Feb 7, 2010



too many promises kept--
that there be no images to idolize
but the feminine
be it roe from the gut of a sunfish
be it smoke rising exhausted
in curls of angel hair
that i write my own sutra
that i live my own psalm
warmth sung of
tho i remain cold
that i fail
as do the batteries of stars
as does the protean wall of night
as do the cilia of every reaching root
and crystal upon every hoary leaf
in order to be accurate
in my assessment
of the truth of things
that i lie
and poetically
without reprise

--a drop of wine
in a tumbler of tequila
blood for the spirit
a toast
proportions inversed.


i'd speak more
if i had anything to say
worth listening to
if my whispers
would not themselves break
the dawn

i'd strike the above
with all the cupidity
of a poisoned arrow
were my mind not made in echo
of a lightning bolt
upon the gathered serenity
of your eyes

and i'd burn the above
but to hell with hell
my words are swords
reduced to scalpels
of those sins
those cancers
of both war and peace
and your eyes are balm.


should you age early
mature slow
tulips roses
shallow burials
bright graves


tulips roses apple grape oak

but mostly

skin fire-lit
by mind upon same.


stealing kisses
from the ground--
snow upon brow.


love you
all of.