Something like dying



There are days when life is grand,
Sold as fresh as morning fish
Still scented with briny ocean dew,

Eyes clear, flesh firm, glistening
Pink hues held together by
Indigo hued lines in unison.

Days like these we hold court,
Expounding on absurdities of love,
Downing crisp Semillon,

Tiny silver anchovies au gratin,
Cold oysters flush with seawater,
And our own sense of pomposity.

These days the blue waves tipple
Of silver light, rising towards
A gray horizon as if to vanquish,

Only to fall in pieces, shattering
Against a stoic audience of sandy
Beach infested with vile bodies.

Here we silently feign
Indifference to harder truths,
Lighting our souls instead with song,

Even as  the net of our fears
Gathers, rising as a great
Veil,inexorably drawing its prey,

Whose shimmering words crowd
Slowly inward until all are one
Cry, and no single listener remain.

They fall as water from the net,
Collecting among the living sea
Even as we are drawn gasping

From its dark bosom,
Gulls darting opportunisticallly
Towards our squeezed flesh,

And at last we know of
Something, something like
Dying, seeping into last breaths.

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Terror imagined

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Watching the child splash the cold surf,
I had a fleeting thought of last night when,
Drunk with vodka and sex I saw this very youth,
Wild eyed and hissing, upon your brown thighs.

She splashes with glee in her criss-cross suit,
Laughing at the surf tumbling on her fat thighs,
Time and again as it beats little alabaster legs,
But last night she hissed, eyes blazing red,

Teeth dripping with green puss as she glared,
Smiling hideously, whispering secret words,
Dripping from dead, blue lips like venom.
Fear had clutched my tired chest, sex was

So deep within my sleep emboweled.
Recoiling in the darkness, panick clutched
Hold as tightly as I had held your black mane,
As we grunted and I sweated onto your back

Before smelling your sex open up to me.
Sudden terror now bit me, naked with fear
I watched her bite your tan flesh
Like the flesh of a ripe mango and hiss

As she ate, daring me to move, to speak,
And suddenly I knew she was truth. An apparition,
Horrid, not dreamed.

I screamed in my head,
Sickness clutching my insides
Like an open wound.

Now, uneasily fidgeting against the sharp
Sun I instinctively wish the languid
Green waves will swallow her,
This laughing child devil.

Beneath the cry of gulls hungrily flapping.
You lie unaware of the danger,
She would have devoured
Your whole sex lest I not at last

Moved to shake your naked shoulder.
(You only groaned.)

All too familiar with my fears I lay
In damp fear, til dawn at last slunk
Slowly upon us,
(Why does light come so slowly to this world?)

And you turned to smile and instead
At my face of cold contempt.

Our Freudian night lives we share over
Coffee was gone. Cold fear. Even here.
Waves tipping, gulls screaming

Your words blurred in the breeze,
Carried away to God’s ears as she
Turned and plodded from blue foam,
Dragging her bucket of hearts,

Spleens and bloodied flesh,
Behind her toddling wet body.
Deep in my mind I knew her awful
Green teeth were meant for devouring,

My soul next.
Yet though I knew, I lay still
Watching you light your thin smoke,
Casually asking me for a refill

Not the least
Less beautiful
As last night in the darkness.
And the terror ran to her mother laughing.

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The sound along the ground,
Abreast of the sound, down
Level with sea bubbles foaming,
Down with sand crabs scuttling
Is hissing, bubbling,

And should you ever lay prone
Below the hissing wave line
And hear these sounds so low,
Along the sandy weathered space,

And feel the cool upon your face,
You’d hear the whisper which does
Not ask of us who beside her,
Lies and looks on high to bluer

At gulls who push and shove,
And cry their high pitched wails,
Demanding bits of morsels tossed,
And in cacophony the peace
Is lost,

We cannot hear the waves at play
Demanding stand unless they pound
Us down into the roil and under
Neath a foaming boil we scrape our

Instead these sounds,
Bubbling, hissing, splishing
Notes, sing to us a rhythmic
Of low angelic notions,

Proximity to the bed of waves,
The sound print of this ocean,
Does crest and fall upon our ears
And from this unique point
Of view,

The sound unfolds as gentle
Or spoken in another tone,
A whispered poem for times
We knew

Contained within the listening
Our fondest memories
In tow
Of sunset shimmer

Long afternoons spent watching
Far horizon,
Deep blue line awash in
Golden splendor
Time after time after time.

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A small depression


Out back there is a cool spot in the yard.
On fall nights the air pools there leaving a
Misty white sheet draped like

Those American flags on the boys boxes
Coming home from some far nation,
Solemn, cold, dark

Faces of those men saluting
And I think of that cool spot sunken
Because I did not want to walk down

The newly turned ground from burying
Him, somehow it felt wrong, to trample
There in that moment.

I never went back, and nature came and went
Rains and such, then depression sunk,
And stuck, hence the pool of

Quiet fog, sitting out there now as
I drain my fourth glass of liquid life
And see again and again solemn

Faces of young men in blue dress
Wondering when they might return under
A curtain of red, white and blue fog.

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Calling all cars



Little puffs of the dandelion riding spring breezes,
Maybe miles, maybe more, little spores finding new

Millenniums. Wars trodding over their minute buds,
Fallen sons choking as they grasp bloodied swords,
Then the droughts, then the floods, then the darkened

Skies blacked with locusts, still those deep roots
Hold on.
Yellow blooms carry forth the ancestry of a million

Years. A million more will come as we spin and spin
Around the yellow bloom of life giving light,
Carrying forth our own spores, looking

To find new pastures, riding the winds of time,
Over grounds trodden by horses, bloodied by

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I wrote the moon a letter
To show my affection for
Her past graces, like when
She blushed that late September
Evening as though we both knew
A secret love had been born.

Or when she winked through clouds
Blowing in with that July storm,
As the wind torn at your hair
Whipping sand along the shore as
So many angry bees against our legs.

I can confide to the mother moon
As to the state of my lost mind
Turned inside out by words and turns
On phrases, turned over and over
Until but shadows remain of orignal

Thought. Artists are mercurial to be
Sure, lost among the living, walking
Around inside out, as if living
Negatives – the dark lit and the lit
So very, very dark.

Yes, I wrote the moon a letter and
Sealed it with my kiss, perfuming
The envelop by gentle mist of peony
Blossoms; a love letter then, I suppose
And mailed it on the wings of Pegasus.

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Broken smokestacks


Washing up for dinner I thought of the old ruins,
Rusted steel twisted over concrete grown over again
With nettle,ivory thistle and honeysuckle green against
Darker shadows lurking no matter the time I would pass.

The little black dog limped into the kitchen just as
Pasta water set a boil,
Looking forlorn as though she had been into those shadowed
Crevices underneath broken smokestacks and found destitute

Rabbits eaking out their living chewing dandelion blooms,
Longing for suburban gardens which gave good cover because
Part time caretakers did not take care of their once hopeful
Plantings and those same milkweed thistles crawled over.

I asked the little black mongrel of her wish for this
Evening of solitude. She stared up blankly against my
Withering gaze, trying to filter the existential implication
For my line of questioning. Normal. Not normal. Hunger.

Often I find my stomach in knots thinking of that dead lot,
With it’s cold fencing, useless anyway, holes and poles
Flattened long ago for teens to smoke their weed and laugh
And grope in those dark shadows, finding love or something like it.

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