

### Selected

### Poems

### (2006-2012)

Copyright 2013 John Christopher

All rights reserved.

### SELECTED POEMS

### (2006-2012)

By John Christopher

Contents

Preface

Author's Note

Madman Poem

Marisa's Poems

Marisa's Poem

Become as Women

Like a Dog Waiting for his Master

Coffee Shop

Katherine's Poem

Katherine's Poem

Dae's Poem

To Dae

Mandy's Poem

Mandy's Poem

Iris's Poems

To Iris

At Every Meeting

At the Botanical Garden

When I see Love Bloom

Jordan's Poems

God Did Whisper

If You Were Mine

None of Them Will Love You, As I

Hand in Hand

Quiet My Soul

A Love so Easily

Hour upon Lonely Hour

Only Say 'Yes'

That We Know Of

My Love is Free

Her little Pet

It is My Grief to Love You

Torture My Heart

Betrayal

Other Love Poems

Sometimes I Wish

Love Elemental

The Perfect Girl

They're all the Images I Know the Meanings of

Return to Me My Heart

Accept Love

My Heart, When it Opens

I Need You to Love Me

Variation on a Nursery Rhyme

Her Fair Soles

A Moment

Invigorate Her

The Real of Love

The Divine

Gods We Are!

The Death of God

The Moon

Worship the Cunt

Man on Wires

Social/Political Poems

Come to me O Lost Ones

Look Listen Feel

Animal Cages

Orphaned

There is a Question You are Asked

Prisoner

Poets and Prophets

A Sad Suffering Grasp

Faces of the Mob

The Ultimate

No Masters

On Watching the Parade

Manic Depression Poems

The Stars Gone Out

Let Me Be

I'd Rather Stop the World and Listen to the Sounds

Surely as One Could Write Upon the Stars

The Vine

My Apartment is a Mess

A Face in Wax

Widow's Walk

Wet Damp Mule

Chirping Bird

Becoming

Tempest Toss Me

Contact Information

Preface

My name is John Christopher Collins, and to make a confession, I have always been a madman. I go through extremes of emotion and I fixate and obsess unnaturally over trivial things. I go crazy and try to seek my freedom. I am a rebel, and have tried to assert my own individuality. I am also a moral perfectionist, and punish myself often for my imperfections. Daily I punish myself- Daily I repent and try to reconcile myself to life- but often I am left with doubts on the edge of the cliff- I love the whip. I am often suicidal, and punish myself for the least indiscretion. My soul is always crying out, and these poems, if they are poems at all, are expressions taken from an overfull and ripe heart. My soul is tender and raw- it is free from comparison, there are none like it. I am pregnant with deepest feelings. I have no guard, and I cannot help but tell the truth. My temperament is hot! This may be a flaw among my fellows, I have never learned to hide, and if you look at me you can't help but see right through me- my sad desperate eyes, lonely, and full of longing, betray me everywhere. They are wet and reflective. I have bothered many a pretty girl, and stolen from her what I could, or else I have raged and yelled out from the mountain top in desperation- these images I have discovered here or there and collected them, like love letters in a trunk. I have always been a rebellious man and lived my own way against the grain. I don't follow the crowd, and don't like rules or obligations. I would have no rules or obligations! Our love must be free, and boundless as the sea. We must never be contained/constrained, and always open.

I am a man who is never satisfied. I am never satisfied that I am a good enough man, or am a capable enough poet. The two run together in my mind. I feel when I have written a poem that I have accomplished a goal, and have performed a moral service to mankind- as if it were my only gift and purpose. I am more myself, and more whole and fertile, and I have built up this identity within my breast, so that now I am incapable of seeing myself in any other way. I am inseparable from my writing. I have tried my best to learn to be kind and good. But, I struggle with my behavior and sometimes get carried away by some passion. I am a passionate man, and cannot help myself.

When I was young I was given over to fits and rages, and my parents could never control me. It is good that I was never a good son- I don't want to be healthy and good. It is a point of pride with me. I was born in Beverly, Massachusetts on December 30th 1985 to Robin and John Collins, a school teacher and woodworker respectively. I am the oldest of three brothers, and was always the most troubled of the three. I always had a dramatic personality, in the sense that I threatened to kill myself at times, or was energetic and full of life at others. I used to scream and cry and throw tantrums, banging on the walls of my bedroom without consolation. My mother was given over to fear, and because of this kept us often at home. In my seclusion I developed my own games at play and learned to use my imagination. I developed my imagination, and began to draw pictures and write stories for my own amusement. Something always fascinated me about books, and although I was never an avid reader, I always felt drawn to the idea of composing my own someday.

When I became older, and went off to high school, the emotional disturbances of my youth grew worse still, and I found myself withdrawing from the world entirely. I was a morose and angry person on the whole, and spent my time brooding alone. I spent much of my time in the library among the stacks of books and began to write poetry. None of the sick and twisted lines I there composed have yet survived, as I didn't save them, but I did experiment and learn the sound of words. I also began to read somewhat, when my muddled and confused mind would allow me to do so, and I became interested in philosophy. I was searching for something in those books, wanting to discover some truth or way to live, so as to escape my own predicament and suffering- something to heal me and transform me.

I went off to Glendale Community College when I escaped high school, and I struggled there with my identity and my mind. My soul was pure, and is still yet pure, but my mind is diseased and causes me nothing but hardship. I have always been a crazy man. Because of my struggles with my sanity, and my nerves- this existential funk I fell into, I started to look for a cure, and I decided that the only thing which could save me was love and tenderness and that it would heal me decidedly. I began to make an attempt at finding this cure by startling and befuddling many a young girl- going up and trying to begin conversation with many broken words and false gestures. I never was successful at it, and found many impediments, but still made the attempt. However, one evening while attending a political science class at the college, I saw the most remarkable and beautiful woman I have yet to come across. Her name was Marisa, and I followed her out of class one evening to try and talk to her. We agreed to go to coffee, and it was there that my world shifted.

There was never much between us, except a few phone calls, a dinner and such, but she was very kind to me, even though I was awfully dull in conversation, and by comparison to her I was no beauty. She had a way about her which drew me in- a confidence and strength, a selfishness and a vitality, which caused me to become instantly obsessed with her. I have a tendency to fixate and become obsessed. I tried to date her, or to make her my girl, like all stupid boys would do- but she would not have it, and left me finally alone. It was then that I realized how ugly I had become and how covetous and cruel. I suffered a mental break from reality and dreamed of her in the night, always. She made me see the error of my nature and to want to change it. I realized that I had to become an artist like her. I had to become someone worthy of admiration like she was. I composed the lengthy poem for Marisa during this time.

I was then introduced to a concept that would haunt me throughout the years- I always looked for a woman, and a muse to inspire me creatively as well as to inspire changes in me. I hold women in high regard for their emotional capacity, as well as their ability to captivate- and some combination of sexual and spiritual desires have enthralled me with them. I have written much of my poetry under their influence.

After the incident with Marisa, I gathered the pieces and went off to Arizona State University to finish my Bachelors in Political Science. I was supposed to attend law school upon completion. But, I began to become increasingly rebellious and radical in my views- I no longer believed in the political system and wanted to distance myself from all things political. For this and other reasons I dropped out of college, and was living on my own for the first time in Tempe, Arizona. At this time I began to see myself as a radical poet and a working man, and I began to drink heavily, still trying to cope with my mental illness. I didn't write much during this time, and what pieces I did write are now lost. I wrote poems for a girl named Sanaz, who was a college student from Iran, and poems for a girl named Katherine, who was a sixteen year old actress/model. Of these poems I have found only one, a poem written for Katherine, which was written a year after the fact.

My drinking rebellious ways soon got me into trouble however, when I got into a major car accident, and was forced to return home with an injured shoulder. I then experienced a prolonged period of depression, whereby I lived in the upstairs of my parent's house and seldom went outside, for a period of four years. What little excursion I did have, was with a few young women who I composed poetry for, and what works make up most of this volume. I will put description before the poetry to allow the reader some level of understanding of who they are addressed to and where they come from. The poems for Iris, Dae, and Mandy were written during this time.

After this period of years, and at the request of my mother, I went to see a psychiatrist and was there diagnosed with Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder with Psychotic Features. My diagnoses was evident, and I began to take medication and stabilize myself. During this time I met the girl named Jordan, who inspired me again to write, and I wrote her many poems, most of which are included in this volume. I also decided to go back to school to get a degree for the purpose of teaching in high school, and am currently back at Glendale Community College finishing some preliminary classes.

My road has been a circular one, and I'm cautiously looking toward the future. I'm glad I took the long crooked road because it has yielded much to the creation of who I am. There are many poems left within me to write, and I feel compelled to add that this work of poetry is by no means final or definitive. Much of what is here has been gathered through my experience with young women, but there are also many that are composed in reflection in solitude or on other circumstances. I hope the reader will enjoy them, as they are the only gift I have to give.

Author's Note

This book of poetry is a selection of those poems I have kept over the years 2006-2012, from the ages of twenty to twenty six. I have lost many poems from the earlier years, but what I have maintained of them I will here publish. I usually only write poetry when I am inspired by something through my experience/ whenever some emotion takes hold of me and carries me away in a burst of euphoria and creativity. Otherwise, I am prone to procrastination. This euphoria is not only one of happiness, but is also filled with dark and lonely thoughts or reflections. It is when I stumble upon some shining ray of truth through the cloud cover that I become euphoric. A few of the poems are addressed with names, and most of the love poems were written for someone of significance. I place them here now as a record of my experience up until this point.

SELECTED POEMS

(2006-2012)

By John Christopher

Madman Poem

This poem was written over a few nights in 2006, when I was suffering from mania. I put it here as an introduction to this work, because when writing it I envisioned it as an introduction to my inner world and persona. The Madman is a character I have created, and sometimes tried to live, who always gets me into trouble. He comes from my mania and my wildness, and was written to express this, at a time when I was having a fit. This is a very lengthy poem, which I don't usually write. There are two such lengthy poems to begin this work, the other being Marisa's poem. They are the earliest writings I have on hand. This is a prose piece, but I have included it because I consider it to be more of a poem.

Madman Poem

Shall I begin with the first forbidden fruit of a conversation- a release of an inner tension- or to feed off of another as it were. I once heard it said by a profound and eloquent man, that all manner of art is at first little more than a form of autobiography. And no statement were ever word formed which so aptly reflects my often conspicuous proclivity more perfectly, never verbalized with such a clinical sensitivity, or to extent ever written or spoken on the subject which did not so accurately attest to the frank tragedy of it- with or without the verbiage junk, (for what is the difference if they are spoken in discourse along beside the pier on the ebbing water, with the rising or falling tides, or formed in solitude by the lonely heart and written in place of himself as 'his' proof.) All autobiographies are got at, or reached toward, (as I am desirous to reach toward a deliverance from the great inevitability of dust), through way of conversation.

I assure you, one can only reach out to the limitlessness by way of either howling or crying- or voice, so let us begin frankly, and speak frankly on my two favorite dilemmas- not to let them rust- my own thoughts and dread spark like exposures to life- which I share and carry on the endless re-write as I go, adding a line here or there, changing a quality or facial expression, a uniting or dividing, exaggeration of the small less-differentiated black hole chasm of tone and pacing- which would not spell it out, or beat the child over the head with the root, leaving out the boring employments and forgetting my watch- the silence which I didn't 'get' the first go 'round.

Many are undifferentiated, and you could move them about if you want to, and transform their shapes and figures to supplement the well-spring. I care not for them- for they care little for them either. They take many flights, retreats or escapes- like so many absent minded children they circumvent their living burden for easier burdens. I remain unfettered in the rain. These children starve in the cradle or burn up strapped into a car seat. I am always there in the moment- I reap my lot, and endure the reward- the hard weary road- like wet pavements and reflective night surfaces, or plastic diamond rings on her lovely dew drops. I drive at the essences and tend toward, and forward, in my hostility and violent upheaval within- a rejection of subtlety and cruel acquiescence when marked by a grin- for the rage against the bitterly administered pill, with love in a sealed envelope- or shoved into my mouth with bitterly administered justices'.

Rage against the dying of the light, I slam! And she gives her charity over at the sight of wealthier and more reasonably fashioned men. I am a more remarkably fashioned man! No one is as intricately re- made, as I am.

It is a rage against my images trapped in and turned over in the glass with honey droplets stuck to my sword, in a land of milk and honey. It is to be scorned and scoffed at rather than known or owned, and the rage of my own children against me and my rags and my dog. I care not dancing star should I shine so brightly for it!

A tragic beauty nonetheless- if I am to contain the vast multitude within my vast multitude- whatever it would supply- Their dirty linens or a dance beneath the chandelier, and party-favors among friends on a dull evening full of useless boredoms- like sprinkles on the ice cream cone. Beauty is truth and truth beauty, and it exists for each individual should he fail to realize it, and inevitably so. Alike, I become caught up in the routine.

I favor a statement, rather than a subtlety- for no man broke through a wall with serene complacency, or ease and comfort. Have your delusions Dalai Lama! You still have your title. I travel not a numbered path! Yes, you could hold up an ancient city above the swamp rats by driving wooden stakes into the clay, but you could plant a vine in the decay- a twig of knowledge, raspy voiced and spindly sparse- or a round beat bulb, buried in the thick mud- muddled voices in an ancient underground chamber- walls crumbling from its own opulence and extravagance- and little black figures covered over with sand- who once raised the pyramids!

