maker's Dream

streetlight disco balls hanging above us
make streaks and a rainbow through the stars
while our shoes swim in grease on the street.

our dance comes from the rhythm of tires
on the lonely highway—the stop signs tell us
when it's time to switch partners

in this uncanny waltz we have going
tonight. the scales of the headlamps
crescendo to the sound of violin strings

plucked as the bartenders step outside
for a smoke and to talk about the girls at the bar
they want to dance with;

they are the wallflowers as we strut up and down
the contours and dips of the manifesto in these
empty sidewalks. it's all part of our conflicting melodies

from the sound of our feet scraping the gravel
and the whirring from engines: the ones we rev
before we make love in the wall of sound.

The September Sonnets: XII

Da mihi amorem tuum;

iam amorem matris meae potest

aves optime facere,

seed ille non facet me

fugere cum eis.

se amor potest

conare res pulcri

sed non possum audire.

amor meae matris

potes facere filium;

sed non potest farcere

amare.

ne da mihi tuum.

The September Sonnets: XI

sometimes

i fall in love

with words

more than women.

words will

never fall in love

with anyone else:

a noun will never

fuck a verb;

never fall in love

with an adjective

or (worse)

a number

words will never leave

once you fall in love

The September Sonnets: X

every Sunday morning i hear the cat's meow

[and the rocket ships take off with a thunderous roar]

while i contemplate staying in bed

[on the off chance there might be some fucking]

i can't help but think the little kitty has it easy

[because that little bastard doesn't have to worry about it]

and i think the church bells will finally make me rise

[or maybe the screeching call from my mother 30 miles away].

i can hear the solemn hustle of children walking to church

[because they don't know any better and they're too young to drink]

with their parents in tow: i think of how my mother used to take me hand

[and by "take" i mean forcibly grab]

and lead me to St. Mary's where the priests spoke broken Spanish

[which is completely idiotic because neither my mother nor myself could speak it]

and we sat still for an hour where i would sit and reflect

[about how fucking stupid it was that i was there]

as i lie in bed i think about what the cat would do

[if the fucker had a goddamned brain]

if faced with this dilemma of mother and God

[which is the lesser of two evils?]:

would he simply lie there as i wish to do

[and maybe touch myself out of sheer boredom]

or would he rise and face the stares of the parishioners

[because Christ knows they've never seen me before]?

here i lie, torn between the foundation of the self

and religion

[no comment]

Lock

i pity your busy hands

for they will never know

what good sex feels like

after waking up in a stooper

late in the morning.

Ode to Robert Frost

i have the guise of woodsmen coursing through

my bloodstream. dressed in flannel, drenched in sweat

from morning harvests (birch and pine) my axe

is heavy; bones are cracking; muscles sore

as dragged and fallen trunks upon the ground

leave scribbles—poems read by goblins, spry

and marking breaks in lines with apples. here

my verse is etched upon the soil like

a tramp without a pen; a page; a voice—

just mud and sharpened sticks to write such verse

that woodsmen like myself can understand.

the silent wood protrudes the morning sky

like columns standing proud and tall upon

a marble landing; these reflect the dirt

and grass below; green reminds me of times

when gayly young i swung from branches firm

and unforgiving to my rocking dance.

the apple orchards by the path will lead

this man of nature back to pastures where

the farmhouse remnants lie awake but dead—

where tired hands laid lumber down but then

(so sadly) left before the barn was built

and crops were left unplanted, still as seeds.

i weep for man's unsteady to fame

among the grounds where cattle roam and wait

for slaughter; still i weep for days when i

could roam the wood and leave the lights of man.

the rhythmic beat from axes from my guise

are like a game of tennis with a net.

