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: 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 doom├Ęd 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.