you now know my tenor. in a sense

you now know my tenor. in a sense
i do too, that which is yours, as ours.
Daymare & Hydra. a day's fair
allotment.

in relish & discord, i've seen you smile.

scorn only when pressed, somehow
felt both your mirth and strains
as though privately
mine.

you've come to understand me well,
as you might fancy, i too claim this
of you. even in love i know you
pity me.

there is such a thing as ugly

for M. D. F.

there is such a thing as ugly
mathematics, finance
for instance:

tax and dredge the headstrong
& whimsical alike. a routine
toll.

but you, my paramour,
are magnificent— loveliness
beyond algebraic form.

impossibly seductive
while measurably imprecise
in your affairs you whisper
inappropriate.

this skin

this skin
is not mine

it fits too loose here
and too tight there

although its follicles are real fine
and surface scars have essentially faded
deeper incisions remain—

smart each time i inhale
or smile

still
i compliment it daily,
for it's the only set i have
of fitting material even if
temporally variegated.

i'm somehow
attached to it.

should you choose to pick-up guitar

should you choose to pick-up guitar
beware of the lure

cast by the blues, the hook
will have twelve bars, and tippet,
appropriately vague & translucent

for your eyes. while unaware,
there will come a strike, then you'll stagger
and reel back.

when strung
on a stringer, remember:

catch-and-release
is haphazardly done by players
when spellbound

and fedora
is just uniform.

my generation

my generation:
we were destined
to be Italian,

Venetian to be precise,
but she couldn't
accommodate us all.

tipped away from a point

tipped away from a point
marked charm, by way of laggard's retort
to her musty motion then pitched slick
as slime on that old, suddsy, incline—

flap: now memorialized under dust;
it's a break down

of hubris: remember
her slate face? we're told,
now almost faded is pretty

impossible to excavate
but she: undoubtedly is still
stunning to behold. of course,

some charming varieties were common
then, in fact, may be welcome still
'though rarer at this shattered juncture
of our collective experience

in its wake, it's still a quandary
if she favored capers over love—
pointed daggers as shields
that reinforced bulwark;

"excess of any sort
mars judgment, spread to the mouth
regards rot" is how i define it
still.

i make feeble attempts (companion to found and lost)

[Inspired and written as response to
Joanna Suzanne Lee's "found and lost".
Please do visit her poetry site "the tenth muse"
in order to read and enjoy her wonderful work
and as always, introduce yourself and say hello.]

i make feeble attempts
at understanding
paradise
just take The James
it's yours
and mine
to sense
at a distance
while it courses
and meanders
through your world
asking why it scours a soul
as though regulating heartbeat
an essential
flow
through artery
the messy tangle of vein
and capillary
its source
overwhelmed by the whole
[in my mind] i idle
at the cobbled-walk at Park
[near Swan Lake]
to imagine
that one solitary stretch you so love
bridge with crosswalk and alleyway
but to my dismay
i simply cannot
buried here in my furrow
i rediscover
how geography also fashions
hell
yet somehow
is washed clean by marsh and tide
at the confluence of river
and parting mouth.

like flame-red hair swirling as if a dragon

like flame-red hair swirling as if a dragon
breathes in & out, air, wispy as steam is hot.
oding pretty damsels, gleaming by daylight,
watch them skim & glide in playful-flight

jaunty & kirby, sport filmy see-through-wear
as diamond dartles, metallic-clear, darling
little scarletts in sparkling ivory pintails

migrant and blue-eyed vagrant sprites
dance, cunningly flounce while they dodge
poles erected which bear a smudge

of gooey, soppy birdlime [meanwhile,
a scalding Indonesian frier's on fire;
forerunner of dunk and plunge] then swarm

confounding lips, drooling with hunger
for winsome things, flimsy & light—
aptly sauced & spiced ready for brunch;

those quirky things, they carry
massive crushes for these creatures
and their improbable ambrosial crunch
but today portends to be a bust. what a delight!

rings churned space

rings churned space
some still oscillate

sand leapt hourglass
moments wisped as dust
refused to settle

hearts raced
stealing pulse and breath
escaped from lips
in o shapes made ample for kissing
courtesy & discourse

timber and tenor blew songs
with familiar tune but heart-rates failed
to quell, charts turned melody
ruby

with alarm-red streaks thrusting
deep into the night, we labored
and were madly tangled

now blink and chime jostle
for time as did oscillating rings
all-day, and without doubt, will,
once more, today

some fussy, others not
mostly analog.

