SEASON

The October night sank like an old masculine sun
under the leafy new season it did dissolve into dust

while a wrinkled up woman in a tattered wool shawl
wrote love letters, mailed one by one into the shrill wind

and as the ancient birch porch creaked in the dark
she cleared her thin throat for the last time,

stood high on the warped boards in the thick
Autumn cold where her twin girls had stored
sugary treats decades ago.

She raised her bony tired red hands and as
strong as the full moon shining bright and so
long down onto Blue Pond

spoke her true simple words which
in the end were her heart's mind.

I guess you could say before her
brown eyes closed for good she

had dined slow and chewed well
at this lush feast of life

which to my open, half broken ears
did say it all.

LILTING

tight was the twist of the tin screw on maple
light was the tilt of the dappled sun’s shaft

green were the trees above grass stained knees all afield
brave was the lilt of their slow traipse towards the grave

tuneful is the soul moan of bagpipes' meander a'mourning
deep blue is the heart bruised of my tearful young son

wabena

Fat Wabena bought the stereo quick on credit
or so it seemed by her wry quarter smile as boxes
of gizmos were lifted by pimpled teens onto carts
and pushed out through dense rain to her half
rusted auto,

when the kids left, she set it down in an oily puddle
where cigarette butts floated like dead submarines
next to her bottle of discount gin in the gray parking lot.

She let the pigeons and gulls and water have their way
with her purchase as it drowned in the dim light,

and took a long swig of the juice, fire inflamed her throat
like a shopping spree gone utterly mad and her dimples,
they crimsoned, opened and fluttered like wings of
angelic desire as the booze, thank god, did its job.

Her sad head began to bob in the downpour as,
numb now, she sobbed and coherently muttered
of old music and long gone absentee gods.

CRESTFALLEN CAVITY OF DEPRAVITY

The Croatian oracle quacked and screamed above the shattered cracked plate glass screens,
her predictive capacities stunk like crap or two week old canapes from
congested Cairo's alleys way out back,

considering her barbaric charisma and such lack of tact, I ask you in complete confidence --
what's worse than that?

That's right, an empty tube of Crest in Dubrovnik with unclean acres of dental plaque.

CROONER

the lanky black clad stranger sang scat like a sainted jazzman or a traveling angel,

his somber vibrating lips create oceans of bliss for eager quiet listeners all over this planet,

as stars in the great night gleam radiant light across ages of time his

uplifting music graces astonished others with a sensuous trinity of scents:

an eternal Springtime blooms in wild loving profusion of rose, saffron and lime.

ODE TO THE CURRENT

carried away I was, and am
by the river turning tightly
just downstream from the red
rusted bridge with steel trusses,

oh how the steam rises like smoke
from wood fires in the yellow glare
of noon’s torrid lusty sun

and far below on this cool thin back
of blue liquid silk float ducks and geese,
acres of forgotten garbage and stink

mixed with the half-lived dreams of
blinking old men who stare into the past,
stifle their regrets as it forward flows
slowly away

across fields and foothills where lanky
aspens of gold dance such a delicate
and bold quiver and sway.

Sunday, Early (for Jevan)

mist coats the streets of our town

sweetens and softens this easy
slow morning

pleases like a sweater of finest
cashmere or burnished cane of
Cuban sugar.

Poet's Block

Words clunk inside dry chunks of uninspired stones tonight.

No moonlight gleams warm image streams or blue green
dream onto my blocked and barren thoughts.

I sit displaced with feet that chafe and burn
on a floor of silent scorn

as fingers tap these rocks for what it’s worth,
or not, they’re so far away from thee

at this dead-end cul-de-sac, this unfertile geology.

....Still, a train’s plangent whistle sings low and long
in smokey rain,

(can you hear it softly whimper a sculpted anomie?)

as it lulls our Friday townsfolk, one of whom is me,
unto their whispered sleep.