I'd rather not have my words be regarded as superfluous ecstasies- but as vital delicacies- even though they are superfluous- "he's full of hubris"- she says to her horse, who wears a mug made of dough. No truth were ever book formed. The experience of 'what's written' can be experienced in its own simplicity. The tragedy is easier to digest and look at- being so full in description and lacking sensations- or much for the sensationalizing!- and little notes or pen strokes around the margins- to clarify. Isn't it sensational! Let me describe this delicate perfume odor for you. Rather let me corrupt the world for you, and turn your eyes away from the packaging!

Thus, I have no way of entrance to my favorite acquaintance- the pen, for she is my one and only companion. If I and my companion were as lovers- and she my guide racing through the images, a rush and run back and forth across the paper, (as she now does) – so do I relish her mercilessly- and the more so, or tossing and turning over in the sheets, a poem of exaggerations, which were translated- so not true- everything complete were lost in the translation- so we are left grasping at the straws. Everything simple and clean is the more clear and less complex. I am the shorter! I stand not so tall, but quite low to the ground with my ear to the pavement with a pout of my lips and a dribble down my cheek. Here's to your virginal eyes, Mary prim and proper! I am five foot five and have a cold nose. I burn quick upon the wick.

Had I thrown myself to that hard floor, my candle blown out by the wind- I would have listened for the shifting of the plates- I would have heard the wailing grief of dead men who had spent their kisses. Had I beaten my fists against my face, would I have amended my sins to God?

Come forth and follow my dust to my smoldering ashes!

By what 'will', would you 'will' to institutionalize the text book or rationalize your symbol? How dare you to try to explain it to me! I am the one who loves his personal purgatory more than most- and the whip. I love my suffering too much, and perhaps my name too little- Or my justifications too little. I step with a hoof and I consult only with my snake. My daemon has it in for you- guide me true- the snake eyes of youth. My silent martyr is more like the Christ than your bag full of obligations- as you bow down and peel your fingernails in urgent prayer- on the church tiles. It looks like despair, but there really isn't much there- it's only the world's denial, or a world of denial.

No, I shall not, could not justify myself to God. It is for the ignorant to be polluted by such a disease of admiration. Leave it to the vastness of the color spectrum and be content. No, not to be content! Detestable contents mark the common bowery- and marks the silk dolls as well with their clean white sheets spilled crimson. And it marks the good people with their good talk and correctness. It marks the lot of them! My wine is too sweet, and it has been made bitter from long drinking upon my lips.

No bridegroom or wedding feasts for lepers', and never enough neon visions- for all the shifting intoxications of my cold sweat in the feverish nights. Cursed we are in our separation from each other, and so natural that it be so. Better to be a childlike malcontent- recalcitrant- ranting and raving in the solemn night- with periods and exclamation points! Knowledge is sought- and hardly communicated- but I shout into the wilderness none the less. A melody within the symphony- a creek of light swells across the ceiling deteriorates into confusion- swelling like an appendage- a proverb, an adage, or a stormed upon door.

Be it as it is, as I do not play with May- I like brisk winter. In truth I do not detest the isolation. I have ever been one to console myself in the late evening with a pacing to and fro on the back steps ever wanting for no place to go, for what I wouldn't know. What I cannot dream I don't wish anyway. I can't piece together my shadow through that chain link fence- and the empiricists say it doesn't exist. I run in circles outside the fold. I have an inclination toward endlessness, it is my way, to ever speak and keep the words flowing till they should blank out and ghostly cobwebs they are in premonition of the end. Not to speak of death- oh no- I would not speak of death my friend, when hope springs eternal in the breast of man! Don't forget the apocalypse ethos! Its wants are holier, more divine, I would not call thee a foul old man, but such is a favorite thrill of my- pen. God, it would make me less independent to validate you. Tonight is no night to die, it is too quiet for it, and I have grown to be a lover of the moon. Not to die, or to die, well someday, everybody does. Give me my cross on a tombstone, or my words scrawled with a penknife on an oak tree in the yard. Will you share my heart? What is your name that I may carve it here alongside my own? (remember the walk along the shivery shore line.) I will remember your name. Will you remember mine? Think kindly on my mouse face and raven's eyes.

He was an incorrigible little shit, until his end.

Hemlock and Hennessey by the water.

How often does the heart yearn for self-destruction within my breast! I look upon the street light yellow glare, and worry away its weaving shadow shades- the mutterings of another soul when it dies- and here it is where they left it. The night is so beautiful and the day is ugly. The shadows are full and the steps can be heard in the night- while the people rest their beholden minds- I have quiet for a time. Resilient and stubborn I sulk too much. I have followed down many a dark and forbidden alleyway. The perilous nights forget their sick mornings. I've wanted to tick my tock its final drum beat, and slam it off the rails into the billboard with broken teeth. Send me to the bone yard you ugly utopian zealots!

I often say that one day I will be shot down in my enlightenment by a man of common decency. My words can be judged and mocked to notoriety, or attributed to some delusion or insanity- but I am deprived of the necessity to be categorized. Don't refer to me as decent or common. I have no need for brevity- I will have more than my fill before the party has died in the quiet of clanging bottles- like wind chimes under the duress of an impending storm. Bridge the gap between one eternity and another, urge on and purge the common dirge.

This music may be nonsensical, but the song wasn't sung to be listened to. I only want to be killed by the hero, his greatest villain. Hang all heroes and hang all tyrants should they carry guns with the good people! – Or if they would carry these people! Poetry is a solitary act. By the people and of the people so help us God. Rather, carry the candle with an eternal flame and disregard the near-sighted. I will only carry the load of my gifts. I will only be calmed within the wicked destructive depths. It is difficult enough, and I will not be subjugated. I'd like to mangle myself on a midnight trip to the gravel- It would prove my freedom in a sense.

In that I presume I have come closer than most to the brink. Who would come so close to the brink, but a madman or a dreamer? How less satisfying for me. Lover of mankind! I have loved so much and learned so much and healed over too many times. I would steal away his orphans, and have none of his administration. None of his ilk or milk.

I wonder who has not fantasized of the end while wavering on the forbidden road in the deep dead of night? – with the air cold and indifferent to the concern. (We could never be satisfied- you, me, nor the red haired girl.) Imagining if one should just tick the wheel a fraction left or a fraction right, he could become a sight enough to make even the detective investigator forget himself. You are forgotten so quickly to die in a soft bed. I'd rather have my death split my head, and the shocked faces to gather for an obscenity against their common tryst. Isn't it ugly, my love? Formerly a man, now a tortured mess of torn tissues, overstressed sinews, bloodied, broken, and an empty stare. Here by the highway there can be no deception- as Mr. Forensics takes it down on a crinkled pad taken from his breast pocket. 100 miles per hour into the toll booth- they shall remember my sight! – with a million quarters flashing and spinning off into the night. To be sure only if my head were in some small way still there! I have seen more of this macabre on the internet. A human body mangled by a car wreck appears inhuman- like the spirit of consciousness were never present. And now it has passed out of cognition. Pick up my spare change- you badge wearing boy scouts!

Enough of this sulking- bag it and tag it.

Be a man! Be a man! We can at least come to bear it!

Now you may say "he deserved it, for trying to go so fast- leaping when he should crawl to us, and honor our honorable fathers."

Stick me to a lamp post with the solid red light flashing, hung above. Here's to your stop sign and the 'don't walk' flashing! Here's to your goddamn construction of a safe, steadfast, unblemished road! Have I proved you false? Have I given you here an example outside the fold? Do not follow a man who walks on a razor's edge- strangled by ribbons.

As I say, I have come closer than most to slamming into the guard. I so infer by the breadth and depth of my intuition that many men hasten toward some suicidal derivation, and would have such phantom dread shocks from time to time on the brain- whilst driving sleepy uncaringness on a two lane desert road. Deserted road. All guns blazing for our suicidal ideation. Most of it is for fancy or flight. The heroic challenge met by the gallows. The challenge against all masters by their servants- fully flouted and flying- or for those inclined- the challenge to Napoleon on a white horse on the gallery wall. Standing before it, I can see it looks like a fine fiction. Could we not find a better animal? Go wherever inclined. Go ahead- go off the road- don't walk the line- go wild into a tree and give the few prickly twig branches and the coyote someone to dance with in the pale desert moonlight.

Surely I suspect my friends in this same Freudian death driving, in the dry chocking air- and I do suspect my friends most often. The man in all his hopeless despair who had no resolute faith or fair wings or care, and went off the bridge into an icy river bath, to drown himself in the catastrophe of the memories he left behind him. And the water fell like rain- but hung in the air like mist. He left a wake of blood that was like the blood that clouds in the tub after suicide, or on the wave as it crests after a shark fin slides by.

But, a hanging, or pills is the romantic's way out! FIN.

Who hasn't contemplated the charge into the fray or the shrug of the fates? Who hasn't worshipped the freedom of the aboriginal who stuffs his vicious vigorous victories into his savage sagging gut? – full of body and meat. Or the savage in himself. Upon further consideration, my savage wants no consideration- wants no idols- my savage wants no ceremony- my soul wants no peace.

I have grown too delicate to profess first my strength, and I would rather sit alone with my padlocked beast and my bars in front of him. Although, with my mad propensity for desperation and my yearning hope for dispensation- the vile specter thief with his sickle insists himself upon me to a much further degree. The emotion of it is more significant. It is like I am driven ever to the precipice of a cliff over the sea- but merely to look over the edge at the froth and foaming- or from above, down on your parishioners', who froth and foam.

I am not absurd enough to act on the impulse- it is only a thought by which I ruminate- and not through which my life to terminate.

The trip is short enough- and no sense waiting on a space ship to pick me up.

Nature is a violent and confessable sinner. It is the crucible and the rack! The cruelty is confessed in every wound and scar on these exposed cliffs – The waves throwing themselves in opposition upon the rocks- and breaking. Every man who suffers, and is forced to live in the mean time. The cycle of the white crests and the bleak valleys- undertows that would suck you down- or a craven eyed beauty with pink little toes- polished, effulgent, dripping, or so she knows- or a stately rose with pink petals- love for a mental patient. This is a fly trap! Once you get caught you never get back! Nature is brutal and survival is the reward- with your legs and hands foamy water thrashing- dragged down by Jaws, the great fish, like Moby Dick.

Everything feasts on the flesh, and it is indifferent murder. The whores suffer in the bedrolls. They are beaten between the sheets- and they give themselves over to be used up, cut off and cast back out onto the lonely street. "I love my job," says the mouth, trying to convince the eyes.

I repress the impulse toward rape and wealth. I will not pillage or vengeance upon them. Rather, I am bid to come nearer to his mystery, a pallid dreamer, and to take flight from this vision- and the grace of God, should he deny me anything. I will not be drowned by the converts, even if you call it my purification or deification. There is a lake over this next hill beyond the boundary- I could float there among the tangled weeds, water treading serpentine- I am a tangled weed, a shrub, a chirruping cherub- may my smoke ascend above the ground like a grey puff of cloud. (When I have burnt it all out.) Charred embers as they descend- meet me at the very end! I will not give in 'till the end. If only to defy you! Your means and ways, your securities exchange.

There comes my friend, the wind, to lift me up to him. Oh, there is a gentle blessing in this breeze! And it comes from the north, and the city is in the south. Follow the northern star- and you can follow it home.

Do not mistake me and in a way of fear or fury to reject me. I may be a mad clever man. But if I had ever been in earnest, (or have been of anything in earnest), I should have done so without the speech. I care so little for myself to aggrandize my own worms in the face of deadlier parasites who pervert the discourse- and breed fear slugs even in the curls of her hair. Medusa lady, what a tangled web we weave, when at first we practice to deceive? Who would even dare? If he had ears and sight enough to know the hungry wolves feeding on the dead- or the wolves of war! Who would gravitate toward patriotic vitriol, or the horrible mendacity of irredeemable salesmen- resigning oneself over to the corrupt chairman- to bring accolades before the steel skyscraper? It is easier to concede and surrender, than to stick your head around the corner with the guns firing off- or to step out in a mine field of patriarchal hegemony. Presidents and bureaucrats, will you be my father? One must be above survival in order to survive. One must be an unnatural- or a freak to remain free. One must be insane in order to remain a man and not a machine.

The speech is worth the while only as it reaches, brings forth and rings a bell, and reverberates- To crack the cement like a thick root at the bottom. Have we yet heard the conversation coming to a close? Have we yet heard the conversation coming to a close? I want it only if it is high- if it flies, if it is airborne and not clarified- (suggestion). For no trial is without fire and I would perish of even the slightest injury or inconvenience should I exist for pride or justice. Pride is his folly. Belief in justice, a consequence of the folly. May the merry piper and his lovely troop sing a glad old song over my box! Or even may my box remain unmarked. I am tired of living in a box! There, a contradiction in what I say. I have used 'may', 'should' or 'could be', when it is ever 'is' where the poet lives.

What is it which makes this trip so insufferable? Is it not a mere passing of hours and tick tocks- unable to touch or be touched- for the swelling of my flesh- my heart and thought. (Remember the bloated body under the bridge- there are the water weeds in its mouth- and now it's an 'its' and not a 'him'.) Sing the child a hymn to put its mind at ease- and help it sleep away the day, or take the dietician's pills sitting on the cold tray.

Life, has it been? A building up of many slights of daily discouragement? Not able to specify a single small grievance, or a deliciously dripping egregious one. I want to stick my stake through the heart of my darkness. Beat me unconscious, but don't ignore me or look at me cross. There, I've borrowed again. I digress- perhaps one should not speak of the reaper so near to the beginning- (as she rolls her eyes.) I have no time for you! Time is short. What or why not? I haven't the slightest idea.

