if rambo sewed curtains
instead of his arm
what strength would he
place in the cotton,
resilience to tugs and pressure
from a climbing cat
or a child wishing
to see snow from a
winters window,
it need not be war
it need not be pain,
sometimes curtains close
out the things we wish
not to see,
but does rambo need
to sew them every time
Rambo
tattooed with gandhi
no skin will lie,
bare butt piss
constant lemon stream,
she watched his fuzzy back
dark mat of curls
lined by her nails,
depressed bed
mattress coils gone
before their advertised expiry,
a week of this
longing and urgent,
walking back
she waited
a sharp twinge in her stomach,
the next day
could not come quick enough
behind her shoji screen
where protected, felt assured to be naked
no unbidden glances
would spill from a mans eye
gathered in her own mind
and clothed touched the soft panels
each to represent a year of life,
the ones lived and ones to come
patches of existence on a written timeframe,
smiling she moved to the window
hillside and meadow
no sharp intrusions to the eye
looking back she wondered of the last panel
what ghosts lurked behind
for it was hidden
until the time was right,
a swarm of bees sounded outside
nectar and honey
as she expected love to be
but mother said not,
spoke of not having to worship a man,
his edges not so rounded
where often cruel as father was
to others but not her
not a favorite they just understood,
it did not matter of the last panel
for she knew how long she had
as sliding the door behind
walked out onto a busy street
my thoughts assembled
the largest of them all
was one of knowing
billowing fulfilled,
she was more than a voice
heard on the soundscape
of my ears
this thought entitled me
to love to adore,
between sun and moon
a radiance of woman,
my sky lead a path
to a new future,
behind doors within
my skull
songs rung out
telling me of what i was aware
we wanted the journey to begin
more than love, more than lust
bonded and entwined,
time is better
with a companion
and mine travels well
Karen and Me
Today our anniversary and still in love more than ever
i take a hammer
and a nail
to my brother and sister eye,
one gazing south
to shared sand of desert and sea,
other north
through motorcycle lens
to fields of open pleasure,
my visceral concern
is not getting lost between both,
naked to contradiction
my form is seen
bare paleness of a wanting moon
sand still tasted between teeth,
without movement and sound
to the board of memory
each eye nailed
swiftly
so there is no gelatinous collapse
blinking obscura of pain,
i now want
flesh cold
still pale
not written upon by her lips,
hammer has fallen
indenting ground
taking root
Andrew Wyeth Man and the Moon
Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980
two glasses unwashed
sat upended fragile in their shine,
opened bourbon
a long mouthful held then swallowed
his bourbon her breakfast,
moving from one room to another
morning cool on skin
she wore only panties,
typewriter on oak
bold keys hold promise
again it was his
the cat shared moved onto lap
as sitting down,
chatter of keys as poetry flowed,
to him she was a disposable muse,
she did not care
being on all fours
fucked from behind
staring at cotton bed linen
her mind could think
without his face ,
all he needed was the mirror to pose,
weave of cotton held a story
as she thought of next poem
he too had release,
it was a kind of love,
they used each other in
different ways
velvetmedia 