in the dominion

 
in the dominion
of perfect stillness

complete silence
has to be
absent

longing requires
refrain
as lullaby
  
           the whistle
              of grass
           in the wind

          forlorn moan
               as song

             a distant
      lament as signal
         you are still
              and well

quiet
of this kind's
highly malignant

why murder's
enjoined 
by suicide.

tender towline

tender towline
fully submerged and waterlogged
guide to solid iron anchor
call it your own

enveloped in dulse
kelp forest is my home
restless kedge settled in muck
scouring sandstone

still i stay
tug vague and slight at the heart
timeless timber in tide's sway

when frightened, grapnel
panic only as you drift
weightless

anguish swelling
before the snap.

liberty is just mandate. open terrain

liberty is just mandate. open terrain
curving toward umpteen suitable stations;
latitude to harbor or drift-along
pastoral, as you will.

equality indeed demands justice—

beyond doubt. truth and beauty
alongside goodness, fickle triplets
at banquets of impulse gorge
unattended; Loreleis of keenness
and appetite.

finally: love— enigma,
curiously dispatched from his coven
requiring no gravity as though vapor.

presumably levity had branded her
a whore; caution: she's slippery
and she's always wet.

in a gaudy station adorned in purple

in a gaudy station adorned in purple
neon, you preen, studied in plays of murder
& suicide; guileful
in mirror

that reflects facade: Vegas castle
complete with throne for play-write-acrobat;
prefab counter of wile
& makeup.

i'll have you know i can lunge
under staged props with even more grace
and elegance; pay all prices for sustenance
when i guard my pride

from dogs: vulpine
but missing fox-like-charm—
yelping and howling in discordant keys
ranging from c-sharp
to insidious;

my roar, in tune, echos forever,
disrupts all pomp and slaughter;
shoo-ing prowler and pipsqueak
actor.

we're done! it's breakfast time—
rehearsal is finally over.

remember calendar

remember calendar
is akimbo
already nineteen

skin
satin smooth
and sheer cotton
wraps
fluttering
having ridden all
three-day affairs
hard

with more zeal and meaning
than eternal limbos could ever have
notwithstanding Nicene Creed

Epiphany
and other processional one-night stands
so subtly evaded

yet this 10th day in Tərr
imparts a form of wisdom
ancient phonics
whispering:

recall heart's trot first today

perhaps
jettison quasi-supersonic

contrail
someday.

i accept

i accept
keepsakes

keep in mind
crystalline structure
of obsidian lights temperament
above style

locket sentiments
intricately adorned dentelle
in pearl drops

consider
the briskness of steel
razor nature of onyx shard
over fine chiffon

curl lithe
while suitably rugged

Living Like Julian

Living Like Julian

1.
I am too fair and my hair
is the wrong tone. my skin,
somewhat thinner than average
Jane's or John's.

2.
I'm unaccustomed
to local customs, my drawl for instance,
is inconsistent and I often nod in disagreement
especially when made nervous
by circumstance.

3.
Imagine this: to ask for fish
at the meat counter, to my surprise,
is considered foreign in some circles,
but for omnivores I thought it didn't matter—
apparently it damn well does.
Now I'm a fucking foreigner in their eyes.

4.
Alien, four-times over, one without a true home,
I'm told, yet with a phone number and address,
however impermanent, they call me, not refugee
but consumer and apparently I do—
royally.

5.
Now fetch me my crown,
the one with a gecko on it, It's prime
for my accessory assuagement;
Tonight we debate the affairs of my clan—
it's migration time.