Deal with it! I always tend toward the extremes- a polarizing figure is he who writes with dash marks, and wont be marked- or branded. I am one who is overlooked, wearing his contemptuous heathen's crown- on his self-professed, amateur, anti-establishment throne. Come over here to laugh and point at the exaggerated clown have you?! I'm glad it were all amusement! Or one so prophetic and assured he uses words like 'all' or 'always', when never could these conditions yield a full harvest. One must be marked only by this. ?. A question mark. Why speak of the lord of the harvest? A riddle in an old drunken sage on the corner of the bar- holding onto his girth with jolly mirth, mocking the bulk of himself- buffoon over the stool- as his guts fall out onto his plate- spoon feeding the soul. He and I should learn when enough is enough. And what care I for proofs or other absurdities- or objectivity? Take your spectacles off readers and learn to love- think only to give into your heart, and cherish your divinity- preserve your dignity, for those of integrity. If there is one to be saved among the hooligans and fools, it is you. There is some madness in love, and some reason in madness. I am the rare one balancing between madness and clarity. Dare I try to escape from here?

See, Freud needed a conclusion, a succinct one, two, three statement, so he analyzed his want to fuck his mother as a symptom of mass hysteria. Like it were in the mass, and if it were, what of that? The mass maintains and is satisfied with 'such and such will be sufficient for me,' and 'this is what a good man does,' and 'my father before me.' They cannot be asked what is sane in an insane world. Why does he wear such beautiful robes, your judges and priests? Let him beg for honors in an empty hall! I wish to vanish, or to suffer a death for every injury. A poet aught not name his enthusiasms a science, or a universal cause. No man should be satisfied with his conclusions- or with maintaining a conclusion – or a legal clause. I guess I missed the playing with his asshole stage and have been a wreck of it ever since. Isn't beauty destroyed by the analyst? Beauty in anything is so tortured and unrecognizable here- hard to even witness her, or trick her to come out anymore- or like now as ever. She looks at me through the window- from where the curtain flutters, with a sad look. You must move down below the balcony so I can see you! They have so clouded my luminous sky with hate and mockery.

Could there even a beauty in being a bouncing marble? Bounced from stone to stone and alone- men carved into the mountain marble- lifeless rock. When you give nothing, you gain nothing. Tradition is a son of a bitch, and the modern tradition is in opposition to liberation.

Better he want to fuck his mother than kill people- as I always say 'always' or 'never'- always better to fuck your mother than to never have a fuck at all. What is more the tender and true than mother's love? Or were love necessary?

Come only to me, voice of poetry! Leave others to their inexhaustible assimilation into the mundane. Only I will accept you here with hope and sacredness. I will have you here with me even in a poorly lit room. I want electricity to shoot forth from my fingertips- and I want my light to shine brighter then that Northern star, and to better know the way for all lost travelers. I have traveled there before- underneath the yellow lamps, with the sliver of a silvery moon. I have seen the crooked post on which you hang a hat. I will have all lovers and dreamers in my thoughts- and though we are spread so far apart- I have seen you buried beneath every lie, and within every true line – even surrounded by the material of the metropolitans. I have an inexhaustible heart. I will have you when I am high neon or drowned in moody blue. I am a cosmonaut cosmopolitan- an alien furthest from the furthest world- even existing in the sultry deluge of the bastardly barroom.

The poet is concomitant to the lonely heart, the herald of youth, master to his exuberant flock- if he can find a way into your heart- so much the more to acquaint itself with your ghost. To liberate the stars from the cold black cosmos. We are not the charge over particles or particulars. We are not manipulators of fate. I am an exceptional one, a rare one, an inspired one- let my fate come to me when it will- I will recognize you, and I will recognize it. An observer of the flashes of ecstasy, and rare moments of exchange between us. I have inserted myself among you, for the better half of ourselves. It is all in jest. My jest at your expense. Sleep children without fear. Take rest. Fear is a brain witch- an elixir- a bacteria- a virus. She mixes herself into even the most worthy spirits. We poets are the suture for vulnerable flesh and the gust beneath the wings of your buried birds- each thread a stitch for a gushing wound. What pumps so full? Lament not your failings and shortcomings, my heart.

Now to open up for the conversation. A poet must in any event remain open, and to defiantly maintain his openness forever. The poet, or more naturally to put it- that exceptional and original mind and spirit- that voice of an individual rebellion- is nothing so extraordinary or heroic. I saw no alignment of the stars above my cradle- though I am a very spiritual man- I am not one for superstition or heroics. God and country!

Every claim of inheritance or tradition is flawed by the mass consumption and much honoring of it. Rather, a poet is a man who lives selfishly against all hardship and strain, unafraid of the consequences, and willing to commit to the true chaos and disorder of creation- searching for an ideal of human truth and love- forgiving, but torturing, his insufficiency to this end- having to live with the minor consolation that it is far better to expose himself to his imagination, than to hide behind boredom or cuteness- to seek understanding between and for the entire mess of humanity- (and it is a mess- of the mirror humiliation of his own reflection, or the mirror of inflection)- rather than to put up walls and gates with guards of temperament or harsh responses to hide and hold back the river from the mad torrent. Downpour! Downpour! Give us a great storm! People and the hunger that flow in body parts down the wave of sewer slime and old lady bile- again the handkerchief. Hold it while I choke! It is about acceptance, which is the final stage of grief. No raincoat in a storm could soak you to your bones. Yet, how could we see you unless you could bare the brunt of the wind and the tumult.

In measure, it is the madness or defiance to remain naked forever in a window above the lonely rim, when the rest of the community social-paths are either owned, and opposed in some fashion, (to that fanciful unrealistic existence of his- the psychopath.)

Expose yourself and your humanity to the savagery of the world. Drink your fill of your own blood as they use their fists and feet to pound your rib cage- and it splits- and the red rubies drip. The duty bound have many boundaries- when they fence you in- reading regulations from clip boards as if they existed for millennium. They are a riot, if you see them in the light- or strip them of all their friends. Without all these awards, and devices- the plaque above the gallery wall- a plague of ailing villagers caught somewhere between currency and interdependency. I'm sure there is something more to achievement than this. My soul would serve as a broken window during a riot.

There is nothing more worthy of derision for a man in chains, then another man standing unfettered in the rain. Just as the great idealist always seems ridiculous to the realist. No pragmatic man ever reached up to light a star with his own torch!

Such slurs and curses you say? They are contrived, you say? No man is free, and all are in chains. All men are free, but born into chains- and our life is for the breaking of each shackle. How long must you wait for the illusion to disband into clarity? Forever and a day. My allusions are made not for the celebration of my intellect, but for the love of my companions. Grow strong you prepubescent boys! There will be no relief for you, and you shall have to taste your breath till it goes further into heaven then your ass could follow it- and the crickets will chirp in the night by the toll booth, as you are always enslaved to a crowd's applause. Your voice spasms upward to descend down again. Gravity is a son of a bitch. I have had many long nights with nothing but my cigarettes, and my lonely celebrations- my own masked tribal savages dancing about my funeral pyre. I have contrived everything- and it may seem barbaric in its simple guise- but it is elemental, like liquid hot metal. My savage takes no action. Remember art is useless!

Words are constraints put upon the communication of the feeling man- and so he pushes out toward the furthest that can be allotted by their flawed use. Could you get the emotion of the thing? His mouth and face under the plastic surface in a death mask of his screaming rage as it stretches and bends.

What of the stupid laymen? For all of the slurs and curses I place as gifts before the throng of these drones- I am not one who resents them outwardly. I too despise my own nobility. I accept all, and do not believe in bringing hardship on the innocent. And the most innocent are the ignorant. I wouldn't expect of him what I cannot attain. I live on all terms as a brother to fools- and I have been many times a fool. A poet must suffer as the poets before him have suffered- there is much learning in desperation, and attraction to danger for a soul of strength. Don't expect them to understand your red eyed beckoning- your emotional beacon. Why not face off with him, or pull your false face off before your death?- even to look into the face of death and grin- the devil's Irish smile. When Irish eyes are smiling.

Small men are innocent- it is their ignorance which makes them unaware of their disaster and their farce- it is their small mindedness which makes them small. I have seen many a small man appearing very large, and I have seen many a large man appearing very small. Here's to appearances! The trivial will not let themselves see their evil in the light of day- and will not play with matches. I am larger than the Ark, and contain more animals. I have my rubber boots prepared- black and oily. I went stepping over you and thus they became dirty with the effort!

I destroy myself everyday in even the smallest of ways. ( I cannot allow myself even one misguidance or false speech.) My lost planks become garbage on your beach. What is that which they say of another man's trash? I must have my rapture in the end! I heal over the judgment, but never forget the grief and humility it breathes within. I am incapable of certainty at any point, but I am certain of my independence of shame. I forgive myself very slowly for the most minor offenses, and he who harms me, even the most ignorant of brutes does so justly and I forgive him quickly. I have a long memory, and deserve my contrition. All should be so elevated to be so guilty before a brute.

May I ask the brutes? Why are the social-paths community people so greedy to get their own and forget their own- forgetting any regard for the inner-nourishment- or even the men of the underground- who weep and gnash their teeth- crowded on the lonely city street? Why is everyone so easy in dismissing you, when you come with your uncommon likeness and have seismic needles sticking from out your spine- betraying your true activities- the cadence of your pit, and the tempestuous mind. Your authority is over nothing but what you will do. What will you do? Do not look for others to see, but do not fear that others should see you.

Many would oppose the poet in his heart and tears, calling them a kind of sordid pretension for attention. How many times they have brought the power of their pride and an army behind them- hate and negativity for everyone who doesn't lay flat and worship the hole into which they are forced to succumb. But, am I not trying out a new kind of warfare? The silent less evil that teases out a tantrum from tyrants- who must know their insignificance- they are easy targets. It's like if Mozart sat down at the Pope's piano. Who is this man of God? Pope, bring forth your compositions!

Soothing it is for a jackass to offer up his hooves and his salute of flags and forefathers- it benefits the psyche to reinforce a claim. His prowess at nothing, leaves nothing unaccomplished- all ends and hands are tied to the remains. The gears have smashed into fragments on the pavement- disappearing under the coffee table and back into darkness. Pretension is not true of me, and 'tears' is a metaphorical word. I do not weep in my chair. I weep out into the open air- for whoever is there- and they will despise it fully. I cannot write without an image or a sound- and my favorite sound is the rain at night- and my least favorite is mother's grief. Does grief make a sound? Ah, but you understand the motif, and its worthlessness.

Maybe a poet is foolish, but to become a poet one can be nothing less then connected to the mad dash mob of them. No man is an island entire of itself- never send to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Thereby, I can only testify through my representations, even creating myself in my own representation- here's to repetition! I can only pass out my key- and will not worry for a professor's lecture- the accuracy of my racing thoughts- I will leave up to conjecture. Remember, I would not have my face buried in the mud. Or whatever face of me I try to explain. The archeologist went so deep into the earth, he forgot about the endlessness of the sky- and he fell on his head out the other side. Are we among those with the slanted eyes?

Fundamentally, I have been born, or naturally re-born again and yet again, to explore the situations of my experience in fullness. My life struggle, or at least those first few experiences by which I found something worth sharing, some pain or knowledge, or something communicable, undefined or ill-defined- it is needless to say abridged. I am hoping to build a bridge to you with this utterance, in this way, by my very way. I am hoping to share the secret of my breath. There is ever much here in these twenty or so years, and no words were made to express- I can only work in the forms that appeal to me. There is ever much repetition in the bric-a-brac.

There I've gone and written too much again. My metaphors were thick just now. I apologize for becoming so carried away with flights and visions. It is my gift to debate the question- turning over the pebbles on the beach. My name as it happens, is not vital. Only my images, my poems, my thoughts, my visions, my flashing rocket ships of raging love, are vital to me- as if this object were the finest cutlery, and still sharp in the drawer. A fine razor to my throat- just before the skin splits in an overflow of red raspberries. Connect me to the river and flood of the heath and heather mind.

These are drawn from my vulnerability to the earth- the crazy and beautiful rain, the wild and free wind, the crumbling rocks and structures, the piper's tune with his dancing dolls pulled away by strings.

Why do I dwell upon these things, or within them? My heart content to spill forth its contents- beating like a deep drawling drum. Why was I born to seek grace and not more important things, like status, and place? To remain with the cadavers of men, with the silent suffering by the candle light. They share no wail, bring upon them no thunder roaring tumult, under the oppression of the rattling hail- and they shake no ground. Lost voices through the fog. Where did I find my extremities, and my formed up heap of jagged edges with pink underlying bellies? My peculiarity? My eccentricity? Please forgive another comparison of my wild to your abundance. I have my abundance, truly, verily, and it is always ripening, but it is injured with a look. I am far too soft to sit on a throne high enough to cast down stones upon my fellow men- draw your lot, and reconcile yourselves to fate.

Marisa's Poems

These poems I wrote during a period after meeting a woman named Marisa in my political science class at college. I sat with her at coffee and over dinner, and we shared some deep and altering conversations on various subjects. I described somewhat of what occurred in the Preface to this volume. To make a story short, I had met her and fallen for her and wanted to make her my girlfriend, but she would never have it. I was obsessed with her, and she became the first muse for my poetry. I languished in misery with thoughts of her for years afterward and she became an idol or goddess of perfection for me. She was an artist, and became my example of what a human being could aspire to be. She was seductive and selfish, and was a free spirit. Thinking about her way and her nature caused me to question everything I had become, and changed me forever afterward. This first piece was also written in 2006.

Marisa's Poem

I. Beaten Brown Shoes

There is a man on the street and he's broken.

A million little shards shattered upon the pavement-

like a shot glass;

in his hands and feet are weary feelings.

You can see the burden of that fearful- dread filled

existence reflected in the strip mall windows as he passes them by.

There in the panes, refracted by the glistening light,

distorted by the many for sale signs with BIG FAT LETTERING,

the matter of a man- little more.

