Saturday, December 31, 2011

truth in the light

The puzzle piece
into full view
on the floor 
at the support group
before the eyes of many.

Brave descriptions of romance
even true love
lifetime companionship
every need met; adoration
and abundance.

Why now, three months later, 
do you hate the way he eats?


Friday, December 30, 2011

enter the mystics

you hardly expect it;
a steep, solitary climb
on this snow field could be
so noisy. Nisqually Glacier
on the left, all day long, belching
thunderclaps. ice walls and
chasms waltzing, (the summer warmth-
the invitation to the dance.)

and you feel (could it be love?)
for this mountain. and you feel your age (young)
Rainier has seen five hundred thousand

this volcano, capable of such destruction,
from a distance, is the quintessence
of peace. (past lahars speak to the contrary,
of course. the geological history is frightening.)

but up you go (moth to flame?)
life is a roll of the dice. oh,
the numbers are good. (in your favor)

at ten thousand feet. (yes. that is the summit just above:
four thousand feet from your very own feet) a few hundred
thousand years of this view. what a thought!
(what has been seen?)

you will see science on the mountain.
(that mountain will chew you up)
always in motion, each glacier a
huge extended tongue. crevasses bring the surface
texture. deep, deep cuts born of moving ice.

dear Mount Rainier is the unlikely muse;
a place for dreams
(hoping, praying)
You’ll find enough ether here to move
your most secret thought. (absolution,
if it is needed. the last confession)
and here, on Rainier, is the staircase.
everywhere you look. (so many ways
up the mountain.) Your staircase and you know it.

for memory’s sake
for navigation. (motivation)
for God’s sake

for time will tick you forward
(off the mountain); so much less time spent
in the present moment, searching
for powerfully spent other (past)

the whiteness will come full circle.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

surface tension

don't linger
on my shoulder
with premeditated fingers

or glimmer flesh
a torso flash, floating
in loose fitting pants

do choose
each word you whisper
whiskey voiced man
and when you pause

to breathe

look at me.


Monday, December 26, 2011

my true voice

Screaming fight or flight through lifetimes;
to arrive on this, thrumming pulse.
Constant; but too vast for any calculation,
enumeration, description.

(loving rhymes and chromosomes)

The ethereal light
almost phony, corny looking,
until you’re too close to move away.
It is real, pilgrim
You’re in.

And then you know.
Just in time, the Truth.


Sunday, December 25, 2011

fresh sheets (title by r)


baby powder bare
crispy bright white
receiving blanket white
hopes for futures on
other soils
pressed innocence
helpless to a
threaded surface
orbs of coming days
behind crusty slits
their focus on linen canvas
bounty in the mainsail
of a crib.


crease-less sheets
to be imprinted with the
moons and rivers of life
human forms on gravitational
earth. Above and below
fibrous threads
with muddy swamps of thought
a glassy shard of lust
on a fold
in your brain
and now
on a fold
in your stunning fresh sheets.


fresh muddy sheet
sun warm
earthworm warm fresh and sweet
with blood
insects torn apart
now give way
to a corpse heavy box
forked into her steaming throat
threads of root, grass
perfect count
fresh bed
eternity bed
final bed
dirty and pristine
shoveled in as angel arms.


Saturday, December 24, 2011

Aurora Borealis

I have traveled with you in my mind
to the north; me the student. you the teacher, forever.

many times

together on the floes,
the land of Eskimos.

you know the way
the ocean becomes clotted with ice the way pudding refuses to
separate, under-stirred. the way the seal-hunters only acknowledge our presence,
indignant; respectful?

together on the floes,
the land of Eskimos.

But, the Inuit teach us nothing about survival we
(you especially) have not known for years. we turn away
laughing, knowing we are the hunted;
laughing, still.

you, with the bad heart
me flailing all the way, of course.

what have we left, at best, on this speck of white ice
or green,
twenty years? If that.

and we are laughing, even crying
crying, because we know this is as far as we can travel
to the north; at least safely.

It is as far as we can travel alive.


Friday, December 23, 2011

near white center

oh guru! is there quid pro quo?
soft in the pupae state; hard little knot (evolving)
to blossom.

(who can explain this finger vibrating like a reed?)

see the lungs and esophagus are visible
through the skin, beneath the sternum
in pink-brown and white-green.

see you
standing hands above head—
each digit splits and becomes the branches
of a tree. a pear tree.

(arms black as banana peel)

Oh sage—where do whales go when they die?
as the decomposition begins—one may wonder
about the soul of such an animal; intelligence
with the ape, the human
knowing and feeling

to the County Line
—slipping even—
where Zeus and Athena argue
like Duwamish trailer trash

O sage.


