like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow
A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935
conduit shrugs
from sleepy wither
morning scrapes
itself off the night
with bruised studded clouds
I will shower
soaps lather run
looming down
at the hoodless one
shaped contour of
male tissue erectile
veined with coming age
desensitized to cotton touch
hidden behind
clasp of gideon sundbuck
soft towel rub
once retreated
so nobody will know
it’s a shame
that this dome
quite architectural
with narrow eye
can shine and shimmer
in fluid moments
of interaction
but for now
the day pale clad
has begun
me as of today
I broke an egg
soft boiled
watched the yolk
spread
in the whorehouse
of my soul
i thought
of my yolk
spread
over your breast
as I kneel
and urge
over
your sleeping
shape
my mess
your anger
limp disaster hung
itself
on my brittle facade
you left
exit by the door
i now look at
knowing
this egg will
not taste any better
Coughing out the lightness in
smoke and spiral motes of dust
mutable bed and our body acquisitions
cuttlefish ass damp from before
if I was not so ignorant
i would feel again
the tapestry of tattoos on her flank
precise inks more trustworthy
than my cock of threat
in denial and veiled seduction
pressed against her
the hum of bee air conditioning
positioning for me with rump pressure
she felt I could make her sparkle and shine
instead that tremored gasp
returning to her back
looking with a certain knowing
that I was a flake
who would leave and betray
adding to that pile of detritus
and awful decay that was her life
they told me about the garden of love
which I knew never existed
just like the dew settles
a feeling came over me
reaching touching feathery leaves
someone lurked in the darkness
a glimpse a furtive shadow
i needed to draw out of the gloom
no fee to be paid
as wallet forgotten
my fingers picked a rose
holding it aloft to the sun
shadow emerged reaching also
for the rose
sunlit face exquisite beauty
naked radiance for me to see
entranced entwined enthralled
in a boiling swell of passion
i was consumed
infused with the flowers and trees
the garden in this garden
i would remain
many stories can be untold
but this one cannot
i belong to that once furtive figure
no more in the density of foliage
but with me
together as one
Together always
22 years of marriage to be celebrated
sweet seminole land
lost to those who came
a fallen Orlando Reeves
left only his given name
to what becomes
a city of attractions
and life
pulse pulse pulse
history now bound and woven
to pages of dusty books
to a place where love can shine
or so we thought
that lone gunman
with whatever hatred came
pulse pulse pulse
a beat a rhythm
where lovers dance and kiss
hatred spread its dense fog
leaving many fallen
ones we will not forget
and share our hearts throuhgout
pulse pulse pulse
hard sugar stars
affixed in the firmament
lighting with their pride
our every day
Today is my wife Karen’s Birthday another year so close and special
So sweet your outer light
that makes my inward light glow
gleaming with
the shining days together
bright soul garden
dispelling those shuddering fears
today your Birthday
a reflection of how
twixt with nature you are
and how
we will celebrate
those human atoms
that make you a star
I love you
always and forever
Happy Birthday
The girl reveals a thigh,
the girl reveals an ass cheek,
only she doesn’t show me that thing
— conch shell, beryl, emerald —
which blossoms, with four petals,
and contains the most sumptuous
pleasure, that hyperboreal zone,
a mixture of honey and asphalt,
a door sealed at the hinges
with a giddiness held captive,
a sacrificial altar without
the blood of the rite, the girl
doesn’t show me that thing.
And she is torturing me, this virgin
with her modesty making me dizzy
from the sudden blow struck
by a vision of her luminous breasts,
her pink and black beauty
that winds itself into a ball,
wrinkled, intact, inaccessible,
that opens, then closes, then takes flight
and this female animal, by laughing,
dismisses what I might have asked her about,
about what should be given and even beyond
given, what should be eaten.
Oh, how the girl kills me,
turns my life into one in which
all hope is consumed
by shadow and sparkle.
Rubbing up against her leg. The fingers
discover the slow, curving,
animal-like secrets, yet
they are the greatest mystery,
always crude, nocturnal,
the three-pronged key to the urn,
this concealed craziness, it doesn’t
give me anything to go on at all.
Before it never would have provoked me.
Living didn’t have a purpose,
the feelings walked around lost,
time wasn’t set loose
nor did death come to subject me
to the light of the morningstar,
which at this hour is already the first star,
violent, rising up like nausea
in the wild beasts at the zoo.
How I might know her skin,
where it is concave and convex,
her pores, the golden skin
of her belly! But her sex
has been kept a secret of the state.
How I might know the cold, dewy
meadow of her flesh,
where a snake rouses from sleep
and traces its path
back and forth, among all the tremors!
But what perfume would there be
in an unseen cave? what enchantment
what tightness, what sweetness,
what pure, pristine line
calls me and leads me away?
It might offer me all its beauty
and I would kiss or bite
and draw blood: I would.
But her pubis refuses me.
In the burning night, in the day
her thighs come together.
Like a deserted inn
closed on the inside by a latch,
her thighs seal themselves,
seclude themselves, save themselves,
and who said that
I could make her my slave?
I could debate this possibility
without a glimmer of hope for victory,
already her body erases itself,
already its glory tarnishes,
already I am made different by that thing
which wounds me on the inside,
and now I don’t know for certain
if my thirst was more ferocious because of
that thing of hers that I might have possessed.
There are other fountains, other hungers,
other thighs of other animals: the world is
vast and the forgetting profound.
Maybe today the girl in the daylight . . .
Maybe. For certain it never will be.
And if it hides itself away
with such fugues and arabesques
and such stubborn secrecy,
on what day will it open?
What would need to change for it to offer
itself to me on an already cold night,
its pink and black blossom in the snow,
never visited by me,
that boat carrying incense that I can’t board?
Or is there no boat carrying incense at all . . .
* * *