A thin little man with beaten brown shoes,

frayed fringes on his pant legs-

the coke bottles cover the green grass.

Cold, grave and compassionless-

the expressions of a face bound up by distrust.

Smoking a cigarette-

running a hand over greasy black hair at intervals,

a distance behind his eyes-

a frustration emanating from within.

He wears dark blue slacks and a flannel shirt.

Bent over toward the earth at the shoulders,

you can see he's hauling around the oppressive weight of the world.

His visions disturbed by a morbid melancholy,

his dreams obscured even to himself and without meaning.

Show me substance in a handful of images/

riches in a pocketful of marbles/

diamonds in the rough/ clarity in parables.

Show me a place where it is something,

where it speaks and has something to say,

where laughter is not in jest, but in outbursts of joy-

and where there are no martyrs, where they have no cause,

and no judicators, where they have no laws.

Give me the truth that the birds carry with them upon the wind-

give me wings-

give me the kind solace of only the stillest hours.

He sees an advert in the store window.

"SPACE FOR RENT."

Maybe he'll escape one day,

Fly to the isle of the exiled-

where everyone has everything to be ashamed of.

You can't be "in" there, only left out

...leave on a Wednesday.

Here it is different.

Here on the street the people are all convinced,

and the pretty girls hold their cellular phones to their ears,

making friends and influencing everyone;

while he wears these tattered rags, and never speaks,

drowned out by everyone's noise.

It's harder to stand in these shoes, if you'd dare to stand alone;

and envy is the name of a dog kicked too often,

and the lone stray wolf without a pack,

howls not for pride, but for pity.

Sometimes they pass him by without looking up,

and sometimes they quickly turn away,

afraid to look into his eyes.

He lifts his gaze from the pavement, sometimes-

peering up at the strangers, more colorful than he.

His skin is pale white-

Their skin is pink-

with a rose colored hue.

II. Room and Board

Hours wasted longing for long hours wasted.

The clothes thrown about on the floor,

the sheets tossed about on the bed,

the stale crust on an unwashed plate-

all restlessness and depression.

Paper cups, paper napkins, paper cranes, paper planes,

paper hats, paper hearts-

paper and plastic.

The countertop overtaken by the vulgarity of roaches.

The sound of an alarm clock ringing-

the small, cluttered, and filthy room.

A knock at the door which startles the slumberer.

A bed, dresser, and desk, all in a desperate condition-

falling apart.

The tick...tick...tick...tick...tock of the clock.

The bothered whir of the ceiling fan spinning,

sweat drips on furrowed brows.

A rich cacophony of muddled dreams,

and ruined aspirations.

No inspiration.

Breakfast is a paper cigarette.

"Don't think"... "Don't think"... "Don't think"- he is thinking...

Man loves his suffering too much.

And perhaps his name too little

Man's perception is his reality.

And reality is...

A torn bedspread with the stuffing poking out,

and the couch cushions stained, patched, and worn.

The contemptible light from the cracked door creaking,

across the wall illuminating,

and the smoke by it, becoming animated.

Authenticating the slow suffering burn of the cigarette,

and its fierce red bloom ignited, it perspires.

The bedspread is consumed.

He is invisible in the hall and stalks in the dim corners,

obscured by the haze of yellow draped windows and smoke,

he walks sneakily, avoiding all contact.

Not to be seen, only suggested of-

only in the dark- with his mob of sick voices.

Settling nearby in a shabby old chair,

he puts his feet up on the coffee table,

and takes a long drag from his cigarette.

A bottle of liquor just beyond his reach.

Gently...ever so gently, he takes possession of the glass and bottle,

removing the dead finger streaks from the glass;

he settles back into his chair and pours himself a drink.

III. Envy and a Dog

The lament of this young man is unfortunate.

Stumbling he was spotted among the craggy desert,

expending his short-lived days on the hot summer sidewalks,

with the hot sun beating down,

where nothing grows- jumping from one foot to the other.

Turning down dark alleyways,

Under the sun with a melted candle,

he was unable to distinguish between the colors,

or recognize the signs.

He cracked his mirror on the hard rock of perception-

balancing between madness and inevitability.

Ask the minstrels to help him reinterpret it-

reinvigorate it.

His eyes squinted,

are blinded by the glare coming off from tall windows.

The shadows of tall buildings: under which he hides.

Her... over there...

Her eyes are protected by a gigantic pair of sunglasses,

Her mouth slightly open and red,

He wishes he could walk with her.

This other boy wears a baseball cap-

His arms bare and strong,

An Ivy- League, an all-American.

This one wears flip-flops and kaki shorts,

this one Lee jeans and sneakers,

this one high boots and fish nets.

His thin arms hold no one, firmly held down at his sides.

His teeth colored yellow by nicotine are gaped.

The smoke, he lets it blow back into his face,

the harsh taste remaining full upon his lips,

the smell of branches and twigs caught within his jacket.

He can't really hide anywhere.

His jaw and fists are clenched-

With flushed hot scorn upon his face.-

and the frantic frenzy of the rush,

and the hot stink of the pacing, back and forth.

Searching for a friend to relate to in this place.

On the outside looking in.

The young man watches his dream girl

sitting peaceably alone by a sculpted fountain.

Her angelic soft skin pure and white,

her nature, elegant, true, and free flowing.

Her wavy curls cascade down over her slender shoulders,

blonde and silken-

her hair streams over her-

like the waters which pours forth from the fountain.

Imagined grace personified, refined and humanizing,

she touches the senses innocently as a child,

with joy, lucidity, and without shame.

The young man stands up and ambles over toward her,

the distance between them is vast.

His shadow follows behind him as he is drawn nearer to her reflection.

A place in which he does not belong-

near to the fountain where the waters are clear and sparkling.

A covetous will burning red hot grasping tightly to iron bars.

A spark explodes in a small blaze on the match head.

A figure made of stone, a child with amorous wings,

clasping his bow with adept fingers,

piercing to the heart,

struck dead by a single shot.

Driven forward by thirst,

And the siren's charming call.

His flute is bent and plays no music,

desires fixed upon the girl-

perceived as the dream conceived her.

He stops dead and remains still.

He disdains these joyful/ fallacious embraces.

Don't touch these hands.

He wants to make war with the princess and overthrow the ivory tower,

pull her hairs out climbing up.

Her boyfriend has returned to her from only a short separation,

never more than an hour.

He strokes her wavy blonde curls,

kisses the pearl nape of her lean neck,

whispers sweet nothings into her ear-

all this while the fountain smirks, drooling,

from the curled lips of a facetious grin-

shouting obscenities into the clear blue sky.

Turning away, disappearing into the crowd,

the maddened reddened cheeks,

flushed hot and dripping wet, slow moving.

Blinded by anxiety, his comprehension slows.

The world moves too fast, and the ground is spinning.

Mangled up like poison,

the mercury jumps along the dish.

The cracked door left open-

you let your guard down, the chain dangled freely,

unlatched from the hatch. Unhinged.

Everything can change in an instant.

Fingers sliding down the glass leaving greasy white streaks.

Don't tap...the sound to them is disturbing.

Crashing into the earth, head first-

one thousand miles a minute.

She has the most beautiful neck and chest he has ever seen.

She, the most beautiful legs and arms, daintily stretching.

Menacing with thick wavy brows, staring into the abyss,

dismal dreary thoughts turned inward, revealed outward.

He trips on the curb.

Turning the corner, a chill goes up the spine.

The children disappearing behind twisted shoulders,

like drunken revelers, as he pounds the pavement with dirty shoes.

The women announcing themselves in glamorous fashion,

low cut jeans and midriff skin, neck lines declined,

arousing his suspicions.

On the street it is unbearable in the summertime,

where the heat chokes the blood.

In the apartment there is little relief,

where the body heat gathers in the box,

the bill overdue and the accounts closed-

the ceiling yellowed.

Craven afflicted, dormant appetites burning,

the refrigerator empty,

he counts hours by the pack.

Dead fingers rested on licentious beds sleeping.

A brutal man holding tightly to her,

Moistened bedspreads from feverish sweats in cold nights.

Tattooed arms clasped around her throat,

powerful and cruel arms, firm and indignant.

Finding their way from the package stores and the bars,

they come in from every angle, through the window,

through the door, over the hedges, another wretched duet.

The tricycle missing a wheel tilts precariously on the verge.

The rattling of the mattress springs, with heads, shoulders, and elbows,

slammed against the headboards in drunken ecstasy,

till the morning dawns and brings the sickness.

Moans and screams coming in from next door-

Holding a pillow over your head won't calm your mind.

Entering his dreams the sordid detail-

The aged bodies together grinding,

shadows of their silhouettes thrown upon the wall,

with moistened lips drooling,

thrust into one another.

Walking along grit grimy city streets-

where the mind is thrust into serene images-

a man perishing with his thoughts.

Cheer filled conversations that run on for hours on end-

how attractive they all are.

Painted toes polished and red.

Like a greedy old man in his silent lust.

A lust for steamy nights and sick mornings,

a lust for the love of the legs and the shoulders,

a lust for the committed and immaculate dancers,

a lust for domesticity, and an "I love you."

Love, and ownership-

to be maintained and comfortable,

along these tragic city streets.

In the apartment the light is dim and hazy,

and the skin reflects yellow and stained into the mirror.

Who could love these sinister eyes?

These frantic eyes? These tear filled eyes?

IV. Professor Boys

On the campus the feeling is uneasy.

The sacred soul torn asunder-

They study Shakespeare till the pages are crumpled from analysis.

Books made up of speculation spread out on the tables.

Distant shepherds searching for young men and women,

an internship in the towers turned their anecdotes from epiphanies

into lost rhythms and broken chords.

Songs sung into empty hallways-

By people who can't carry a tune.

The sign says no vagrancy.

Everyone must have somewhere to go.

So he is wandering beneath the tower.

Institutional young men and young women-

carefully scrutinize the loon.

Where does he come from?

Where do they make people like that?

Dark green jackets, bruised hands, and ragged faces.

The horizon turned from red to yellow-

from blue to black.

Lingering on the doorsteps, in the bathrooms,

on bench seats, by the clubs under the red neon lights,

in apartment buildings, stretched out on the grass,

he changes positions perpetually- Comfort eludes him.

He doesn't know how to move his arms,

how to control the muscles of his face, how to smile,

how not to stare.

Here on the campus, they are sane.

Here even the trees are strategically placed on the foyer,

and the rabble howls excesses,

pink and blonde,

of a pink and blonde flavor.

"I can't believe I kissed him.

Well, we were friends for a very long time,

and I was like fuckin' trashed.

So fuckin' trashed.

Like that time in the dorm room,

Or in the club.

It was like so cool though,

we didn't talk about it at all,

but I think he's cool with it,

we're still friends I think.

It doesn't matter.

I don't know what I'd do if it got out,

probably have a nervous breakdown."

Statistical, material searches turned up empty.

Sensual, hedonistic searches turned up empty.

Objective, Intellectual searches turned up empty.

Rationality...

Taking attendance they found he was missing.

Professional services, charts and graphs,

sold souls and respected members of the community.

Looking into the heavens at the starlight,

stars bright, the flaming molecules and gaseous clouds,

wishing upon comets and meteors,

God take me away!

Entering into a room full of strangers is penetrating.

A paranoid mind contemplates too much.

Every flash of light a lightning bolt.

She scowls because of his manner,

she smiles at the expense of his looks.

Looks like the tree branch was struck,

it fell on the house and the people run in panic from the wreckage.

The green leaves quivering on a wet black bough,

a terrible beauty born in the charred dead bark.

These textures of stone, like cold nails and screws.

His austere likeness desirous, of cheerful melodies wanting.

The chairs are hard and made of hard woods.

Among the conformed, uniformed, and unidentified-

Countless who also sit.

Trading looks across long tables, polite courtesies,

odd feverish looks, heads sunk low toward scraps of paper-

peering up again.

V. Lamp Light Yellow

She on the bench is the exception.

Outside of the classroom,

her red hair fluttering in the faint yellow glow,

containing all, nothing lacking.

The sun going down in a fit of color,

the night claiming a victory,

a perfect backdrop to her subtle flow,

the purposes hidden, the mystery undisclosed.

Can you speak of the beauty of the horizon,

and describe it perfectly?

The perfection of the contrasts confused above.

The shades of red and yellow and passion blue.

The way one becomes another,

Described the form of a form so pure-

so like the real that a stranger could see,

a man who never knew to look upward.

The heavens so deep in darkness,

the starlight beaming bright and eternal, made visible.

How these things change, the day to the night.

No man could create this in his art.

No man could do her justice with his pen.

So easy in being- so difficult to embrace.

The moonlight flowing in silver currents-

Over the still waters of wishing pools,

fluid over wet grass and through dreamy parking lots-

dripped with dew the hand brushed against the mouth,

in tight legs over dull dry rocks-

casting a gaze over the delirious spectators,

playing with the shadows-

her fair and flawless skin.

Man's form is square and resistant,

built for war,

with strong backs and hairy knuckled hands,

sharp knives and blunt tools,

grinding gears and pistols.

Every man a conqueror.

Brutality, strength, for its own sake-

where everything's to prove.

The ape like man tortures the hay of his stall into tiny shreds-

flailing his exaggerated arms-

pounding the unyielding ground with mighty hands-

a sternness toward his guards and keepers.

A sternness toward the spectators.

A love of the jungle and the tangled shrubs,

a love of ripe fruits and sweet sap,

the smells and tastes of places far away,

a love of free and peaceful breathing,

without cages made of steel or cold bars and chains.

A love for a nature he knows within,

a home he can barely remember.

She carries a link and a key around her neck.

