fright

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.

----

blades

Don't you take my heart and put it in some

bloody, smelly wrapper (defiled)

and hand it back to me

shaking

weak on bended knee.

Please.

Don't you know?

It's prestidigitation

and grace,

by the way,

the stiletto won't be seen in the final

red

silhouette.

(last gulp of air)

And so, as waves of pain

ripple

to the edge of a blue lake

I think of you

and your vibrating reflection. Clutch my wrapped up heart

stand on my cold, cold feet

and consider fishing

alone

in July.

-----

truth in the light

The puzzle piece
falls 
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?

----

4th

Street of loud parades,
I slide along your vein
like a heartbeat, every night.

I live on you. Wipe your soot from my prizes.
I hear you complain
on long days of summer.
You are a tunnel in winter, on cold, glistening,
pocked skin.
My own skin has been torn, ripped and stolen by greedy gravel
hidden in your shadows. Missed step.

But you go on
under dog crap, syringes, daffodils,
moving toward the next
parade, the many feet touching my private path
and sharing
my
carnal knowledge of you.

-----

clock radio

1)

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.

2)

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)

-----

how to make a soup sandwich

1.)

I had a stroke. Not the traditional medical sort.

I heard the death rattle all those years ago; earliest

self-sign of a brain on the very brink.

OCD and the suicidal undertow. How does a boy

read those coded clues?

mental illness, my forever companion, swaddled

in society’s denial; treated like a stench to follow me

each day of my time, trailing the walking corpse/ breathing shell

(already decomposing?)

Did you really want to annihilate me?

All those years barking at a television camera:

RED LIGHT ON.

passing for normal. My paralyzed brain hidden in studio lights

behind pancake face. A living artifact. You old war horse.

“Cue the son of a bitch.”

“Talk! You ancient queen.”

2.)

At dusk, the birds are old men crying. I embrace the sound.

night’s approach. (purple fingers squeezing away the light)

Thank you Lithium for the gift.

Thank you for saving my life—hanging only by a flimsy filament—

one thread—

on the decided approach to the great mystery of “muerte.”

Death by inert gas: the sure thing. Done deal.

My goodbye? the oxygen scoured from my lungs and vessels.

So many years in brambles and nettles. Bloodied. Beaten down.

I am still on the move.

-----

food master

finally

tired of alimentary processes

pestering me, I no longer want to eat.

how beleaguered I am of the constant

pressure to consume, digest, eliminate.

(a mess/ literally)

one mess uniting us all. [consider that amount of shit]

—so I imagine surreally—just a pill. (a tiny one)

like my Hydrochlorothiazide, for blood pressure,

the size of a baby aspirin.

I imagine, among the many fantasies:

the one pill in the morning,

and I am sated.

-- with no additional worry.

that's it.

nothing more. No more wasted time chewing cud,

the endless chomp, chomp, chomp of eating.

no more "what to do for lunch?"

And most important?

the whole process ends there. Consume the pill and

the push of nutrition is immediate.

[—All of the unpleasantness of digestion—

the 'too hot' broth in my esophagus.

the gurgles in my mid section.

the fetid garbage

(meat, plants, pasta) moving beneath

my belly button, pushing toward the anus—]

esophagus to anus. esophagus to anus. over and over

the never ending alimentary canal/ ceasing only at death.

Enough. finished. one pill.

no fuss. no mess.

It is strange then: to turn back to the plate

of lunch—of lunch!

I do not understand [or like] this world.

I have no plans for dinner.

-----

consider the sunny day

When human rubble sits on faraway fields.

Bodies and parts of them

strewn,

scattered as a child would leave playthings on the den

floor;

the after-Christmas floor

A bounty of bodies; reality not terrible enough

over the span of time

to usher peace

Aortas still split. Guts fly

as teeth clench in distant meeting rooms.

Power and peace divided on tables.

When women are crowded behind the alley entrance

mission doors.

Their lives and babies’ lives

lacerated,

eviscerated as the wolf undoes a sheep in the night,

with only the moon to watch.

The carnage still not enough

to halt the scatter of bullets in the streets

or the viciousness that releases them.

Orphaned infants scream with forever-bruised hearts

while we deny under sunny, azure skies.

-----

certain knowledge

A glance sideways on your frame
always
catching my eye
in that shape.
An eternal chasm between sculpture
and what will never be.

The frame of you
and me.
Soft screams in carefully chosen words;
the noise of knowing a bereft gut.

----

oleander

the memory of my

boyhood suicide attempt.

my father looked at me

hospitalized;

told me I looked 80.

now,

I look my age

even in a good light.

-----

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?

-----

night of lightning

unique as it may seem in the moment, it will return, and so on.

my night of lightning

on a Kansas prairie (only I remember) -- bolts up and down for hours;

repeats in this Century

looking down on Temple Mount.

Jerusalem is a long way from Kansas City.

take a glass light bulb -- put it on the floor, lit (aglow),

and then step on it. though the

bulb will go out -- look at the shards of glass

and visualize the pieces as still lit.

zoom out.

now, see each illuminated piece as an event in your life to come.

find the way between

the glowing, shattered pieces.

you’ll be fine.

have a valid passport and don’t get stuck in New Jersey.

-----

moon (1998)

That old girl won't run anymore
and it breaks my heart.

Moon, I see you forever
in one orange second on that beach.
Not even the Pacific is as blue
as your eyes.

The sea swallows huge gulps of air

But you dance on the edge of dreams
twitching in your legs

You know the way to eternity.

-----

Crazy Birthday

It is my birthday.
I’m going to cover every inch of my body
with strawberry jam.
I will then shave myself
from head to toe until
I’m bare-skinned as a newborn.
Afterwards, I plan to walk
calmly
through the neighborhood streets --drawing attention, perhaps.
(nude man, strawberry jam)
But proud.
To be alive, nude
and absolutely delicious. 


-----

Song One (last song)

in the end, isn’t this world just an excuse- 

for potential’s half-open purse?

one imagines so.
 but your voice from the grave is hope for the alive world.

we are rapt; 

we sing, so quietly

sotto voce

“Shepherds in the fields of ivy 

-- abiding --

-- preparing --

In excelsis Deo

Gloria”