Thursday, December 22, 2011

the sweet bird is singing

must be honey in my mouth
so sweet, and I love it.
(but as daily sustenance?)

this is the weight I carry; the albatross of my lifetime.
no more
too much, too sweet

(brain on the very brink)

can this little taste of arsenic in sour milk
save me from myself?


Sunday, December 18, 2011


when you see the garden butterfly,
know that it is me. if you see many;
then I am among them.


into the tremble of evening, cool—now in spring.
butterscotch cloud bottoms are seen,
but only peripherally. birds are chirping
singing—goodnight. goodnight.

and I float past the poppies --
on the left (the red ones having flown;
the pink ones -- just blooming.)

yes. I am floating


—how I crave the magic tree of youth
my memory marker, vibrant still
folded/ creased into some brain structure;
distributed throughout the cerebral cortex.
(specific mystery meat between my ears --
three pounds of it)

my tree! my mimosa!
my beautiful mimosa.

sometimes they call you Persian silk --
sometimes they say you are the bastard tamarind
Always 'mimosa' to me.

magic—when you close your tender leaves at night;
sometimes during periods of rain.

your stunning pink flowers,
no petals, only tight stamens, clustered little threads,
shooting straight for the azure above. blowing gently
in nighttime breezes.

did you know, mimosa, how I loved you?
did you know, mimosa, I was in awe?

How could you know?

(you would become my ultimate measure
of beauty on this Earth,
and you remain the benchmark.)

how I will forever remember your smell,
your seasonal ebb and flow!

did you know my heart was breaking, then?

did you know I didn't want to leave you?
I never wanted to go. I never wanted—to grow up.

And how I miss you, now, decades on—



"Faggot, fairy. Butt-fucker." The shattered self --
(at puberty) -- thirteen -- homosexuality
swirling 'round. a goddam windstorm ever since.

and I wanted it to go away. but how could I be saved?

I could not. I was not.

Childhood departs. It always departs.


O, mimosa; I have a garden once again. You would be proud.
So very proud of me!

Just past the poppies (I float right by -- defying gravity)
you will find a rose tree, exquisite white buds, tight, tiny knots.

the Dogwood hangs over the Japanese Maple.
hostas, ferns and lilies nearby, just beneath a towering Cedar.
(can trees have watchful eyes? yes. they can. they do.)

And there, my beloved pear tree, blossoms have become leaves,
and the tiniest pears you'll ever see are miniatures
of the fruit we'll eat this fall. Pear cobbler. Pear jam.

All these luscious trees, foliage brushing my face
as I ascend. All the evergreens, oaks, pines. And the one
tree of many branches (I don't know its name) -- but it reminds me
of you, mimosa, though its leaves do not close and blossoms
are not pink

(but something peaceful. something rooted, cycling through life)

It is sudden, then, I see the gloaming above has become inky dark.
the leaves are now vibrating, breezily, as I spy the Moon above.

Only at that very moment is it clear—I'm not floating.
I'm not floating at all. I am only walking in the moonlight.

Just a walk in the garden. A cool spring night.

You cross my mind.

And I am safe.


Saturday, December 17, 2011

blue skies

autumn is
your face in south-lit shadow

your chocolate candy eyes


rose- from chill

evergreen in a sea of red and gold

fingertips- alive in parting-
dancing for blocks
beneath a certain sky.


Friday, December 16, 2011


in what sullied state would I find you tonight?

the rain is a channel to you (one travels great distances
quickly; one appears transformed)

I, the many, many shapes I take as if by magic
through the water.

for clarity;
I am not invisible, but you will never see me
staring into your starving eyes
perched in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.

we all strike our little deals
stake our little claims
settling on this, I'll give up sanity

what power and vision I have
despite my pathetic, quivering


Thursday, December 15, 2011

my teeth

on some screen—somewhere in Guam
via satellite.
“That man on TV sure has nice, white teeth.”
big smile.
“They’re caps.”


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

the exquisite, now

how will time touch your face?
and body? perfection
youth's tight edge.

I imagine you
old; ninety.
dimples supine
at rest
in lovely furrows.

cocoa and wool for hair

wisps, snow on
crown and crotch

long limbs
your ears
stretched at gravity's call

an eternal walk to the dirt.

how it brings you nearer
and whiter.

even in brown
and solid

your beautiful face.


Friday, December 9, 2011

while still a baby


snow face.

lilly white; sun plays tricks;

you are the magic canvas.

When you were a puppy -- no sounds; congenital deafness --

NOT A SOUND. only sight. only smell. only feel. only taste.

no fight.

no game.

no worth.

No hearing for the stupid little pit bull. Damn you to Hell, you bitch!

