These poems and prose writings have been recently discovered (February 2011) and are being transcribed from notebook into type for the first time. —DES 2-20-2011


there is a hair's-width between self-absorption and awakening,
the flawed human condition is universal,
and the gauntlet is thrown down
for the philosophers;
the very same mortal action may be self-aggrandizement for one,
a life or death decision for another.

what is perceived as vanity or greed may indeed be the will to live.

Kafka once told a friend,
we human beings should stand before one another as reverently
as we would before the entrance to Hell.

for you don’t know of the griefs that are in me,
and I don’t know of yours.


panic stinking

it is in these moments of
torture (panic) disease finds a voice
(ugly falsetto)
all the drama—swirling, vibrating—
but only around her.

the epicenter

the storm blows by, to be followed,
in short order, by another.

and so, TODAY—
du jour

the fetid muse is singing.


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

Aging Queens

her ancient face, now full circle
royal lineage traced by historians
to the glory days as Cotton Bowl Queen,

the tape of time reveals
no degradation, vocally,
on summer's Indian stage.

yet all the years roll out (a dirge)
no stopping rhythm composed
by true intelligence.  That is what time
and gravity will do.  Don't stare, but don't
the need for another look.

yes it is her.

(and one should kneel before the crown)


I cannot peer into your most
personal time-space.
I can only make educated guesses

far too often, I choose these dreams;
this fever,
food, water or rest.  (all the rest)

what passes as sustenance is confusing.

how I pray for direction,
or distraction,
in this exhausted, self-imposed

this goddam fever.

mingling with the rock stars

there is always another
waiting in the wings (generation, culture, civilization)
and the dance is fleeting.

seems too many people hold on
to the simple equations, the fables
which explain away this complication.

are we forever going back to something
from the past for the ultimate answer?
nothing there.

now,  in florescent certainty
there is another condemned
to think in lines.  face of a tyrant
(fury and fame)

voice is gravel sorting the many lyrics
songs in the ears of millions
and no hope; but to burn-out
like so many candles

to nothing.

clock radio


those were the days when time didn't matter.
hands on glowing green
"Blue Car Heaven" now lives on Butterfly Lane.
so how does today exist? decades later?
in one second?  (And what does "Heaven" look like
now?  perfect teeth?  blond curly hair?)

the physicists fumble around with such questions
and time, however trivial, oh sure, there's an
explanation, but how many people can do that
kind of math?

and the sky will have its many moods, to satisfy
eternity and life cycles, faith and fragility, the nervous twins
one forever seeking the other on a continuum.

and the unforeseeable is in play, as always,
but now with more potential for discomfort.
just how many people will scream, "blasphemy" because of
the science?  It is an unpredictable number.


always point blank; reality is unforgiving,
and the rules were written long before this latest incarnation.
all the temporal energy is focused on intimate tissue;
ripe;  and seen for only two seconds.

(the closing window of time, closing even before you knew it was open)

private tears

there are upper rooms, higher courts and so forth (sages)
complicated matters are debated and this is not a civil debate;
still in the end—the human thread is visible of course.

the default is stone, steadfast and one– time has come.
time to set aside distraction and merge with what exists
involuntarily.  -might call it "the innate" -the genetic code.
it is what it is

I cry for all the pains
not my own—

(and my own, too)

Only my own?

tripping on vanity, hypochondriasis, time (old man in mirror)
and physics?

Why does my tooth hurt again?
why do my muscles turn to fat?
where is my father?

Someone answer me

City of David

"we were little Jewish boys, we just didn't know it"

the heart is torn as the soul recovers
a paradox, an experience; surely
after walking in the steps of the so-called King of the Jews.

truth trickles on with no focus, except
the very nature of it in the macro.  And you are walking
in the Old City.

maybe you can answer?
why is there such release in the sight of that Golden Dome, sitting
only temporarily, above my heritage?  (Dome of the Rock for now!)

it's fine.  dead-head me in one direction.  in fact, let us
rejoice is only took half a Century to discover the truth.  somehow
only Hebrew would translate here and I don't know the language.

why am I dreaming about doves?

(somersaulting—cartoon like in my dreams)
these are two doves, in reality, that have landed on this hillside
near Bethlehem, in plain view;  Earthly witnesses.


desperate and begging again
at the door, as always.
can't even take another bite
of my pumpkin cake without
the knocks
shattering my misery.

get out of my face
you clowns and demons
I want to nurse the hole
in my stomach, the latest of the
endless pains.  teeth, ears, lungs and on
and on
how did I end up here?  bathed in
orange light, eating orange foods.
in my gut, only the new pain,
and some fresh blood emotional component.
surrounded by selfish gamers, including mirrored images.
but mostly, those at the door, some in the inner circle
passive aggressive showboats. actors.

what a perfect evening.
my despair and groveling before
a blind muse.

and You, dancing, silently (smiling), in the orange light.


that is where you'll find the diamonds
and that is the nature of your search, yes?
there is not a goddamed rock in the yard
you haven't turned over—all the drawers
you're rooting through, day and night.
a fiend.

And the look in your eyes is beginning to frighten me.

—as new music plays, you die—

mock rock

three, two, one
run son!
flap jack
baby back
on the track
to God knows where


tick tock
what's up doc?
watch the clock
for zero hour


dumb rhymes
scary times
moon shines

too bright

kickin' grimace
whippin' snoopy
two bob bitchin'

break the glass and haul some ass
watch out


shadowed, round, curly smoke. “Braille” X-rays.
who interprets such white mush?

‘this’ looks smaller, but there is still ‘this.’

endless seeming.

then comes the fear blanket, wooly, sticky. and fever. no comfort.
not a good blanket; but persistent and organic. how I feel the sticking on my skin
in dreams.
always awakening to another surreal day of elusive peace in the mystery present.
(the only true relief from the blanket)

look above—
See it now!
that is my black hole. (the only one in the Universe for me)

the inspiration to write

the frightened man keeps thinking
it's next year. (cannot find today)

sometimes even wild tigers
hide in bushes, or retreat in fear.

a hole in the ozone is the least of the worries

this is a fluid situation:
think asteroid belt.