Forgotten Voice


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This voice is quiet now.
I have not put pen
to paper. Nor have I heard
you, beautiful muse.
Come to me! Grant me
your omniscience
and the confidence
of strident satyrs, who are not afraid
of foolishness- they bear it
in all around them.

I seek you outside
my car window,
near my tools, where they lay
at home. Man
on the corner, he looks, too,
but cannot find you.
The book under his arm
with the pineapple on the cover,
that talisman will bring you.

Continue, though, I do.
Are you in this cold cup of coffee
I purchased at Starbucks
an hour ago? I swear I saw you
leaning over the counter
refilling the sugar. Words
filled my head, but quickly left
as if you snapped them back
on a rubber band tether.

Muse! Oh, muse!
Where are you?
You must be somewhere
incomparably better. In the smoke
produced by laissez-fare
cigarette banishments and sonic souls.
I know the folk singers wake
somewhere. Have you given
a note or line to him and her
on pastoral accords?

Shall I wait here,
right here until I feel you
providing the neurological
connections between heart, hand,
and head? Where is it
without you? I shall sit
with ink dripping from my mind
and watch the evaporative progress
in my teacup, where you might be.


Who You Are


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I’ve got the ambition of my friends
written all over my hands, under my arms, at the soles of my feet.
Those words tho-
invented, aligned, melodious, never unkind.

I wonder did we pass at some point
when time was not binary and a dime could call you home.
At the movies
were you in the bathroom while I at the snack counter?

I think you a key map of Houston
making sure I was the navigator of my own street.
Perhaps knowing
can assure my bones that not knowing is better.

I’d know to forget
that is what I’d say to myself if expanding time imploded.
After all,
we can only turn eyes inward and an iris doesn’t dilate for past or future.

The present is a wonder
with those hands under my brain, lifting each letter to my autonomy.
We’ll write together
crafting what advises us to keep minding the hand’s advance.

In Bocca al Lupo


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How can you say we are not the arched backs of our past?
I carry weight with my emptied heart
spilled all over the pavement.

I am the tamped earth, green and rich, just like you.
Where the moss lays is wrongly read,
eaten by time, not ambition.

All in the past, die cut for ornamental holidays?
No, it is a terrifying film reel of
the real life demon in you and in me, too.

This Means Nothing


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Metal ringed ivory
Simultaneous to me
Raising hearts is free
Its fortress rings
I hear the reverberations
No, of course not
I see you, Sun, and raise you two
Mandala, you know
And if you hate me dear…
The pornography of abundance
Every award is a falsity
But as the clock turns
Sunsetted notions of independence
An insomniac’s flowers are culled
Put me in the ground
The ripest belly
Unearthing a story
All those gears wind their way
Flashing light
Kick and glow

The Little Things


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We have moments of vanity
I’ll repeat in perpetuity
with serious refractions
I arrange suitably.
On beaches and crow’s wings
we sing:
out of time
out of range
out of my head.

This song i sing
blows by as memory,
alone on an hourglass
watching leafed pages
expose themselves
to a towline hurricane
in successive order
speeding past epilogue and index.
Telemeter the stars and
dark horizons with bronze arcs
whose shadows fill
shelves upon rosters,
but velvet demands
these courses of
maudlin ecstasy.

A tumbling to earth
wakes the shattered constant breathing
of concomitant repossessors
here for gravy and gold.
They arrange for divestment.



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The Starry Sky
and no-man
rest beneath an awning sign.
The Milky Way
high above and
waiting for the tide.

Uncover if you will
all the structures
staired and risen.
Leave the air
a gaseous object
ablaze for those
who listen.

Crickets stir and
play me off
toward the turn-down twilight.
It’s what I know of Lydia
and the archer’s
death delight.

Eyes to the
cushion clover of
gods and explanations
Soft-eyed souls
children, helping them escape.

Grand Idleness


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The small of her jeans
Was something only he noticed
The pocket for a quarter
Or another small implement of love

Her name, typically American
Without irony
But it was the smell of laurel
That made her different
20 patch acid eyes
And the thick hair of genetic wonder

He composes a letter to her thumb
The digit that digs
In deep to his arm
and reminds him
Of what happens in cold weather

They are the weak vine
Hung together
in a cloister of time



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are you reminded that you will die soon
is it too much to bear
that someone young doesn’t need
living irrelevance

never cracking a spine
and watching deep voiced narrators
does not qualify
opinion or respect

those gathered roses
long ago, when muscles could flex
and confidence appeared across any vision

to you now the defense
scrawled on arms
buried in inadequacies, age
not wisdom is clear

graspable only through anger
beneath the nuclear desk

masculine cock
clear as mythos
enlivens nostalgia
for a boy’s reader birthright

the century turns
in the distance
as you become

This, Partly


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Metallic sweat
pressed your body and
personified the heat,
giving it
the character of desire.

a vein, an artery,
one of the nerves
that runs from deep inside
my neck
and down my leg
and ricochet
like a tuning fork on a steel beam.

We’re marked with the pumping
My veins
let me know
that Descartes
had it all wrong.

I am all for any
pulsing arrangement
of wood and wire
that can cause
the sure thing.

Your music ripens the cells
your voice is so close to
the end of time, that
any body
caught in your tremulous awakening
is bruised with love.