The September Sonnets: IX

last night (when the wind rustled against my old-tyme window,

making it pound in its loose socket) i saw the incandescent glow

of the silence in your sleep; your mind unfurling with dreams in tow

to the degradation of a well-renowned groundling (now despised)

who left his heart in the waters of a hotel swimming pool. his eyes

(so deadly tired) had finally rested after reading for hours and he tried

to simply shake off distress with a single breath—though it cannot be

undone. the plucking of the leaves by the autumn wind exceed

any sickly breath that the once-alive boy could ever breathe.

the shingles on his roof remind him of that blanket they shared

when the winter snow made misty moors in the December air

—the declaration of such memories are too much for him to bare.

o how he knows, how he leaps upon this night as if he died

or set her free—like the light he and i now judge so unfair.

House Poem

while smoking in my garden i saw the grape vines

where David plucked so many to feed to our parched mouths

last week when the heat was nearly unbearable.

the flame from this dying cigarette is too much on my lungs

which were always big and full of air so my voice

could blare through the haze and the fog

about this place in the early morning; so that it sliced through

humidity like the clever split the eggplant David made

for dinner last night. Julian sprays grease on an old engine

and hops on, trying to kick start the damn thing that laid

nearly dead on our lawn for daysonend. his hands are always working

and black from oils unholy, grout undeserving

but watching him peel a tomato is like watching a mother

bathing her child gently in warm waters. while smoking

in my garden i see the clouds coming in, feel the wind pick up;

autumn finally settling in as the green from the trees

behind are fence are slowly wilting away like the paper

from this almost out cigarette. Mary Emma is nowhere to be found:

she lives like Hollywood though two thousand miles from such—

a model, real-live and all, and she lives it like its real:

a cover in a magazine out of Detroit and we raised a glass of wine

while she put more butter on her potatoes because she needs

the calories. Sam sits with me, smoking and thinking of a song

in his head. eight hours and his body is set to the time

in Sussex. i taught him how to say good ol' American words

like "beer" and "queer" so i can take him to a redneck bar someday

and maybe get into a fight with him there, brother to brother,

intellectual to intellectual (at least in that crowd). Katie's gone

off to make love with her ukulele, to let the earth feel her voice

and it's slight smokiness, though she does no such thing.

she's tall and proud, so much so, recording an album

and leaving me wondering what i could have been. while smoking

in my garden i see the world swim around me in five faces,

some alive and some dead; which am i? i'll let you know

when i finish this last cigarette and head to bed.

The September Sonnets: VIII

the bottles lie still upon the porch swing

filled with two lovers, basking in the light

of a sixty-watt bulb that sings

with a soft, low hum. the moths’s flights

around the beams form a synchronized dance—

the steps swell like honey bees who in their rights

pluck sweet nectar and colors which enhance

sensations from the lovers’ discourse—

swooning like the swinging and creaky chain. the trance

from the splitting white wood slams with force

like the way two lovers lean in to kiss

until the swaying has ceased and the creaking is hoarse.

the blackened night: euphoria such as this

when the flickering of a sixty-watt bulb is bliss.

In a Greyhound Station Outside Detroit

up and over: through and through

the station sinks below

like the hellfires of sin

that step out every hour

from the bathroom and the girl

(just 18) and the man wellover40

in the stylish manner that they do.

the steeple is so far out of eyesight

but the ringing is still there:

the call to Vatican reins well

as he zips up his pants

and she cleans off her mouth.

there's guilt on the floor,

there's a lit cigarette in his mouth

but nothing more from her tired

shaming lips.

The September Sonnets: VII

i am a dichotomy of steam and electric current:

what you can see and what moves through copper wires

without warning, without explanation,

with not even a whistle but just a low hum.

my voltage runs through a chain of command

—from high to low, i’m Tesla’s baby

jostling through like a dynamo around the tracks

of uncharted frightening lands.

this is what dreams are made of.

this is what Jesus died for so long ago

and what Mary pained through her labors for

in the unlit cold gloomy manger where she lied.

i am the split of the sun and the lamp;

i am what frightens the masses since crosses became cathedrals.