The sound of her heels clap upon the floor.

The door behind her closes,

Behind her- the black of the night.

The professor making use of his fingers for pointing-

at little white lines of chalk.

Arguments in proofs, evidences, and reason,

written in a language that satisfies.

Truth here has a label.

"The world is being destroyed by the ignorant and uneducated,"

The professor says-

"There are too many unreasonable, ridiculous,

and uncaring people in the world.

Isn't it obvious to all of you?

The problem is that every man has a motive-

nobody I've met is true.

If everyone would just listen to their hearts."

"If everyone should be forced to sit here and listen,

to learn what is right.

We could solve it all in a cause-

We could come together.

Studies show the educated are less likely to rebel."

"There are two ways to view every issue", he says,

"two ways of looking at every event,

two notions of what is right and wrong-

victims, hero's and vested interest on every side."

Thank God he at least is objective-

as he tells you truth exists within the quantity of two.

He spoke in error;

he thought everything he said was a proven fact of science.

Marisa, lady of the sea,

She is free, and carries the key.

She isn't convinced by their explanations;

she can't afford to trip and fall in heels.

They quote scholarship and dead men to defend their stolen judgments-

the prejudice of scholars and learned men-

cat calls and hidden glances down her back.

Wet mouths and quivering lips.

She refuses to be retained by what she read-

or to denounce what she saw-

she saw what she could and read it all in their faces.

The ape like man in lust bites the corner of his cheek while chewing.

A wild unnatural sight,

his hatreds too deep, his inadequacies too apparent-

his hair matted down to his hide by the unnatural surface.

Bubblegum and popcorn caught in tangles locks.

His eyes milky white are blind and bloodless,

staring off into far off places, untamed open spaces-

dragging his blistered and swollen knuckles over the pavement.

He's been here too long, and his torture stinks like sex.

The heart inside is clenched.

V. White Goddess

Pity not these careworn and ragged spirits- well laden.

Forever idling nearby slumped over on the bus stop benches,

with their hands over their heads,

guarding against the clear blue sky- that's falling.

They would stand up- they just can't right now.

Her hands are soft and gentle, young and smooth,

affectionate kisses floating on the wanton air,

cheek to cheek, touch to touch-

caressing to the soul, a warm fluid elegance,

feminine tenderness- garland and red nail polish.

Beauty prevails most among the low and earthy subjects,

she tells,

nearest to the soil the farmers dirt stained hands bear much in fruit,

and the shepherds tend to their flocks which cannot read them.

Here where moth and dust corrupts-

this is where mankind has shed endless his teardrops and afflictions,

imparting to the world his tragedy and the spoils of human conflict.

These things she adores, these solemn gestures,

these monuments built up out of sand,

crumbling into the sea again and again with the many storms.

Not forlorn is she, she knows more than to suffer or pity for the moon or the tides- and proclaims it absolute and meaningless.

"Don't forget to keep up your appearance,

text me for a lunch, a dinner, or just to hang....

What are you doing for the weekend?

Remember to call me every other minute.

Don't forget about your friends and the people who love you...

be careful...don't drop your Starbucks in the leaves.

Remember, don't gain a pound, don't give an inch."

The flick of her wrist communicating more than your cheap words

and cheaper motives ever could-

turning over your petty sorrows and assumptions-

in a whisper you can barely hear if you listen closely.

Sincere carolers singing solemn melodies,

humbly recited nursery rhymes- exalted epics.

Charming little ditties about nothing,

expressing everything.

The heights of passion-

the depths of pain.

His hatred/ his violence/ his envy/ his lust/

his greed/his war/his grief/ his pride/ his art/

in the corner with his prejudice and devotion.

She smiles peacefully at the chanting,

amused by the ranting and raving,

your periods and exclamation points!

Trying to convince yourselves!

Trying to deceive yourselves!

Better forget yourselves and leave the comedy of fools unsatisfied.

A great wake she leaves behind her,

high crests and deep troughs,

white peaks and bleak valleys,

sunken figures in the brush covered with newsprint.

The frothing and foaming-

lustful men and famished parishioners-

trail upon her heels-

hanging on the slightest wave of her hand,

shaking uncontrollably-

like the cigarette as he puts it to his lips- consumed.

Judas was driven to betray by envy,

an ugly kind of poverty,

and he covets her.

Gravel are the paths becoming of the desolate city streets,

that have been left abandoned-

endless roads and barren corroded highways-

decayed beliefs and desperate believers-

crumbled/crunching beneath her heels the shards of glass

and the coke bottles and the trash that's been thrown away.

She's cultivated this landscape.

It's hers/she owns it-

these dark alleyways and these reckless rendezvous,

beneath the perverted billboard signs-

blown down she redraws them,

bruised and bloodied she heals them-

seekers she elevates them,

the lost she guides them-

a friend of the serpent and the devil- a poet.

The sky is crying with lonesome tears,

The thunderclouds high on the horizon-

the sparks of lightning flashing

and the crackling of branches,

the fowl making a game of flying,

the worms that dig interred deep in the mud.

Listen carefully to the yellow night-

Hear the cans kicked against the bricks,

hear the crying and the cursing-

the despairing of aching hearts.

Unspeakable acts-inaudible sorrow.

Will they still look into you eyes

or will they turn away from you?

Will they empathize?

See you as the freak?

Pointing their fingers at the pain-

somebody must put a bag over that corpse-

its spoiling the digestion of my pop rocks and cola.

Does it make them feel uncomfortable when it comes around,

when the pain comes down?

The freaks who are invisible in their brooding places,

wear their scars fresh on the surface,

burned with the fire- they stood too close-

their skin pulled tight to their flesh-

torn from their bones too easily.

Little accidents of life you call them,

little truths in the flesh she calls them.

Her little satyrs and sinners- the harbingers of the real.

Did you try and step aside?

Did you fear the gift?

Was there an indescribable something?

A long jagged scar across your flushed and plumped cheeks?

Did you hold your comforts too dearly?

Your friends, your prejudices- even your God?

Did it go too far, strike a match in a cavern-

offend your sensibilities-

run the schoolboy out of town?

Man must eat to survive- man must suffer to live.

Wolves will feast, and the lambs will offer themselves-

like whores to the bedrolls-

like Christ to the cross.

Did you wash yourselves of man's touch?

Did you renounce yourselves of faith?

She wouldn't starve in a land of milk and honey-

she wouldn't stroke their beards, or take their calls.

She belongs to the waves, and to the alley, and the night,

and doesn't fear your eyes or your entreaties,

or your lust, or your pride, or your grief, or your pity.

She belongs to the heights and to the distances where no man can travel.

You can be the witness of the moment-

realizing a fragrance in the air,

you can smell the sweet perfume hovering on the breeze,

taste it upon your lips, and then- gone.

Your bed still warm and your dreams rambling.

Behind the strip mall, with the smiling faces on advertisements-

and the colorful array of unknown blondes-

are the trashcans filled to the brim with the latest editions-

and the incredulous speakers converting with firm, unwavering, uncompromising, defiant, courageous, proud, righteous, honorable, loyal, dutiful- statements.

The music of her body in motion falling on deaf ears-

hurriedly and refined, perfectly balanced,

the instruments crying out-

the springs snapping like dry branches.

Dancing fireflies by the light of the candle,

all the players dead upon the stage, of life-

the swarming of gnats-

many thousand glittering motes-

gathered greedily together in trembling circles,

swirling around a central conflagration-

all desire to feel the warmth-

a first cause, a prime mover,

the candle which feeds the flame with itself, of itself,

with or without, convinced that it danced for you alone.

Forsake your tragedies you insects,

fly away and become as women-

seductive and selfish-

shining outward in odes of joy, in tears of tragedy,

in silent rages, in fits of infamy,

always laughter in their hearts –

a plaything for the short winded elations of men-

never captured, never attainable-

you can't bring the sun with you in a brown paper bag.

Running at the horizon doesn't bring it nearer;

you'll run out of breath with your hands stretched out-

a beggar and a fool.

Therefore light your hearts ablaze you fools,

and become as women,

let your souls dance upon the wick.

She dances for the charmers-

for the lonely, for the many, and for none.

With a wild woman's wisdom- a self-propelled wheel,

a first movement- love in a cruel uncaring world.

They...cannot... touch her...

though they can sense an exception from a distance.

Down the street their needs follow her as she leaves them all behind.

On the street with the freaks,

and the brief case carrying office workers,

whose aspirations and thoughtful(thoughtless)-

invitations she steals away with her into the neon night-

the fleet footed patter of her feet dancing underneath the stars-

their hands stretched out like so many good-hearted gentleman callers-

the doors swung wide and held without needing a request.

She steps into them/over them.

Carefree and careless,

she enters with one great leap-

allowing the room to notice-

She doesn't need to hide, she slinks by.

Innocently as a child, knowing like a woman knows,

admitting the straight lines made of chalk,

admitting even them in their narrowness.

With wishes and praises, the gods and monsters both,

admiring her wine with a secret appetent sip,

a sample of the buds, the aroma too thick.

The mythical beasts wearing horns embroidered with jangling bells;

slippery serpents and wet eels-

slithering, their bodies frictionless over very small rocks.

She glides frictionless too.

And falling in love, you, at one unintended glimpse.

His head is greasy and cropped.

His pant pockets frayed at the edges-

Mangled up like his crispy hairs.

Smoked with dust, bogged down in his mind-

The room spinning feverishly.

The small charred remains, like grey puffs of cloud,

struggling into a picturesque sky.

She,

roving like a voice roves over the treacherous highway,

coming to and going away.

Untangling the weeds of the dregs-

performing Beethoven in jaunty little movements.

Boundless and bewitching-

the commandments of a judge dismissed by the gavel clap,

and the universe brought into service by the sound.

Fleet footed manipulator of his dreams,

fleet footed servant of the flood,

performing in her music the most wonderful scenes;

bewitching the spell of his dreams.

Shrouded in her mystery,

he dare not turn around.

Wishing by the omnipresent sound,

that the pretty bird would settle not nearly so close-

yet not nearly so far.

Princess of the clouds,

exiled to the ground,

she smiles kindly on man's square peg and the round hole.

A despairing king, spying out her cumbersome wings,

shoots at her with a bow, climbs up the cliff with a rope.

Presenting his steel words and steel ladder-

he attempts to bluff the sheer face into submission.

With vengeance and betrayal in his eyes,

and a pitiful weakness in his heart,

he digs his crampons into the hard rock.

A comic sight for a skylark, a man as he struggles to fly.

Mangled corpses at the bottom of the ravine,

swimming in the pond waters, she, a swimmer,

reveals all sorts of madness.

Become as Women

Dancing fireflies by the light of a candle,

all the players dead upon life's stage,

the swarming of gnats-

many thousand glittering motes-

gathered greedily together-

around a central conflagration,

all desire to feel the warmth-

a first cause, a prime mover,

the candle which feeds the flame with itself, of itself,

convinced that it danced for you alone.

Forsake the tragedy you insects,

fly away and become as women,

seductive and selfish,

shining outward in works of joy, in selfish glory.

Never captured, never attainable,

you can't bring the sunset with you in a brown paper bag-

running at the horizon doesn't bring it nearer.

You'll die gasping for air,

with your hands stretched out.

Therefore, lights your hearts ablaze you fools,

And become as women,

let your souls dance upon the wick

Like a Dog Waiting for His Master

I have waited for you, hour upon lonely hour,

Like a dog waiting for his master.

Coffee Shop

I fill my mind with hope that we may sit together-

And I reflecting on the future,

With the thick, full, coffee bean aroma,

Could calm my thoughts with safest feelings of,

Happiest friendship.

Safety and calm- your kindest gift to me,

Acceptance and clarity of soul.

You, who are a smile of inspirational cheer,

Casting out my death, or my heart laden fear.

Your voice like youth to rebuke my old guards,

And bring forth my highest hope.

Yet, I cannot thrive within that friendly cheer,

Without something more substantially near-

To allow me to substantiate myself, before you.

I don't have the courage to be a failure before generous eyes.

You are a beautiful bright light,

near to a guarded dark space.

A rose in a bed of darkness-

A bed at night.

I would be pleased to sit forever next to you,

within your gaze-

and listen to how lovely everything becomes,

in your voice.

And also how everything you do,

Moves everything which is.

I fear the moment when you must go on back home-

With the taste of left over coffee,

That becomes bitter from long drinking upon my lips.

You must understand when you walk back to your door,

I am dragged back into an abyss-

from which no thought escapes.

And the dark were never such a thick full darkness like this.

I will never have an equal gift to return to you-

For how beautiful you are to me.

Better wait until I'm feeling much more courageous-

Or substantial enough, to lose you over and over again.

Katherine's Poem

Katherine was sixteen years old at the time when I met her, I was twenty-one. She was a vibrant teen, who was a little naïve, but full of energy. She wanted to do remarkable things. She confused me greatly because I had a very real affection for her, but she was too young to return these affections. She was tall and slim, dark haired, and we had some good times together walking through the downtown art festival. I took her to dinner with me once at an Italian Restaurant, and while we walked around she referred to me as 'honey', as if we had been long in a relationship. It felt good to be referred to in a loving way. I told her that I was 'mad' for her, which was quite true. We lost our friendship years ago when I became angry at her for no reason at all and left her some mean spirited messages. I have only one poem I wrote during this time, and I wrote it around a year after the event, sometime around 2008.

Katherine's Poem

Disturbances in the night, I write,

A symphony of the solemn notes.

They spring from the calamities of night,

When one is alone-

And the shadows under the yellow lamps,

I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.

In one so young, I sense the gentle touch,

Of poetry, which does invigorate the soul.