They called you ‘bait dog.' (Angel, my beloved animal guide)

how could you know you would save my very life?

you spent ‘babyhood’ as bait. And the aggressors? Your breed.

Pit bulls. Mean Ones. Fighting Ones. One-Hundred pound males with

intact testicles -- jaws like sharks. ALL muscle. They tried to blind you with bites.

— and the human trash involved —


When you. YOU! My white Angel -- when you were discovered in Moses Lake, Washington.

In that lonely orchard,

your deaf ears were nearly-frozen.

When you, my whiteness, were rescued, your head -- covered with pus filled bites. They nearly blinded you. (your milk chocolate eyes still shining) Delicious. Beautiful.

When YOU (you; my beloved companion) found deliverance from HATE and CRUELTY, you were dying,

a tiny puppy. Nearly frozen. Nearly blinded. (legs tortured from the feces filled crate)

Only monsters torture puppies (fight ‘em); and these monsters

are still with us: free. They still fight those dogs. It’s just for fun.

Maybe a little money. They hide it from police. It is illegal; we all know that.


Angel. You survived. You thrived.

You see -- and you see those who love you.

Angel, you see the beautiful days ahead.

Angel, you 'hear' the truth in your own way.

And just so you know,

--- those monsters will rot in Hell ---


Thursday, December 8, 2011

hand of judgement

for the sake of curiosity; not cruelty,
and exploration, not destruction,
the boy pulls the wings from a Monarch butterfly.
he knows it would live only a few months, anyway.
(in the wild)
but he hadn't meant to kill it.
(or even maim it)

what had he been thinking?
(lip quivering)

and now there is shock and exasperation as the
still-alive 'butterfly corpse-to-be' scurries on the dirt
looking like a roach or beetle; wingless,
ugly as a monster

why the tears?

as the bug crawls out of sight
the boy looks down
on his hand of judgment

on his fingers; residue the color of a tiger.


Tuesday, December 6, 2011

the milk sky

"It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks" - Acts 9:5


In Jerusalem, marks of Crusaders still etch the stone.
(Church of the Holy Sepulcher)
my own fingers running along the edges of Golgotha
—the crucifixion site— now a tourist line/ Disneyland.
smell of b.o. — as I scan the line — so many eyes
wide as plates. (and the candles always lit)

blood on the floor is just an expression—
but this is the spot of Christ's torture.
the marginalized 'God-Son.' -- Son of the Alpha and Omega
on a cross [The Old Rugged Cross] the illusion of death?


the unimportant self. the 'me' not worth a shit.

Dan, Help the poor
Dan, Help the mentally ill
Dan, Help the homosexuals
Dan, Help the Jews
Dan, Help the addicted.


and look up! the pale horse has a rider;
his name is Death. And close behind is Hell.
you know this. (a head-bow is appropriate)
a prayer.
your last prayer?


a bow to reality: to the azure sky
until Kingdom Come. To the very end.
—When all is equal.


Monday, December 5, 2011


Please begin again; all of it
Back to the Farm, Sugar Beet Skies,
primordial lessons repeated,
from the father to the son,
forged in a Colorado field of dirt
behind a prized,


Sunday, December 4, 2011

time and date of my choosing

“...This is no sorrowful day, you can be sure, I’ve got no axe to grind at all...”
—Swan Song by Bruce Hornsby


‘muffled snow‘ — the sound — the still world —
the just-fallen white --
the ‘any sound’ -- laughter (sobbing) transformed; absorbed first
by the fluff trees and marshmallow carpet.
(finally it reaches my ear) -- diminished.


the night before O.J. Simpson’s acquittal, Prosecutor Clark,
on tape, pleading a final time; deliberations to follow. “He did it,”
she said to the jurors—but for the muffled snow, perhaps,
a different outcome? Still, could we not hear through such obfuscation?
(even in relatively warm Los Angeles; muffled.) the snow.


2001, beautiful late summer morning, the towers fell into muffled snow.
(my body shooting bolt upright in bed—TV on overnight) “And it appears
a plane has...” But my wide eyes still gluey—and cotton batting
in my head? Tom Brokaw rambling on and on, as I clear what seems
a quart of snow from my ears. -- Is this real?


and now, with years having passed—all the many times—
all the muffled snow -- I am so confused. I’ve become another.
--barely recognizable --
Can you not hear me?


but there is a time and date when the dazed middle-aged man—
I indeed recognize as myself -- finally -- emerges. Has the snow cleared?
Have I actually chosen this day?


—or have I been tightly wrapped in a chrysalis? did I confuse
the swaddling for the sound after snowfall? do I see a light now? -- yes?

(the kind you see at the end)

I can hear the sounds, yes?

-- answer me --


or at this time—and on this date—have I become a butterfly?