Stormy windowI am steadfast.
Steadfast in my stare.
My stare into the wild world.
Wild world stares back.
Stares back at such a timid soul with contempt.
Contempt I can see in the wind and rain lashing.
Lashing my glass with fury and force.
Force for which I long to throw myself.
Throw myself through this window and into the wild world.
The wild world, alas, would simply throw me back.
Throw me back and laugh, “unfit is the timid here!”
“Timid here are swallowed as Jonah was!”
Jonah was indeed swallowed and yet survived.
Survived by the grace not shown in the wild.
The wild knows not of grace, only the civil.
The civil must stand steadfast in this knowledge.
This knowledge divides as sharply as this glass.
Glass thin, yet strong, transparent yet impenetrable.
Yet impenetrable means both “impassable” and “private”.
Private is my timidity as I stand steadfast at this glass.
This glass is wet, cold, impersonal and yet protective.
Yet protective is often meant well but taken worse.
Worse than timidity is the belief of its weakness.
Weakness lies only in our misunderstanding of fear.
Fear keeps me on this side of a cold, clear glass.
I am steadfast.

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Distances for lovers

I saw him off in the morning,
         And he was riding a seahorse.
He spoke to me in a wave,
         While it flung itself in circles.

Just for a moment I thought,
          He could stay.
He could be here and live.
          We could be happy.

A moment as small as he,
         One who rode a seahorse,
It struck me how far he could
         Go, in the time I strode

Away tearfully. Not far of course,
          Riding a seahorse.
Though to him the distance
          Was not in size, nor

Breathing water and I air.
         He rode away like John Wayne,
To keep me living here, and
         He then, would keep me.

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A Cold Night


A cold night.
Stars frigid with
An air of despair.

Luminously teeming,
Black sparkling rain
Or falling tears.

Falling love
and falling lives,
cold night indeed.

In such vast silence,
voices still whisper,
What may come,

THEY are to come,
Whispered low
Barely perceptible

Hosts of stars
And voices
Tingling glow,

So many cosmic

Blunder methinks.
Beyond this box
Of battles.

What fear teaches,
Despair steals.
To wit.

Imagine them, come

To which they smile.
Despair, nor tears.
Not even cold.

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The Innocents


I don’t know the innocents,
Steadfast in their ideals.
Looking at this world with
Certainties of some maker.

They speak of him resolutely,
The blue birds return, the water
Drops rhythmically redolent ‘oer
The falls, the sea beats against

Millenniums of sand, doggedly
Steady as the dog stands,
Ready at its morning bowl,
Day and again day, and again.

I don’t know this constant.
What my knowledge keeps me
From knowing I think aloud,
Loud in rhetorical orations.

Purity of heart, purposed
Ideals serene, a captured
Bird sings in cheerful song
Of life outside its tiny bars.

I am unmoved, unbridled,
Absolved by certain hardening.
Trials, trips, tests, sins of
Every measure, pleasures to be

Treasured, captured or free,
Stiff certitude or glee,
The cleansed or the sullied,
I’ll not be bullied to knowing,

Whither north or south I’m going,
Sides perhaps of the same turn
Of this small cage swinging,
Captured blue bird, springtime

Calling cheerily, I am simply
I am, simply. I, am simply!
Simply my mouth longs to kiss,
Simply I am lover of a god.

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She says it like this:

I took back your coal sweater.
You’re welcome.”

(Coal? What the fuck color is coal?)
“You mean that black one? Cabled?
Thanks love”

(Incidentally, there is no love.
She took that back also.)
“I’ll call Hop Sing.Can you

Go and get it?”
“Again? Okay… I guess.”
“Is that a yes?”

“Why won’t you like the clothes
I buy you?”

“I do my love. Just not on ME.
How about egg drop soup?
No. Sweet and sour this time.”

She is already out the door.
She knows I know.

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Solitude Reigns



Solace comes but once a day,
Lying upon the back, Venus
Neatly bright to your left,
Burning the black night white.

Stillness but once a morn,
Cold fog sits among the dew,
Heavy as her breast did hang,
Still warm as you held them.

Quiet arrives noisily, after
Labored breaths no longer
Breathe, but rest at last,
The last great flood will open.

Peace eludes, lying also still,
But just beyond the far horizon,
Where so many undeserved lovers
Sail nightly by moonlight in vain.

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Fish Don’t Have Lungs


Flying low, beneath the lowest clouds is an old bird,
Old because he flies slow, more of a glide I suppose,
Old wings swing up and down briefly, like gasping
Lungs of those fish, but fish don’t have lungs, oh no,

They have gills, and when they lie upon the warm grass,
And gasp, just steps from their wet home, gasping,
Then the shadow of the old bird passes over. Some
Kind of last rite, of their gasping lives. Flutter

Go his wings and the old body rises higher, waiting
Patient, to see fish fins flicker one last time.
Gliding silent beneath the lowest clouds he waits
For us to leave the dying fish, his own last supper.

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