Femme Fatale

a song—shoegaze—key of Em

burned-out movie star: i know who you are

born on Hollywood and Vine

work Mulhulland Drive

when you think of me, do you see me on my knees?

can you hear me shout

from the door you're walking out?

if you're here, you're everywhere

this is where the columns came crashing down

lotioned hands and colored hair

we're on the verge of common ground

light your cigarette, ashtray of regret

the lipstick on your face

shows you know your place

when you roam the plains, do you even know my name?

stuff me in the trunk

as you keep working your drunk

if you're here, you're everywhere

this is where the columns came crashing down

lotioned hands and colored hair

we're on the verge of common ground

Nothing Sweet

a song—shoegaze—key of A

on broken skin, it's over now

stand up, girl, walk tall

the room is spinning, i'm on the ground

my face against the wall

the way you move, the way you talk

are burned inside my brain

the ghouls are out and the memory's here

of the pleasure and the pain

in innocence you grew loveless

my passion's losing ground

you never knew what you could do

but you turned it all around

nothing sweet was left for me

it was heard to breathe

don't tell me you couldn't see

when time is out and the sunlight fades

i wonder where you've gone

the light gleams off of dulling blades

but no one knows what's wrong

you've tripped me up, you've pulled me out

of the shackles made from tears

but i will not cry, it's hard to shout

when you don't know my fears

in innocence you grew loveless

my passion's losing ground

you never knew what you could do

but you turned it all around

nothing sweet was left for me

it was heard to breathe

don't tell me you couldn't see

on broken skin, it's over now

the light is fading fast

keep the visions in your head

try to make them last

break it down, tear it out

let it wash your hands

of the pleasure, of the pain

the pain of your commands

in innocence you grew loveless

my passion's losing ground

you never knew what you could do

but you turned it all around

nothing sweet was left for me

it was heard to breathe

don't tell me you couldn't see

Crash My Eyes

a song—shoegaze—key of E

the sun beats down upon my skin

wretched vile turpentine

forgive me father, i have sinned

forgive me father, i am mine

music drenched upon my head

silver platter radio

shaking shivers in my bed

i shake and shiver when i'm home

i am here forever, ever

spin me, lift me, trip, deny

i will leave you never, never

drink me, rip me, crash my eyes

the bells are ringing in the air

screeching, searing, burning chimes

they call out to my own despair

guess what mother? i'm alive

i am here forever, ever

spin me, lift me, trip, deny

i will leave you never, never

drink me, rip me, crash my eyes

the sun beats down into my eyes

one more kiss to get me by

all these highways in disguise

lead me from the love divine

i am here forever, ever

spin me, lift me, trip, deny

i will leave you never, never

drink me, rip me, crash my eyes

The September Sonnets: VI

complexity seeps within my pores like a vine

creeping up along the fenceposts by a little

California bungalow. yet, simplicity is divine

and keeps me fingers tiresome and brittle

when it conjures up the memory of sight or smell

that lingers within my frontal lobe and beyond—

a gentle touch, brushing back hair—it’s hared to tell

how the streaks of black became straw bales of blonde.

in the middle of the night, a moment bursts

into sunburst flames that sear my drying skin

for nothing better—only the demons of the worst

can penetrate the complex simplicities within.

(when awaken by the tempers from a passing night

i freeze and tense up while thinking of our dead delights)