Never to be abused by the touch of man,

To curse the delusions upon the yellow air,

With the dust which lingers there-

And I know so well.

Her thoughts were speckled within her eyes,

Which first were brown and changed to blue.

She looked at me with such tender love,

An innocence I never knew.

She sought something I couldn't offer.

When parting I begin my symphony to the night-

And the shadows under the yellow lamps-

I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.

Her stories were no labor as mine,

on her misery she danced.

The broken hearted children do not recognize calamities.

On the sidewalks through the youthful choir by chance,

I was inspired-

for never had an angel consented to dine with me-

Or consented to call me honey,

Or sat on the steps.

Her freedom was young and she gave her number out willingly,

And took idle chatter and scraps of paper, gleefully-

From preachers of scientology- or even libertarians-

Or waiters she called by name.

I am also touched by those yellow windows,

Writing my poem to the night,

In the dust which gathers there.

I wanted desperately to share my voice,

And saw the reflection, when she by her very choice,

Did take a few words of mine as her own-

And she regarded the children as she-

Although it was hard to see, I knew what she meant.

I was in consent that children know not the tragedy-

Which lingers here.

Writing my poem to the night, with a proud delight-

In the tragedy of yellow.

I felt for her a tender touch,

As if she were as my friend, but I cannot pretend,

Anything which could be and isn't certain.

I can keep a sketch on a drive home,

With 'mad for you' upon my lips-

When the poet's dream from afar for a tender kiss,

Or an hour for hand in hand.

One can realize in a moment when his earth has moved-

And though it takes time for the poem,

The night is quick to torture.

Dreaming of her head upon my shoulder,

Or this tender poem.

When one is alone-

And the shadows under yellow lamps.

I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.

Dae's Poem

Dae is my online friend. We only met one time in person, when we went out on Halloween with a group of her friends to a haunted house, but I wrote her a poem over cyberspace. I would have wanted to date her of course, but she was my good friend, and I sent her many messages about my writing and my life and she has responded in kind. It's interesting in this modern technological age how relationships can be had solely online. I have offered many times to take her to coffee or whatnot, but she has always remained a mystery and aloof.

To Dae

You hold your lips so tightly when you smile-

Into camera phones on the go,

with an exaggerated sorrow- the wail.

I would have told you that beauty is only tortured here,

Stoned alone in the mirror, where the light fails the lens.

I would have warned you, that perfect heavenly bodies,

And the solitude of man-

Are only romanticized here.

Where the fair-skinned girls, affected,

Make lunar celebrations of their wickedness,

While the wicked are all the self-righteous,

Who hide their cycles from the moon.

Mandy's Poem

Mandy was another girl who I met online. She's a short redhead with pale skin, and I sent her a few messages and we agreed to meet for coffee. She never showed up to the meeting, and I sent her this wonderful poem, to which she never responded.

To Mandy

I am a believer in fate or destiny,

when my road takes a sharp turn off the edge,

or my car swerves off the road and topples over,

I believe it was supposed to happen,

that all things, to me, happen for a reason.

When I am in a dark mood, and it begins to rain,

and the rain sprinkles down over me,

and the moon shines brightly,

only for me does it do so, it is my symbol and my sign-

the moon like it were God, alone and separated,

and the rain like it were his love, showering down,

and the night like it were my solitude,

dark and full of wonders, like the vast starry sky.

When calm, my solitude brings insights,

When frantic, my solitude brings hostile imaginations.

I am the only one here who is touched,

by something eternal and divine.

I feel that when you send for me,

and the hour has already grown late,

that it were for some purpose, for some cosmic game.

I sense something true, but also remote,

all around me, but again separate from me-

like you, are separate and remote from me-

and I yearn to know, I want to touch- that eternal star.

I see your picture, with your fair skin,

and waves of red hair, your prettiness, and I read your words,

such commonality between us, such recognition of one another.

But, were it to be anything more, than anything else?

Were you just there to inspire this poem?

Or were there potential for something more?

I wish it were more, I wish it were a cosmic connection,

a first few words, which turn into something everlasting.

Perhaps, my feeling of fate were not true,

or perhaps my fate is to be alone, beneath the stars, separated.

But, I don't want this moment to fade away,

I don't want you to fade away, I don't want to fade away,

not so quickly at least, without a goodbye.

Iris's Poems

I don't remember exactly how I came into contact with Iris, but I do remember much about our time together. She was a fragile girl, who was very innocent, with long black hair and pale skin. She loved the arts, and was of this nature child sort- she was a romantic and loved being outside and told me the names of plants and trees. She was childlike, and took pictures of herself with flowers and birds. She went with me on a few dates, one to the botanical gardens, and a few times to the movies and walking around the mall. We also went to a haunted house in October with her brother. We spent a great deal of time together over a short period. I asked her to 'be my girl' to which she consented, and I felt like things were going well. Until one night after a movie she grew cold to me and told me to take a cab home. I never really spoke to her again after that. I do have these poems from that time. I had begun at this point to save my poems, which is why I have so many for Iris, and so few for others.

To Iris

Come out and see me at the window,

Like poetic lover's of old,

Like Rosaline, or Juliet, their virginal white-

On the balcony, the young and hopeful.

Too young for remorse- too old for coddling-

throwing flower blossoms,

and a soft breeze blowing through their hair-

in waves of excitable joy-

like a mermaid woman caught in the night seas,

caught by the blue moon.

I am here in the garden at night,

Where a cold wind blows over my neck, and I stand alone-

Like a simple touch of the hair from her neck-

That sends shivers of pin needle pricks-

Shivering on the way through parking lots,

Shivering on the way to the movie theaters.

And Tennyson's buds are whispering to me,

Of how a love less than given wholly,

Is not a love that's given at all.

I want to go with you to a secret garden,

Where there are magical springs and a stone fountain-

And throw roses, and other imperfections, on the cobble stones.

I want to give you a gift of more perfection,

and to give it from my heart,

A true gift, given wholly- like a soft touch,

That brings those pin pricks and needles-

Where the hares rummage beneath the foliage,

And a chilly winter breeze blows.

At Every Meeting

At every meeting, I'll wish to hold your hand,

Or hug you for a greeting, or brush aside a strand,

Of your silk hair from your fair smooth cheek,

by way of an excuse,

To caress that fair cheek, or to wrap my arms about you,

Or to kiss you, like the water that falls gently, like rain.

At every meeting, I'll wish to know your thoughts,

Or ask you about your visions- your ideas about the future,

Of all those weeping willows, or the trees of oleander,

The roses that grow full, at the festival of Samhein,

Where we shall discuss Scottish folklore,

Or those from that land upon the Rhine.

When I look into your eyes, I see stars and waves.

When I look at your tiny hands, I see wings or mermaid fins.

I see the poem then, and am more the poet then.

When I hear the sirens on their island, imploring me-

laughing at me,

To guide my ship to their eternal shore.

Or I see a beautiful Selkie girl, who buried her oily skin-

Beneath the tides-

For some shipwrecked sailor to uncover in the sand,

Or a flower faerie, who lives with Robert Burns' Red Rose,

That sits outside your lovely home,

Or grows around the college,

Where love blooms-

To tend to it, and care for it, and protect it.

That I should be that sailor,

to uncover her skin beneath the sand-

Or that rose to be cared for by her,

Or to hide beneath her silken wings.

But, if I should say, 'you know, I'm very much in love with you,'

I hope that it were not like Whitman's unrequited turn.

It would be the same for me, as it once were for him.

For if I should ask you to touch that cheek,

Or to wrap my arms about you, my fair faerie,

Or to kiss you, like the waters of the fountain kiss the pool,

If you should then refuse,

Or tell me to seek thee no more...

For every happy meeting, I'll at least have these poems.

\- If not to find the words, to know them all by heart.

I will carry them in my heart.

At the Botanical Garden

She walks fleet-footed in her tiny black shoes,

With a dress like breezy foliage,

And the little white tuffs on the cacti,

Around her breathe and exhale around her-

And there are birds jumping through the branches,

And the creosote bush has a scent like summer rain,

And there are white fluffy clouds that cool the little paths,

Where the native peoples once made huts out of sticks,

And there is a green pool with weeds and a little bench.

Love is like the butterflies she watches intimately,

Silently, because they land so sweet and gently,

And spread beautiful thin wings, like paintings of bright colors.

And while she kneels down to watch them dance about,

The feeling is delicate and kind,

I watch her,

and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

and how delicate she is, like the butterflies.

Love is also like a quiet path surrounded by sunflowers,

And the large palo verde tree that reaches out over us-

Or the faerie wisps that are red and magical, airy like ballerinas.

It is how she watches for the cottontails in the overgrowth,

And how she is delighted by the hopping cactus wren,

As it jumps from branch to branch,

Or how she takes pictures of a family of quail as they run.

I watch her,

and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

And how delightful and quiet she is,

like the path surrounded by flowers.

Love is like the tangled and strange cacti,

With arms that grow about one another,

and hold onto one another.

There is much delay and much revelry in their growing.

They must reach long roots beneath for water,

They must make spines and grow intricate for defense,

Their many lengths hide beneath themselves and twist in desire.

It is how she becomes nervous and looks away from me,

And how her silence gives way to a smile when she looks back.

I look at her,

and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

and how strange and intricate she is, like the tangled cacti.

Love is also like the many twigs and flowers

that surround the path.

It is like the doors in the trees made of dry branches,

And the shadows which hide many mysteries and enchantments within.

For much is hidden in our thoughts,

much is unknown between us.

And love is like the natural world as it surrenders itself over to us,

It surrenders its heart, its secrets,

And its strength is in that surrender.

I watch her,

and think of how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

And how mysterious and enchanted she is like the shadows,

And I surrender my heart, I surrender my very heart to her.

When I see Love Bloom

When I see nature bloom forth its elegance,

In roses or flowers, like on her cute little dress,

And in the summer, a sweet smell fills the air,

With a soothing aroma, that cheers me up-

Or I see the birds nesting over their delicate eggs,

Protecting and encouraging them to life-

like romantic hearts encourage each other,

I think of her, and how love is delicate,

And how love blooms forth its elegance, like the flowers.

When I see the eagle that soars high overhead,

over sun lit mountain tops, lifted and airy,

Or in winter when snow covers those same peaks,

With warm white sheets, I think of her fair skin,

And how warm and everlasting her beauty is.

Or I see the trees dance together in the wind,

And tangle up their branches like dancers,

Caressing each other, knowing one another,

I think of her, and how love means warmth,

And how love soars high above everything else.

When I hear an old country song,

or a poet's long sung ballad,

I listen to the tender words,

And I dream of her,

my favorite dream and inspiration.

I feel in my heart for the first time,

the meaning in the words,

And I see that life cannot be more beautiful,

That I can be in love with her today,

And feel that love surrounds me.

Jordan's Poems

Jordan I met when I was trying to become a filmmaker. She came out to a casting call for a film I was trying to put together, and my first impression of her was that she was cute and fun, but I didn't take her very seriously. She was a tiny girl, standing about 5ft 1in, and she had a squeaky little voice, which I found endearing. We became friends quickly while we were working together on the movie, and I gradually began to fall in love with her. We became the very best companions, and we told each other our hidden thoughts and secrets. She would come over to my parent's home, and we would spend hours just talking, and I was very happy with our friendship, but wanted more. I was drawn to her emotionally and physically, but I didn't want to move too quickly. I wanted her to fall as hopelessly in love with me as I had her. This was never to happen, and one night on one of our shoots, she brought another boy with her to the party. I was in very real distress and suffered greatly that she had found a new boy who she wanted more than me. She moved away, to Flagstaff, Arizona, though we are still the best of friends. I still write her poetry and still love her, and she says she loves me, which is something very real. This relationship is the closest I have yet come to something real with a woman. I think we will always be in contact, and our friendship means very much to both of us. She has been a muse for me for the past few years, and these are some of my most recent poems. The last poem Betrayal was written just as I began getting ready to publish this book.

God Did Whisper, and an Angel Appeared

I have often confessed my heart to God,

And spoken to him about my loneliness.

He never did answer, never responded-

To all my hopes and dreams I spoke to him-

All my pleas and cries in the night-

I was not certain he ever heard them.

I cursed his name for his lack of a response,

I lost all belief, and became incredulous.

I lost all meaning- life was for me, nothing but a corruption.

Women were unkind, and men were all brutes.

But, God did see me there and he took pity on me.

He saw me in my loneliness and despair.

I know now that Life is beautiful, Life is dear,

For God did Whisper, and an angel appeared.

If You Were Mine

If you were mine,

You could expect my complete surrender.

I'd surrender my heart and my affections,

And my poetry, only for you.

Such verses I would write!

Such passions I would explore!

We could make love like poets!

We could give birth to new sensations,

We would burn, full of verve,

Vital and fertile, like an ever lived spring.

Never dying, never killed.

Not by death to decompose.

No rainstorm in the night could quench our fire!

We could surge to the boundaries of ourselves,

Uplifting one another, in spirit, and in art,

We would become one, and eternally one-

United, indivisible, never separated.

Through all disasters, and all comic plays,

All climaxes.

We would be invigorated,

And restored,

by each tender kiss or warm embrace.

Restore me! Complete me!

I yearn to be embraced!

I want to know what love is!

I'd want to know you completely,

And see you in the nude.

Truly, verily, I do, and I would adore,

Every flaw and imperfection in you.

Every detail I would remember,

Your breasts, your hands, your legs,

There would be no other woman for me,

I could not admire another.

Not for your beauty, and your powers,

And your kindness, and your charm,

Things that I would cherish completely.

Completely would I be yours',

I would follow you with tears to the grave,

And no other situation could tempt me away.

For your love would I be,

Never lonely, nor full of angst,

I should be reconciled to mankind!

