Come clear my eyes -- my heart,
     Here a fluttering of what I can't possess --
     Riverbeds of skin I'll not caress.
Impishly from branch to branch she darts,
So swiftly sometimes I'm lost,
     Though yet, I know her voice:
     Inviting, wise, melodious and choice --
Never before has love been ripost.
As a faery she flees upon fey feet
     Leaving me to fancy as I may
Eagle flight while grounded by the heat
     And blinded by the sun's rays.
Love is a game I cannot cheat;
     Although I yearn, she flys away.

O sweet thy hair's unbraiding --
     Animated by zephyr's soft breath,
     The rhythm of seaweed sustaineth
Locks both playful and flowing.
O blessed thy eye's unlidding --
     Deep pupils dark with mystery
     And pregnant with intensity
Define irises warm and inviting.
O soft thy gentle mouth's parting --
     Spongy and moist thy chocolate lips
     Asking without words to be kiss'd;
Thy tongue enticing in its slow passing.
     When I think I may not live
     To see your face again, I die.

I see the tops of trees and birds in flight.
     Fragrant flowers and broken boulders both
Glow fervently in the dying sun's light.
     A fallen tree fertilizes fresh growth.
I hear the echo of a singing stream
And the murmer of a mosquito's hum.
     I'm quiet so long, I startle a starling
     Which disappears amid day's declining.
I taste wetness in the air when I yawn.
     The scent of sap and perfume of pollen
     Enkindle my forgotten sense again.
The near night chill awakens my sleepy skin.
     The only addition I desire
     Is your hand holding mine till night is o'er.

I promise to keep the rain from your face;
     I'll be your shade when hot and a coat when chill;
I'll never leave you wanting my embrace;
     If it please you, I'll level every hill.
Your most subtle wish is my commandment;
     I'll scale Everest at your slightest whim;
I'll shoot every star from the firmament;
     At your smallest nod, I'll make New York dim.
I will leave ten thousand roses at your door;
     I'll extol your virtues with poetry;
I'll sing your praises till my throat is sore;
     I'll build you a mansion most heavenly.
I'll crawl through desert thousands of miles
Just to be welcom'd by one of your smiles.

Every life is a light, subtle vapor
     That clearly appears for a little time
          To shine with brightness as if eternal --
               Then, as suddenly, vanishes away.
The sands of life are spent in an hour
     And no force can make a grain of dust climb
          Back up into the slippery glass funnel --
               No hand can turn the hourglass around.
Life comes from nothing and gains nothing more:
     We brought nothing in to this world sublime
          From it we can carry not a kernal --
               Our essence is a knot that straightens out.
When I despair that naught will be our hell,
You say that you love me and all is well.

Peeking out from behind blinds, I saw you
With the luster of sunlight in your hair.
I felt a voyeur's guilt charg'd with excitement
While I marvel'd at the small curve of your hip.
Your little brother wav'd a stick around
Most free in the recess of summer.
I yearn'd to return to unbath'd child skin
And its odor, but my summer is over.
Delight becomes vicarious with age.
You pluck'd the two choicest flowers from my garden,
Not for their fragrance, but to admire their color;
Then together, you swiftly steal away.
I envy each petal you nurture.
Go forth! Destroy nature!

My only predjudice is in favor of you.
     I don't believe death is a penalty
     Any more than I concider life a reward.
It doesn't matter: life and death aren't new.
I find you guilty of insanity:
     Self-reflexion is the curse
     That makes your confusion worse.
To be cur'd, just fall in love with me.
I won't malinger, I'll be hurriedly sane.
     I can handle the truth of the verdict:
My motive was boredom, my life is plain.
     I'm ready to hear you recite your edict.
"We're both broken. If we combine, we'd be wholly one.
Our former selves would suffer just a little death."

Paradise would be only you and me
     On an island in the sea far away.
All chores done by invisible faerys,
     Our only job would be to love alway.
We would never have our fill of kissing --
     Our desires forever unquenched.
We would never have enough of loving --
     Secrets eternally unrevealed.
Love's silent when all mysteries have fled;
     Those of mature years grow used to each other.
Let love be quiet from the start instead;
     I'll lay down and play dead beneath the cover.
If you catch movement from the side of your eye,
The dead haven't risen -- it's only a fly.

So sleeping -- So loving --
Carries up from the throat
And blue bells ring clear

It's that chanting of one devoted
Alone in the desert
No food     no sleep     no sex

The animal self dies
The spirit self dreams
There are visions and phils of love

Don't think of anything
Intellect is the enemy of this kind of knowing
Just forever fall without hitting bottom

The whoosh of air, the floating force of gravity,
The sudden violent bursting out

Our love is an egg -- small, white, and round;
Perfect because it has not yet begun.
A careless person could squash it, wandering through the reeds.
When the egg hatches, what will come out?

Perhaps a sparrow, blind and flightless,
Will emerge with open mouth.
Its only possession, the hope that an invisible force
Will feed and nurture it.

Then one day, our love will fly,
Soaring high alone amongst the flock,
Singing with joy for each new day,
Defecating freely on all below.

Real poetry isn't in words -- there are no words for it.
Poetry is silent and full, like an egg.

