Poetry, words, and stuff.
2009
stars of dust
November 20, 2009 12:00AM
sucking down the cherry
dust of stars
all bathed in bubbled phosphor
silk
leering thin against
glass pandemic with desire,
unstrung.
drought peels away the layers,
blue of tooth and
a-minor-keyed….
kissing floorboards on a
friday night.
wanting to want things,
a dream eats us.
scene
October 13, 2009 12:00AM
on your day i spangled the square in
jasmine and lavender plumes and
melted light all glittered-up and
swimming ‘round the bubbling lamps and
webbed and clacking trees breathing
sparkles and glowing-faery exhalations and
we dance
along the benches, down the
red-brick cobbled aisles and
curves and confetti-flower rain
flutters all purple-white and languorous and
your eyes tingle upwards from that veil and…..
bells and dusk and melted faery light.
scene and
sharp november–
i sweep your stones.
shuffle your leaves.
kneel with creaks.
know how this
goes.
cliche.
juice
April 26, 2009 12:00AM
warmth sploshes up as percussion and
all-a-tingle–
ripe–
we roll out from our lopped cages and
unfold
all juicy, bitten, liquid and
a-splurging
lurid tumbling circus,
frisbees, cleavage,
somersaults, open toes, looped skirts, the
shirtless, the
strings, the
muscled wellspring of bicycles
interleaving and the
curves bathing, skating, loping and
splashing, laughing and
langourous all tucked-up, knit-tight
along the banks of the Charles.
spring, this juice, this un-rolled spindle, un-folded and
a-singular
pooled monkey-buttered-joy under this sun, this huge
group cartweel,
balloons and yellow
upswells. and yes
sex, sex, sex.
everywhere the blooming of sex, the
premonitions of dropped clothing,
the peacock-wagging-waddling
parade of flashing dancing glances,
awkward gestures,
islands of cuddled love,
wayward eyes, posturing and
shy and
breathing simmering
sex.
so dipped, so thrown down–
we grease this downward slither, we
slake and shudder under these fountains,
under these blowing arcing limbs,
(green pearlescent dreams) and
wherever,
whenever
milk-milk-milk this fruit
until it’s
dry.
2007
november
November 8, 2007 12:00AM
oh ya just lost it, honey.
fermented november
season gruel,
sun-stark grit and
limbic stones curled and
swabbed
in littered auburn sheaves.
walking this time with slickened steps,
a new-england autumn tosses yellow parchment
down around and
down, a scored and orchestrated
moon-stark-crooning medly of
sloshed and crinkled
falling.
whittled brows
bleached eaves,
clacking-unclacking burlap grooves
yeah oh yeah
you just lost it baby,
knickers all deep, knee-deep in
mulched un-washed un-fastened and
faded ripened gold.
oh you just lost it girl and you are
counting down
four-three-two-one and
counting down
four-three-two
down ah
down un-wearing these limbs,
un-raveling this wind
un-chiming slowly chiming parody,
gravel-clacking holes.
needles fly through empty spaces,
you threaten gristle frost,
throw chilled and slapping slurry
at the panes.
oh ya just lost it, lass,
you’ve come all this way from that
gilded summer lark
to be just
swallowed in this scouring shivering
unrepentant
december dust.
crystal
March 25, 2007 12:00AM
Awash in linen filament pastels, she awakes curled loosely
within a mesh of threaded fiber grooves, a morning cotton
tangle of languor, a pattern pillow-stamped and woven upon
one chosen white-pink cheek, the lay of her belly, the arc
of her hip as she rolls towards the other side. Milky white
morning, pressure pooling, the resonant hum of derelict
dreams so slowly bending into silence, those clandestine
fragment worlds so softly funneling away… Saturated–
un-saturated. Pastel dreams, pastel morning, pastel
winding sheets.
One large, stark, crystal-blue eye flares open, wide.
Wide, gleaming, pulsing. One plucked and lucid tunnel eye,
meshed in lashes lapping flumsily at the light. Nothing
compares to this. Conductive clarity, electric singularity.
Witness to this shroud, water in this desert, humming
chords and luminescence earthed, unearthed.
2006
a thousand ways to drink a woman
December 10, 2006 9:59PM
layers o’ layers of liquid flesh,
undulating streamers breathing silk,
curling strings all sticky, tricky,
oiled up and greasy tease,
humming pulse and
lipstick breeze all
licking clean,
what name is this?
what groove to squeeze in?,
fathoms diving deep deep and
deep and these bruises are not badges but
plucked strings, purple love.
and you know it, left to right curves,
that saturated skin all
embraced in lace,
encased in a sundering
softness….
cloud-bearing, soul-searing, anti-friction
softness.
and here, this rhythm
beating,
angelic chorus
heaving,
around this revolution
reeling.
what name for this,
what name for these leagues of an
everything red, mythic red,
blurred and bleeding cremated
red
soft as the air above the
silk,
red as the blood within the
blood.
drink her in, gorge those eyes,
this is as good as it
gets.
murmuring sighs bring her eyes
November 21, 2006 9:42PM
full lidded upwards from those
words, that
euphoric draught
a ghost across unfocused irises,
drinking in,
bathing in syllables,
lapping up each
rustled turn, the ink like
wine, pulp as
ripe fruit.
yes, i buried my wife in a
bookstore and looking up from
those pages she still doesn’t
see me.
brief moment, a veil
turning over, an arc of
wakefulness
unfettered,
gradual clock
unturning.
and this is what love is,
that drowning in another world,
another pair of bright white eyes,
and that transition between A to B to C–
parallel universes, alternate dimensions–
is so full of sighing pleasure
i am floored.
and the rain pours through you like a
October 12, 2006 9:01PM
sieve
and you are
pounding the pavement with your feet,
flailing at the sky
bouncing, galloping from
shriek to giggle
to whip-torn sheep-sounds like
yes yes yes
bleating laughter.
and so the phosphors conspire this evening,
irradiance gathered sharp,
moon puddled between cobbled stones–
old city new,
old life washed clean,
skylark midnight
simmmering
pattering
play,
stretching toes and
bursting brain,
chest beating and chest
heaving
bursting
lungs.
there is no power to scream this
joy
and if these feet don’t touch the ground while
racing racing
home
who would have thought?
who would have thought.
sound of snow on
September 20, 2006 10:43PM
cobbled stone,
colonial gestation of
schlock-tock tapping
hooves and horses and
such melted lamp-lit
flakey flecks all
lined and lit and
breathing lamps,
alive and there is
snow so quick to
melting
pouring
past our window,
pebbled bumpy drops and
patches stretched and
somewhere there are
fertile rafters,
golden glows cast and
looming round these pale victorian
limbs
and puddled flame breathes heat from
hearths
and all is gracious good and
buried
deep inside these
granulated
rusty
tangled
un-electric colonial
shadows.
strawberry frost and
August 18, 2006 5:01AM
musty cellars.
dusk alongside
eight PM.
furtive chill,
pouring gutters,
murky pearls lathed in
shuttered dust.
step-around sprinklers
shuttling dog-walking dawn,
empty plastic pools and
book-bag-anxious dreams.
peppered lemon B-B-Q’s,
forked hold around late
summer gasp, needle
twinge of lawnmowers passing.
prescient digits,
thermo-coupled gradient
downcline,
thumbs in sun-chafed grass.