I should love him as a brother!

No sin could divert my path-

No dark wood would give me fear or pause-

I would be like a knight, like a fearless lion-

Defending and protecting your eagle.

I would be like a saint, so pure, so faithful.

No promises would I break-

For I would know such perfect balance-

In my soul, and in my character.

Our love would something blessed and interminable,

Forever would we love!

And into forever should our love be!

None of them will love, as I

There are more handsome boys,

Strapping boys, strong boys-

Who are more handsome than I.

There are more charming boys,

Refined boys, delightful boys,

Who are more charming than I.

There are more competent boys,

Wealthier boys, skillful boys,

Who are more competent than I.

There are more outgoing boys,

Friendlier boys, sociable boys,

Who are more outgoing than I.

But, none of them will love you in the same spirit-

And none of them will love you, as I.

Hand and Hand

When I see two walking hand and hand,

an infinite joy comes over me,

To see that two may know the truth,

of strength which comes from unity.

And silently walking alone I think,

what a bliss that it would be,

if everyone could share in this,

a love which knows no boundaries.

Two friends! Have I, which know true love,

and they've found it in one another,

O'er the endless sea of time and space,

they've been bound to find each other.

And now hand in hand they walk along,

with perfect friendship and camaraderie.

There's nothing here which these two part,

the world's been brought to harmony.

So seeing, says I, the world anew,

And for the first time in accord.

I've finally realized at this proper hour,

all the world's problems could be cured.

For if all men and women could be so arranged,

two and two, and hand and hand-

there would be nothing left to fear-

no strife in woman or man.

Quiet my soul

When my soul feels as if love is near,

It becomes too eager, it wants to jump and run-

It wants to dance, yes, my God,

It wants to hold her, to kiss her,

It wants to tell her "I love you",

It wants to plan a future with just us two.

It wants to make absurd gestures,

It wants to run off on trips to Europe-

To Ireland, and to France,

To hear the seductive language of the French-

To hear the poetry of the Irish.

It wants to become a philanthropist, my God,

And save the tigers.

It wants to proclaim its undying devotion to her.

But, I cannot do that anymore,

I have become too quickly involved-

in love with the idea of loving,

To the point that I destroy myself when she,

So quickly moves on- and I cannot but help,

To be lost in dreams of her,

like a man without knowledge.

Like a man trapped in a swirling sea.

And my bed is like a swirling sea,

With the covers all turned over from my tossing and turning-

And my mind is like a swirling sea,

With thoughts of her, lying her head on my knee.

I have met tonight the most wonderful girl-

She speaks the truth from her soul-

She speaks of remarkable things, and dangerous things,

She tells no lie, even when she is being playful.

I feel for her, and care for her in such a way,

That I would never take advantage of her-

like the other boys have done.

I wouldn't ever use her, or hurt her in any way-

and I long to be her knife thrower.

Boys, who haven't realized that the most beautiful woman,

Has come into their lives,

and gone out of their lives too quickly-

Boys, who she has loved with all of her heart,

Who have been too stupid to realize that without her-

they are nothing.

My God – That I could have her love-

it would make life worth living,

I would hold onto our love like the Christian holds his bible-

With sacredness, with reverence, for the love we would share.

I sense in her a sadness too, a great and profound sadness,

Of all her disappointments- from the coast guard-

To her encounters with boys- to her want to be touched.

I too have seen many disappointments,

From my own stupidity, or my too eager heart-

To my drunkenness and waywardness-

But I don't want to be disappointed again,

I want to tell her remarkable things, dangerous things,

My God, I want to somehow inspire her, like she has me.

However, I will not say

"I love you", or "I need you", or "I want you"-

Not until she says so first-

I must be quiet now,

Must not give myself away too easily-

I speak 'quiet' to my soul-

I speak 'quiet' to my heart.

A Love So Easily

I have always wandered alone,

Worried for my worried mind,

Chasing distances and making plans,

Which at some point I either did or did not believe in.

I have fantasized, while walking at night,

At the college, or hanging around the bars,

Of some lover never known,

Of some night never lived,

Of some words never shared or spoken.

I thought long on how it would be,

If I could find a girl, to be my own.

Who would want me as dearly, as I want her.

Someone who would be there through it all-

Though the future is so full of promise,

And the present only promises could make.

I wish so much to fulfill my dreams,

Of being worthy of such a carefree love-

A love that would be equally given, as equally received,

Through art and tenderness and kindness and touch.

Something eternal and spiritual,

Something without restrictions or rules.

I have met a girl who is an artist and a beautiful woman.

She takes wonderful photographs,

Where she is always stunning, and always free.

She speaks so kindly to me,

And often talks about the future,

What possibilities there are for us two-

We two could make our dreams come true!

Creating art together, and talking softly together,

Sharing thoughts and ideas, together-

About faith or about anything else.

We could speak so easily, we could love so easily.

I feel within me, an instant desire,

To express to her everything in my soul-

But I hold back-

I don't want to tell her how often I have thought of her.

I don't want her to know how deeply I am in love with her.

Perhaps this time it will be real,

Perhaps what I feel could be returned.

Maybe a companion is so near,

Maybe this time love will come easily.

Hour Upon Lonely Hour

I have waited hour upon lonely hour,

Thinking of all the gifts I have given,

to strangers, hoping for something more to be returned.

I have seen your sad eyes, and your sighs, waiting also.

I can not tell you, but with so many faltering words,

how beautiful you are, as an artist, and as a woman.

I have studied the great philosophers, and read countless books,

trying to perfect my heart, trying to make myself kind and good-

but over the years none of them have taught me

that knowledge which I really yearn to know.

I want to know what it's like to love

and be loved by a beautiful woman.

So tired am I of unrequited love,

so tired am I of giving my heart away.

So tired am I of old men writing endless pages, without poetry.

My love for you is like the perfection

of a single red rose

of my full beating heart

of a long and passionate kiss.

Only say 'yes'

Only say 'yes',

To my urges and my sex,

To my desires and my words-

They are all of them together.

Do not go away from me,

Without taking something from me,

Without telling me something true.

Do not destroy me,

With an angry glance,

Or a hostile word.

But, write with me,

And dance with me,

And sing with me-

The song of my ever loving joy.

Say 'yes' to my poems and my love-

And all of us will come together,

Our two souls will come together,

Everything all together,

Intertwined and held together,

Like our two bodies,
Together.

That We know of

To be lovers, and to touch cheek to cheek,

With passionate gyrations and thrusts,

In the night, to converge, and fill with blood-

With childlike wonder to explore each other,

To caress and stroke, to kiss and suck,

Knowing in giving our bodies we give of ourselves,

Completely and absolutely-

To the excitement and enthusiasm of our affection.

To know our flesh hot, and our skin wet.

Of this, will we never know of.

To be celibate and chaste, and caring and kind,

With gestures of sympathy, tears and poems,

In the night, to talk about everything- knowing nothing,

With childlike innocence, our quiet speech,

Learning about each other, enamored of beauty,

Resenting our flaws, longing for perfection,

Like holy fools who want what is sacred-

Knowing that something is sacred here,

Knowing that something is eternal here,

In our perfect friendship,

We will have a love better than love.

Of this, only will we know of.

To be married, successful and comfortable,

With money, finally, after the dust settles,

In the night, to go to sleep in each others arms,

Like the privileged do, or the victorious do,

With a good sleep, and no worries on the clock-

Loving our place, knowing our place, stuck in our place,

With children, and open mouths stuffed with food.

Bound tightly and suffocated, our bodies confined-

No space to breathe, becoming rocks instead of plants,

Too many things having been said, with too little said.

Of this, will we never know of.

To be artists, failures, deceivers and dreamers,

With only loneliness and empty time to console ourselves by.

In the night, to go pacing back and forth,

Like the unwanted do, like the tormented do,

Without sleep...the clock tick ticking.

Never to create offspring,

but always to create offspring.

Free and unchained, by marriage or by vows,

Hungry and poorly fed, but growing all the same.

We will have our sun and our moon,

knowing beauty and sacredness.

To be together as friends,

To be together as creators,

Of this, only will we know of.

My Love is Free

Don't worry for me, My love is Free!

To feel an unbridled and enthusiastic love, that is what I adore.

To stand here in the dead of night,

smoking under the moonlight,

Thinking thoughts of you, and how you fill me up with joy.

How can I be sorrowful? How could I be love sick then?

Not when I have such a good companion, such a friend.

It means so much to me, every moment that we spend together,

I feel elevated, I feel high, I feel like the world is mine.

I love our conversations- I love our quiet talks-

I love everything about being with you.

There are no limitations to what we could do,

limitations are an illusion.

My love for you is without limitations, it is no illusion-

it does not try to contain- it does not solicit any response.

It has no rules- it doesn't want you to obey or to follow it-

It wants nothing from you,

it is not owed anything for being there-

You don't have to pay it compliments-

you don't have to defend yourself against it.

You don't have to make promises,

you don't have to concern yourself with it,

My love for you would be there no matter what.

And it is True, my God, it will not die, not putrefy,

not become hateful or aggressive-

it is pure, from my very pulse it flows,

from my innermost being-

from my innermost soul.

When I look at you, I feel nothing but love and adoration-

and that excites me-

Because I have never felt that way before-

not with any other.

Surely I have written poems before-

I have claimed to be in love,

truly it was dishonesty, it was trickery, it was all childish.

This poem is more important than all of those other poems,

because I have written it for someone I truly love.

And because this time, my love is free.

Her little Pet

I want to be her pet.

To have her care for me,

And I to care for her.

To have her listen to my flaws,

My imperfections, my long letters,

When I am in a dark mood, a curious mood,

And am not making much sense.

She will tell me it's alright,

That I can tell her anything,

And she will not forsake me,

Or leave me here again alone,

Without a friend in the world.

I will listen to her dreams,

Either those of devils or of angels,

And when she despairs,

It hurts me too,

Because I want to help her,

And be her friend,

Her protector even,

If I could be strong enough,

To help her through the hard times,

Or the memories that linger in the night,

And cause our hearts to break.

I want to be her perfect companion,

To be tender and affectionate with her,

Though I am often awkward or shy,

And she is so free and confident.

But, I know that she loves me,

And I do so love her,

Because of the way she cares for me,

And the way that I care for her,

And because she has saved me from darkness,

And made all things possible again.

She is inspired by God and nature,

And wants to change the world.

With our love, all could be possible,

We could cause others to be inspired,

And to try their luck, just like us,

to come together over us, and through us,

Or to follow us in pursuing art.

We will always be perfect companions,

And I will always be her pet,

And we will always inspire each other,

Protect each other, and support each other.

This is my hope for the future,

This is what pumps my blood.

She is the dream that keeps me dreaming

It is My Grief To Love You

I will spend the hours thinking of you,

Listening to music and dreaming-

Or I will remember our smiles each to each,

Warming us in spite of the cold night air.

There is a darkness here, as well as a light,

Night terrors and brutal thoughts,

That I love you in spite of.

It is my grief to love you as I do.

I will always be here,

Though many boys will come and go,

And watching from a distance I will know,

That their love is not as profound as mine,

I ache, I give birth, I suffer, I hope.

And it will give me some small delight,

That you return to me always.

It is my grief to love you as I do.

I will tell you again and again,

How much I love you.

And you will say I love you too, as a friend.

But, what more than friendship is there?

And what more than love is there?

I can express more in a poem, than with my lust,

But it will always hurt me that you have no desire for me,

It is my grief to love you as I do.

I will never betray our intimate bond,

Never hurt you or say something mean.

It will be all my joy when I am near to you,

And will be all my misery when you are away.

I couldn't even say, what I truly feel,

For it would go on endlessly,

My pen cannot decipher it.

It is my grief to love you as I do.

Torture my heart

Give me a love so near, so dear to me,

Let her come close to me, and make me dream.

Let her be perfect in every way,

Free in spirit, lovely in form.

And then take her away from me-

Let her fall in love with some other boy.

This is what is good for me,

It makes for better poetry,

It makes for a perfect soul.

It teaches empathy, teaches kindness,

Yes, Torture my heart please,

I am still strong enough for it.

Give me someone to hold near to me,

To share beautiful talks with,

To share my thoughts and aspirations with-

Let her be perfect in every way-

Let her be beautiful and kind and loving,

And then take her away from me.

Let her bring another boy around me,

Let her hold onto him and share kisses with him-

Though she would never kiss me.

This is what is good for me,

It makes for better poetry,

It makes for a perfect soul.

It builds character, inspires art.

Yes, torture my heart please,

I am still strong enough for it.

Betrayal

I have betrayed what is sacred to me,

Our love and friendship, which to me-

Has been the only thing pure and good in my life.

It has lifted me up, toward the light

Though darkness has found me yet again-

And the devil makes fools of us all.

I feel like a sad and desperate man,

I am a sad and desperate man!

I have walked the lonely night away-

Stricken- aching- longing-

And it is only you I have longed for, and ached for.

I have always been a damned lonely fool,

And I have harmed you, my angel,

And been secretive and false-

I did it as an outcry from my heart,

My passion got hold of me-

And turned me into a bug, or a creep.

All I ever wanted was to be more near to you-

To see you in the nude, to be part of your secret art.

It hurts me forever that I cannot be more to you.

I feel like everything I am has been false,

Like everything good between us has been tainted-

By lust and by damned impure desires.

I deserve to punish myself for this indiscretion.

There is no one in this world, who I love,

More than you- and I have made a mess of it.

I am a mess- I have always been a mess.