Shell's "i would not rise but for this flame"

[This one is Shell's of forgetmenow, which she kindly left as part of a comment
to my sunset tones are warm a little while ago. I think it deserved to be displayed
more prominently here, so here it is. Shell, I hope you're doing well, my friend.]

i would not rise but for this flame

burning in my gut with you

and more you, such air and grace

willing to hold hands

shed perfect blues after all the fuss

and being careful

not to kiss while blood watched

after shadow's silence of your being (literally)

[A variation on Shadow's The silence of your being
please do visit her and say hello]

slight are the quivers at twilight's spring,
chilled by the closing breaths of a setting sun,
they heighten

zephyr's rise to permeate layers
formed and warmed since early dawn;

draft-blasts plumb stubbornly inward—
aiming squarely at the heart.
shivers erupt, then skies darken,

now flashing sparks decorate up above.

left alone
you ponder how now forms yesterday
and perhaps grieve for others
who may never become,

teardrops form

above all
for those who seldom see beauty
in the paleness of a cold blue moon
nor in the forms of her devoutly silent
companions: stillness
and shadows.

now doubt storms torment,
heartache flows a torrent. distress
paints in must and downpours
grays forming squalls
in your soul.

after the tempest
anguish begins to falter
you dissolve into a new-found calm:

solitary slumber may be a potent cure-all
but not for everyone
are the last words you utter

and finally
there's silence.

night storms move on to rage
in subsequent timezones.

Homage to a Quiet Commotion

[Inspired by the beautiful poem: California Tide by Wine & Words at Quiet Commotion.
Please visit to read more of her wonderful poems, and don't forget to say hello.]


California waves
hello
even in departure
akin to warm
Aloha embrace
further West
plumeria lays
on sandy beach
dreams--
California waves
and sunsets
amber.

left unplucked let alone bitten

i)

left unplucked let alone bitten, ceded
to ripen on the vine, only to be snatched

when grappled by a four-armed hellion
who would not dance nor had rat-mounts

as Ganesha does, even though
as playfully turgid but in a form,

oh, so crushingly abhorrent
that we were all rattled to the core.



ii)

now analog to cider & wine, reposed in redwood
cask, patient to be graded and possibly stowed

when deemed fortunate or fine. o, forbidden fruit,
might it have taken but one, for Saturn to have shed

his rings— flung moons trained at the very heart
of caution— re-fabricating the scheme of heaven?

alas— insoluble from this vantage-point for it reveals
but one approach to a million and one solitary stations.

my coffee

my coffee
hasn't really hit yet
and i can't think
of what to write

except,
we are now
further north,
her and i.

mom passed away
in September of '07
and dad,
long before that.

i moved up here
to be close to all.
i have two girls
and a boy.

it's been a tough life
but things are good

and she too
is doing well
but she lost a son,
her youngest—

something
you never get over.
i'm surprised
you remember us.

at present

at present
this is what i recall:

strikingly radiant and alive, a bantam pair,
breathing-in highland air laden with promise
and thoroughly doused with steadfast trust

that, brilliant futures were more than a dream
but exceedingly probable— almost a must;
back then, my love, whilst blissfully bathed

by an equatorial sun, buoyant with vim—
vernal vigor and forever braided with more
that affection; in that winsome couryard

and playgrouds, for instance, lives were embraced
with freshness and thoughts: in topiary form,
painted pathways without brier nor thorn,

were foremost, lushest byways of hope—
sanguine visions of confluences in days
yet to unfold; that was then, my love,

and all i can recall,
at present.

spectral impression

spectral impression
due to possible transmitter
failure,
garbled by static, in reprisal:
"... did she call you ...", before
carrier loss:
"... transvestite and a whore ..."
then:
"... fucking fatso ...", almost
lost in transmission
from that divergent show
& tell:
"... contempt is a dangerous muse
you know ...", were clearly
broadcast once;
consequently, in retribution,
"bleepity-bleep-bleep"
following
a form of whipping-effect
and then hissing
snow ...

translucent sheets

translucent sheets
from a writing pad

two poems and a letter

enamel beads, a flask
opal baguette

a lock of hair
a clasp

organdy ribbon wispy as air

a keepsake case
with label

pristine stamp,
not cancelled

red velvet lined, antiquated
miniature

casket.

the price of patience is some form of survival

the price of patience is some form of survival;
a principal reason he remains so.

just once, if the sea allowed him, perhaps
he'd walk on her surfaces, headed your way.
even then, i wonder: would he perish,

less of voyager's terminal exhaustion
than a puerile eagerness for arrivals
and rancor

for certain
consequence?

for this final solution is but binary in nature—
surcease not to be cherished one particular way.

i think ...

whimsy, my dear, is it true

whimsy, my dear, is it true

even nothing can be measured
given ancillary reflection

notwithstanding quixotic ideal?