The September Sonnets: V

a song—folk—key of C#m

Jesus was the king of the Brandywine River where His father laid him down

seeing just the moon in little white sliver, he jumped in and he drowned

he rose again on the third day and his mother took him home

she didn't know what to say to bring the fire back to his bones

but he breathed again, letting her know that he's okay

and she screamed AMEN! as he got up and ran out to play

Judas was conceived in a big red farmhouse where he played with fire stones

his sister was whore, his brother was a louse, and his dad made shifty loans

he looked up, he looked around and saw Jesus playing well

he set up, he hit the ground and thought of a story to tell

and he breathed again, thinking of how to earn his keep

and he screamed AMEN! before bathing and going back to sleep

Jesus breathed again before the nail went through his wrists

Judas said AMEN! when forsaken he fell on the Devil's list

The September Sonnets: IV

when we break dimensions, the rooftops will meld

into the sky; they will break off shingle by shingle

and the clouds will open up like tectonic plates

below our feet. the earth will melt itself down

to its core until the molten breezes from above

cool in the autumn wind; until the leaves will stay

red and burnt, roasting in the hot iron sun

that once crisped our own skin like these brittle

bricks. our consciousness skips uncertainty

as the sunlight swirls above our heads

to form a plastic rainbow in the eyes of departed

children from the surface where around us

the deadly moans of the heavens cracking

keeps our hands still; our eyes forever aching.

The September Sonnets: III

step out into the sunlight: it’s warm

and deadly still. when her right hand shakes

your lips will pucker. her lips smack

and all about your body you tense.

you will temper her hair—a swarm

of wild birds upon a branch as it breaks

with a giant thud and crippling crack

to much you understand what is immense.

swagger in its most unruly form

is that of her in your bed—her who cakes

lustful earth under your nails and on your back

where you stave off all sorts of sense.

there’s no harm: there’s no way to know

what keeps impracticalities in stow.

The September Sonnets: II

ONE

the sound and chaos

coming from your thund’rous hands

leaves me wondering

TWO

when words collide so

madly the fury expands

like toxic rivers

THREE

when salmon travel

to spawning grounds they fear your

fingers’ underlings

FOUR

when verses conjure

memories of inflection

bones fill with shivers

FIVE

muscle instinct is

such a tremendous deathbed

on which tempting rests

SIX

alone is sickly

when passions intercept logic

and toss it away

SEVEN

my fingers now clench

mangos in madness but still

as they did your breasts

EIGHT

my knuckles crinkle

and grind themselves to the bone

as clouds above sway

NINE

stellar swirls above

tell us its time for goodnight

but i’m not weary

TEN

shadows in windows

haunt my boyhood as the streets

close the deadly gap

ELEVEN

when suitors come to

take your hand in September

i recall fury

TWELVE

i shall break the trees

under which we lied kissing

and bleed out the sap

THIRTEEN

the multitude weeps

for sugar fresh from the cane

but its mouth stays dry

FOURTEEN

the significance

of such unquenchable thirst

leaves such things to die

The September Sonnets: I

underneath the blanket         of the summer
         there’s a starlit introspection
reaping all of the moisture          from our heads
         spryly and without regard
for the common refreshening         for our beating heads
         melting with every subtle breeze
every drop upon my brow         lingers so cruelly
         until my hand sweeps its imperfection
from my unruly mane          the lovers dread
         their rompings in the backyard
as they beg the earth         to hold still
         so that they can appease

the morning dew upon the grass         that they call
         their Sunday evening bath
their flailing inside         Summer’s ancient
         dissent outside the Earth’s command
or Man’s insistence         from their certainties
         because of his understanding
when he thinks of how         the world and sky
         should work beyond it’s wrath
but getting Nature to see         what She should submit
         to being while under the hand
of God or when pretty girls         tend
         flowerpots upon the landing

this is the age when         dryness begs itself
         to remain holy for the sake
of Man’s intentions         God forbid a Man
         should bow to Summer, should ever break

The September Sonnets: Prelude

perhaps i love alliteration’s taste

while rolling off my putrid soiled tongue;

or maybe its a calling from the grave

of Estlin, whom with admittance i love;

it all could be my ode to Carol Ann,

but thirty is so strange a number blessed;

i question thoughts of Shakespeare’s great demands,

embracing Shelly’s quick and doting press;

but all in all i fear i can’t decide

just why the fuels my wanton ways—

so now, September’s days: for each i write

a sonnet for these kindred thirty days.

a month of sonnets; now it all begins

the poet now confesses thirty sins.