The Answer

There was a wind
winding down from star to sea,
whipping along eastern ranges,
whispering strange words in accented syllables,
a Romanian Shakespearean rag,
sometimes humming something from The Weekend.

Sometimes a muse must be answered.

There were scrubs worn in the imaging room,
fancy dress for after,
the hint of musk on curving neck begging for a sniff,
there’s was that kiss and caress,
fingers to skin – oh, baby, that skin!
And the whisper of cloth dropping,
the dropping clickety-clack of high heels along a wooden floor.

Sometimes a muse must be answered.

There were those words, foreign accented,
challenging: querying and teasing,
a sip of gin, a taste of oyster,
the need to meet, to great,
and skirt along our freedoms –
the glowing heart, the dark eyed look.

Sometimes a muse must be answered.

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Stars | Dust | Breath

I was kissing you with my mind
before my body –
only body –
in motion, in fluid,
in heat

some juice squeezed
                             from my pomegranate

thought like fire,
the mind that never wavered
querulous, you challenged me,
the push, the pull

there were breasts pressed
and there they bruised the teats of their virginity

instinct riding reason,
breaking will and focus
the hill, the aching climb
mountains and song, the gasping breath

and I drank of the wine and was drunken,
                               and lay uncovered within my tent

time and space
immaterial, an echo,
physic a false start, dark matter and the mirror galaxy,
gravity and wells, the dip in space
that proves it, curving like your belly
raising up to meet my lips

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Wrapping Backwards

Something about
losing small pieces –
an errant tooth,
the color in my hair,
the smell of autumn as
father held my hand,
fading vision /
a kidney butchered
under failing hands,

a butterfly
flapping backward
through time,
wrapping itself in strands

fading memories
wandering banter
stolen kisses amongst the shrubbery,
the illicit touch
bare skinned thigh

sweet honey,
do you remember
kneeling as voices passed close by,
my sigh?

cocoon wrapping

that takes us,
piece by piece,
strand by strand

a caterpillar
arching backwards

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Burning Autumn

In the autumn, with leaves burning, safety
as children running
embers floating in the air.

And I am burning leaves again.

The tulips i pulled from your garden
how you say me hiding,
behind our pine.

Eyes wide.
Knowing that you were one person.
And about to become another.

How. You. Yelled.

And how it tore into me,
a torpedo, dropped bomb,

When I got into trouble again
I went into a house.

The neighbor with the old fan.
Brass cage.
Thick, cracked rubber blades.
Fissured dark,
Rocking back and forth on their axis
in the wind
in the window,

Back and forth.
Wishing they would rock into life,
That your will would gain power.

Still wishing.
It’s a false false,
after the fan
and the pine trees.

The hips thrusting.

Now they’re just hanging there,
fan blades,
setting sun in a window frame.

The house is set back,
in the pines.


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When We are brave

When we are brave enough
we are not present
we are simply
in a wrong moment

Between key strokes
and dramatic elipsing
our raging moments,
against the dying of the

we feed our platform
as it feeds on us,
our bravery
(our sex)
is stroking keys
and raging at random moments

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Heisenberg’s Waiting Room

There are moments when
you are alone in a place
of human geography
peopled with many strangers,
and every one of them –
looking at you in side glances –
knows you
and your heart
And there is no water,

Just this folding weight
that crushes you
into a small point.

And this universe spinning out of your reach.

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I held your hand
as you sighed,
chest heaving
caving and rising,
that old cadence, that old chestnut rag.

“God is a bastard, a true SOB,”
I told you, patting at the sweat breaking beads on your brow.
“Your mother won’t tell me about it,
because vows and such.”

But I can see it,
in the way he moves around the yard,
listlessly mowing, not really into it,
always bitching about how
‘David made the whole thing up’, and
something about boning an asshole,
or… whatever.

Outside the window,
there are those damn crows.

He’ll try again.

Maybe a flaming sword,
swung round and round by another drunken angel
outside the garden,
just another ineffectual scarecrow
flapping in the wind.

After all that, despite all that,
he says the afterlife’s kind of a let-down,
that the mowing’s at least more interesting
than the harping.
And that he’d love to help.
but I know he’s a liar – and a drunk.
Did you know he forced his kid to make him _wine_?

True story.

I miss you.
But you figured out a path.

So kick Peter’s ass for me, along the way.
He’s earned it.

And it’s good to know
that love is the dominion of the dead.

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