Warning Final

LISTEN UP!

the maybe date is wrong
but ain’t my meaning
if drift you my get

and if you good what’s
know you for you won’t
question more ask any

or forced, I’ll myself
to be and you like that
sure won’t.

AUTUMN PRAYER (for Emilia Rae)

In these burnished days of first fall
before bare trees and slate gray skies
of winter come to call

may the blue flower of your heart’s
deep core bloom and shine through
each cell and sinew

fill the humble and grand rooms
of your life with sweet fragrance,
true beauty and friendship’s joy
forevermore.

first mistake

My first mistake was not shaving for one week while grampa
that toady deviant scoundrel ate all our crunchy peanut butter
on day old crust-less toast of the finest holy wheat.

Down the labyrinthian halls of this misfit mansion, Aunt Beebe
with her girlish giggle played dominoes alone, chugged warm
wine until slurringly giddy, completely unmistakenly stoned,

despite the inebriated state of her wild-ass mind, she sliced and
stabbed red potatoes into dinky midget chunks, twisted green
beans into divine spirals fit for cherubim and heathens both

while fiddling and fidgeting in between with the plump uneaten
Sunday roast.

I Wanna'..

..samadhi your body

while you dally with red/
headed cousin sally

or foreplay my satori.

We’ll frolic full
moon style,
tumble down

down
down
down

tarry awhile then dive deep
under ticky-tack town-houses
piled like puddled rain

along our mundane lane

into the verdant welcoming
depths of her wetness,

the complete zero sum
game of innocence
and shame

where deer leap, frogs gurgle,
finches sing, stand

balanced on stub ends
of slender eucalyptus
limbs,

their fine sky swirls clouds
painted purple over

her enlightened
brown valley.

I wanna' samadhi your body.

Couldya' foreplay my satori?

ON THE TABLE

ginger’s zing
pierces pear’s
sweet cream

garlic’s bite
snaps grape’s
tart green

basil’s
sum/
mery
pungent
flavor

adds to
kitchen’s
savory
fragrance

earth’s
beauty
and
bounty
in cobalt
bowls

fill our
brimming
happy
bellys

grace
this
wobbly
old
wooden
table

a grateful
cook
grins
and
swallows

(ambles
slow
as
sticky
syrup
of
amber
maple)

licks
his
slippery
eager
lips

and
chomps
through
thin
crimson
skin

from
early
Fall’s
fat
tempting
first born
child--

Oh Man!
that thirst
quenching
juice-filled
crunch
of crisp
staunch
apple.

On the Table

Ginger’s zing
pierces pear’s
sweet cream

garlic’s bite
snaps grape’s
tart green

basil’s
summer
flavor
brightens
kitchen’s
savor.

Earth’s
beauty
and
bounty
fills
our
bellys

graces
this
old
wooden
table.

Grateful
cook
grins
and
swallows

(slow
as
sticky
syrup
of
maple)

licks
his
slippery
lips
and

chomps
into
one
tempting
crisp
red
apple!

pencils talk shop to fiery rap music in
this square classroom of oldster losers

while fallen angels shed their wings,
stumble like blacked-out drunks
on shrouded streets,

elegiac symbols smash and clang in way/
ward alleys, whistling in wind tunnels
we shred all logic,

and move our sullen hips and swollen feet
to a humid enticing Brazilian beat

in a torrid double-cross of ends and means,

you may well wonder when life’s looking
too close and a hell of a mess at three a.m.,

and you’re tangled up good over, in and
under those horrid unwashed sheets,

must we bumble along from stem to stern
as bees on the buzz or crooks on the lam

just to make some honey or a wad of money
in our one last sweet shot to feel complete?

big fish and friend

The big fish waits
and waits
and waits.

I see his glisten
through the shine
and depth of wet

and think
and think
and think.

We both want
to flow and
float with
ease

in morning's
warm sun/
shine.

Yet the fish
and fish/
erman sit
and sit
and sit

in such
patient
reverie

at these
opalescent
liquid gates.