The mountain is bald and half-way.
The forest floor is sprinkled with crumbs of bread.
The swooping jay, hungry and naked.
Wind, continue gusting not so forever.
The alarmed duck changes lakesides, webbed feet clever.
The Pringles can crinkles when brought above waves.
The clouds are late, pregnant with postmature rain.
The river drain a river rock shaves.
A big fish waits for a silver hook to swallow healthy.
Dragonflys flutter from lilies, stealthy.
A dam could leave the river broken.
Anyone can walk on water when the lake is frozen.
Well, it's time to get going.

                              going.

slice so soft skin my neck
not just a sting or a prick
more than a sharp pain
i want to feel more than an itch
let the knife delve deep
and drink dark my thin blood
perhaps a tree will sprout out

nature never becomes art
it instead returns to nature
the leaves of my tree will droop
and decay with my gray body
maggots will eat the food
and grow to be flies
then i will reach the clouds

All my friends are stone.
The subtle pollen of anthrax deepens
Such that my grass-like desire only licks the rain
Unquenchable unlike the flooded foliage of the valley.

These dead can't be buried, permeable as vapor.
Not just names and dates,
The akashic record of every atom defies nihilism
Remembering every millisecond of every millennium.

How my toe feels to a blade of grass is written.
The weight of pollen on my tongue is witnessed.
It is night and day simultaneously.
I speak to ghosts and record their voices.

We walk among yellow leaves and silences; still,
All my friends are stone.

Behold our eyes on a common star latched
     In prelapsarian silence of night.
New passion swallows inexpressive speech
     As a distant eclipse dims the damp night.

Reflecting the binay star, we dance;
     Your fragrent half-parted lips perceive mine.
Beat by beat our light hearts pulse together;
     I feel your warm blood mingle with mine.

Nothing harms us for a single moment -
     At once, our two failing frames share one breath.
Round your serpentine locks lies a halo,
     Yet loud winds gather great clouds and cold breath.

Caresses turn to talk of late ruin.
We two are one in mutual pain.

Temporary 3866

Scanning my morning face for new pimples,
In delicate balance of filtered light,
I ignore a hearty hiccup in pulse
While destroying the constructs of night.

Who's to say another year lays in waste?
I've gone to work as all others have done --
Made and spent money at an even pace.
Yet, when it's added, nothing has been won.

Have the effects of my labor endured?
At the time, each task was most important,
But months have erased every deed and misdeed.
None will rememeber my accomplishments.

All jobs are without profit. When I die,
Poetry will be my sole legacy.

Amongst melting snow and tearing gusts,
Children catch the wind with disk-shaped sleds
And lean forward such that, if the wind stopped, they'd fall.
A little girl in pink and white has no sled,
But, grasping the corners of her unzipped coat,
Creates a sail with herself the mast.
The children thread around each other,
Joyfully shouting in the blue pool of road.
Sometimes, I think they're brave for playing.
They risk asphalt-skinned knees and careless traffic,
The slippery hill and the cold metal mailbox corner.
At this volitile age, they risk each other's friendship
By inventing new forms of play.
Suddenly, one begins to cry and runs home.

In a minute, he returns as happy as before.
It's necessary for children to be hurt
And to inflict their pain on others.
If not, they will be crushed by the adult world.
The Emperer of Ice Cream is made out of snow
Bearing jagged tire marks and boot prints, not ice.
Snow tastes good when it's clean and fluffy
And dissolves in your mouth like cotton candy.
Icecycles are refreshing too, but cold to hold.
They'll melt all over you: that's why there's mittens.
Watch out your friend doesn't try and poke you with one
Or knock yours down to the shattering ground.
"Each generation reinvents evil," I repeat,
Watching another tearful child run home.

Some days later, the wind reappears.
I rediscover it in my work's parking lot.
Instead of tightly wrapping myself in my coat,
I let my threads become a wind catcher.
Those who see me pretend not to notice
Save one who slightly lifts the corners of his lips.
The cold is exhilerating under my clothes,
But in less than a minute, I cease.
I'd like to drift as a beautiful and unique snowflake
Across drifts of snow as pure as evil
And unnecessary as pain ultimately is.
Adults need daily injections of childishness.
This epiphany fades as I clock in
And wipe away a tear caused by the wind.

                  What dreams licked his eyes;
                  Eyes keen on cold steel ~

   Strange that I want to stab it into my eye -
   (Perhaps my vision would improve if it were darkened.)
   This is my artist's brush. This is my shaping steel.
   This is my dumb excuse for something real.
   My skin a canvas, my blood the paint,
   I'll make something pretty for you
   Far more ornate than God's clay.
   Why be content with perfection
   When we can tear apart the facade
   And reveal a soul which hungers for liberation?
The cooing voice of relief calms too soon.
                  Salt to salt.

Despair is as deceitful as hope;
Always languishing in a silken robe,
It awaits its buoyant twin's departure,
Then wraps steel fingers around your soft throat.

The peace it brings is not absolute
For however resigned you are in gut,
Strands of gossamer slip through your grasp:
Depression's clutch holds no genuine truth.

You may inch closer to the chasm,
The brink of life, birth's polar opposite,
And gaze down into the welcoming void;
You may spread your flightless arms out wide...

Yet the promise of sweet oblivion
Is nothing more than illusion.