I try my best to always be good, and healthy,

My purity is only on the surface,

Beneath the surface it is all pain and disgrace-

The pain runs more deeply than love even-

I am repressed and assuredly unhealthy-

It is this repression which makes me sick-

It is the fact that I fixate and obsess-

I have never known a woman's embrace-

Never known touch, never been loved-

Have never experienced love's sensations-

I have been afraid, desperately afraid, and insecure.

I hate myself for what I've done,

And it only gives me one reason more-

To doubt my own judgments.

To doubt whether I am worthy of our love.

I want to confess myself to you-

And I should have done so before-

I should have told you that I longed for you,

And not gone about it in a secret and perverse way.

It is because I have no courage, and no strength-

All these things have been beaten out of me.

I have yet to recover from all the damage that's been done.

But, if you still yet love me, as I still yet love you,

I can overcome these shortcomings.

If only you lived near, and were with me,

I should be strong and not afraid,

Because when I am with you, I feel whole, complete, not alone.

The truth is, I wanted to be caught, I wanted you to know-

Secretly, I wanted you to call me out-

Because I don't ever feel like I am worthy,

Of knowing such a beautiful young woman.

With the help of an angel I was uplifted,

But like an angel that's fell, I have fallen too from grace.

Other Love Poems

These are an assortment of other poems dealing with love and its consequences. They were written at various times, though I don't know exact dates. I have put them here because they were not written for anyone in particular. They come at various times when I am lonely walking in the night.

Sometimes I wish

There are many who despair- to find a true love.

Their hearts yearn but are never satisfied,

their fire burns and smolders, ever and ever-

in the deep dark night, with eyes wide awake.

Their nerves shaken, and their minds wired.

They feel, but have no one to feel for.

No one to share simple conversation with,

or charming smiles across dinner tables,

only the sound of a wanting penetrative silence.

I feel for them, I pity for them, I cry for them,

those who know not the joys of companionship.

The simple pleasure of having someone to hold,

someone to have a past, or a future with,

someone to share the sorrows and the pleasures with.

The unwanted, the orphaned, the repulsive, the unsought-

the lonely, the bitter, the old, and the reclusive.

I have seen them in lonely hallways, standing idle.

I have seen them in bars with yellowed skin, drinking heavily.

I have known them to die one thousand deaths,

uncounted and unknown, beneath the meaningless stars.

Sometimes I wish I were not one of them.

Love Elemental

Love should be like fire.

It should be passionate, and never contained.

Love should be like the rain.

It should calm the senses, and enfold you completely.

Love should be like the wind.

It should be powerful and stirring.

Love should be like the earth.

It should be steady and incorruptible.

Love should be elemental, transcending all forms.

The Perfect Girl

I don't need an exceptionally pretty girl,

A woman with perfect figure, or sprightliness,

I don't need her to have perky breasts, or long legs,

Without blemishes, without scars, or still yet virginal.

I don't care for the color of the eyes,

or the movement of her thighs,

or if she blush and cover herself when I walk by,

I don't need her to have stately hips,

Nor stylish wardrobe, nor plush red lips.

Nor to be a woman of independent means,

nor to be educated, or classy, or refined.

Nor to be celebrated or well fancied by others.

I just need her to be perfect in soul,

Perfect in kindness, spirit and art,

Passionate in her love for me, as I my love for her,

Perfect as a muse, so I can play my part.

It is obvious to me, that this perfect girl,

is exceptionally hard to find.

They're All The Images I Know The Meaning's Of

Why should I write, when all the writing is swallowed up,

By life itself, when it sounds its bugle call,

to my champions desire on the lonely street,

and the faces ask me to laugh with them-

and dance like the jester for their amusements,

Where there is much food and drink.

What can I do? What can I see?

When romance or a pretty a day,

Spends an hour with me, and speaks in a melody,

Or a friend needs some kind words to explore himself by.

Or the empty and necessary angels play backyard boogie,

Behind the house party at the college-

Where there is much to drink and much to eat.

Where does the time go? How can I spend it best?

With the ancient literary men, and the aged poets?

Who have already danced here before, and said many,

Well said things, and bits of advice, for my fool-

To my young man, who is so much like your old man.

Or the philosopher kings, like Saint Augustine,

Have been cloistered with nuns and barmaids.

When I sit and put my pen to paper, to seek inspiration,

And all that comes to me is my few years,

Spent in solitude- or with some young girl-

raking leaves into the dry shed-

You see, of every image I write,

They are the only images I know the meaning's of.

Return to me, my heart

Return to me, my heart,

If I should give thee in earnest-

To a less elevated despair,

That hides around the mouth.

That soft drool of mine,

That trickled down her blouse.

Return to me, all my poems,

If I should write thee in my true voice,

If I should send thee away,

I ask them to take care to distort you and corrupt you first,

For they will never understand you.

Return to me, my hatreds,

When I pass you on,

\- I hope they show me how much they hate me, in return

not to take too long, to strike me hard,

For hanging around too long,

And turn me into a barking cow.

Return to me, my heart,

If you are not worthy enough for them,

come back to me again.

Return to me.

Return to me, my heart.

Accept Love

Accept me against your milky white skin,

Accept me with your lips, and with my lips to caress-

My eternity between your long legs-

And wrap me in your warm profusion of new beginnings.

Let my heart rush against you still,

And accept me here, kissing your breast,

And accept me here, and here again.

The hot fulfillment of our joys by touch,

To sooth away the mediocre drainings of the day,

In your tender affectionate kisses-

Beauty, accept me, and show me,

A new joy in love.

My Heart, When it Opens

My heart when it opens-

It says, 'lets try once again'.

My heart rebuffed, closes itself tightly,

And rebukes me- mocks at me-

Saying 'never again'.

Over and over,

Again and again.

I need you to love me.

I need you to love me,

When the air is cold and icy,

When the sky is darkened and grey,

Or at sunset when it glows red and pink with fire.

I need you to comfort me,

When the shadows are drug all around me,

When the leopard's sharp claws dig into me,

When I am anxious and full of black water.

I need you to care for me,

Like the streams and the meadows,

Where the red dear is racing,

And the wolf with yellow eyes is chasing.

The trees that were once so full,

with the winter are made barren and empty.

I need you to want me, and to need me,

When I am in need of you,

To be wanted and desired is every aim-

Every sweep and motion,

At every pointless stop.

Variation on a Nursery Rhyme

The stars are bright tonight-

Small and delicate- shining brightly- through the black.

The night is cold, but I am warm in the blankets,

And I wear my clothes- the forest dust floor,

leaves dirt on my pack-

Like grit on your shoe, or the rock poking through-

That makes this uncomfortable.

I look up into the heavens,

And I remember everything yet again.

Those thoughts that sparkle in sad lonely eyes-

My heart, its own pulse to despise.

I promise not to envy those that walk together.

I hide a smile nearby, and a mumble of the mind-

With a cold beer fetched on the sly-

With me, there is no together.

She lays here by my side, nearby, looking out.

Tonight on those same stars- with the black all around them.

I can dream of you, and your small fingers, light and delicate-

Beauty wrapped in the blankets beside me-

Sweet nothings whispered under the starry sky.

Star light, star bright, I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.

Her Fair Soles

I would rest my chair at your dainty feet,

And if you would allow me- to paint a toe.

Pretty and perfect,

They are full of misery.

I hold your arches and heels,

And caress them bitterly.

The pink delicacy beneath,

I would rub them with my very hands-

So small and tender and lovely.

My eyes would turn against me then,

If I should look into your eyes-

If I should break this confidence with a kiss,

Upon your fair toes-

I would have broken the silence with shame.

A Moment

I held her thin frame gasping beneath me,

Her eyes without vision, and gazing upward without prophecy.

Her soft moans and whimpers a secret solace to hear,

And her pleasure in submission to my impulses.

Invigorate Her

Love invigorate her womanly esteem,

With tender joy and affable grace.

My artistry to the more please,

my hope which surrounds this lonely place-

The warmth of that wondrous girl.

I pause before her to watch the people,

Coalescing, enfolding, of inattentive mind-

Successful or pretty, but not of an equal.

Her bust blessed, hips curved, and her enduring design.

A compliment to woman kind!

By far, in motherhood, maidenhood- whatever her art,

Her form more refined- divergent from the common heart,

Her soul more feeling- for condemnation or praise,

The women concealing their envious gaze,

And the men wishing they could create for her-

A finer and more perfect art.

The Real of Love

I have within me the real of love,

The sentiments of which but only I and true lover's know.

Not 'lovers' like you would have them classified,

I saying 'you', to the ever endlessly satisfied.

The sane, who think only of 'this', or 'this', as the real-

Like you are required something for saying 'I love you.'

The saying of it makes it true- only when it is well timed-

Which to some would seem sound advice,

But many people use 'I love you'.

Earthy and not lofty, common and low,

A soul mate is not really one in rings or cuffs.

My soul is free of comparison,

There are few like it.

The Divine

Sometimes I do speculate on the nature of God, and whether or not he exists and in what way he exists. I have written a few poems with reference to God and I will put them here. They were written at unknown times throughout the years marked by this book.

Gods We Are!

The roar of the plunging surf,

The rage of discharging bodies,

The deep of the ocean bottom-

Where bubbles rise from cracks-

And unknown luminous creatures float-

Among heat and volcanic springs- that bubble.

Everything is full of a tortured exhilaration.

A deep inhalation and exhalation-

Of various winds and waves.

We speculate on the nature of God-

Or the existence of a hidden kingdom.

We soak our minds in worship to Temples,

Mosques, Churches, Salvations, States-

We are drunk in a purgatory of various excesses.

Perhaps God was an artist,

A creator of things who grew lonely-

Alone as a faceless spirit in the light of himself.

Maybe he wished to share this majesty of creation-

Maybe he created man as a witness-

That the universe may recognize itself-

And grow to joy in itself- to see itself-

To bear up itself, to churn and boil, heat to heat.

Perhaps God was a poet,

To suffer with us, to weep with us,

To know pain and beauty together with us.

Love! In an eternal communion of being to being.

And perhaps we, if we grew to be poets too,

Could come closer to a truer communication.

Perhaps we could even be as gods,

Creators We Are! Gods We Are!

The Death of God

Man was birthed from a void to the soil,

A free form of shades and eternities.

His imperfect duality- a perfection stripped off from him.

He was cast out and abandoned-

\- of a nature, cruel, indifferent and violent.

A heaving paradise of jungle mud- and screaming finches.

He witnessed his fellow men, as jackals or sheep.

Wool torn and ripped, flying before him as object,

Sunk into the muddled stinking bog, like quick sand,

Tears lost to the swamp soaked mists-

upward raised his hands.

Bathed by the luminosity of the mysterious moon-

As the lambs were eaten, and blood spat the pyre.

Survival by the rule of force, by the blazing fire.

He hunted and murdered as the beasts.

A seeping savagery of Godless brutality-

Skulls on the ramparts, crosses on the parapets-

beneath a flat black cosmos.

He was taken advantage of, uncared for, unloved,

Made war, or was made war upon, for the craven lust.

He snagged his skin on the thorns and tore off his coverings-

standing nude- before the Kaiser or the Kremlin.

The spear plunged forward spilled his pungent innards-

Like the pulp and flesh of a scavenged fruit,

Sunk ugly in the mud of death and water.

He stuck his sword and clenched tightly his crippled heart,

Dying for his soul,

unsaved and carried on by the charging gusts.

Stampeded frenzy, and meat pulled apart by decayed teeth.

Searching for shelter from cold,

upon a bed of dead animals.

It turned his feet soles to black ash,

and smoke-filled his lungs.

Never cried from the stillness, Never loved the sex,

In the stinking cave of sweat and heat smells-

beneath his own unhealthy desires.

There was nothing of companionship,

Among man, woman or child.

But the war party drum beat in loud echoes-

Shadows of primitive dances, and deranged chanting-

And the mothers wept when their babies were born,

Knowing only the sickly, or the dead.

Man held aloft his torch into the unsettled grey sky.

Without love's charity, he was made to witness-

The cursed day of his cruel birth.

Lost and not understanding God.

The Moon

Sitting alone in the park tonight beneath a silver birch tree,

The wind rustling, and a trickle of rain from the dark sky-

I beheld the perfect heavens in the mirror of the moon.

The raiment of God, wearing silver tassels.

I looked up into that voluminous sky,

And parted the dangling branches with my dishonest looking.

I bore witness to the quivering leaf which wavered there on the branch.

Servile to the will of the father, and heavy with dew-

It leapt from his clutches and sought flight from the vision.

Seeing it there beside me, I lamented-

I lamented not for the leaf.

Worship the Cunt

I got a call from a girl.

She was fun.

She liked to dress up as a Cat, because her name was Kat.

It was the physical representation of her name.

She thought it clever.

She said she was kinky, and into vampires, and wild sex.

I said "Twilight is a little girl sex thing."

I went and picked her up in my cheap car.

I put my scents on and dressed up in my best,

least torn clothing.

I shaved in a cracked mirror.

My studio apartment has one room and bars on the window.

I had never met her before,

and had only spoken to her over the phone-

She had approached me through my computer.

We ate and drank and walked.

I bought her a steak, and said

"It's the best damn steak in the city."

When the steak came it was made of wax.

She was a prime-cut herself, and put on a pretty smile.

She had the cutie pie, take me stud, demeanor.

It's a very endearing thing for the young.

We went to a movie and played awkward caresses in the dark.

I said, "I'm going to make movies,"

She said, "I'm a great actress."

She referred to me as "her director."

It was a blank screen for an hour and a half.

The projector must have broken.

I said "your lips taste like bubble gum."

She said, "your lips taste like a steak and a cigarette."

We got up, the lights came on.

I took her to a quiet spot in my cheap car-

I had already cleaned the seats and thrown out the stale coffee cups,

If only she knew how disgusting I am.

I pulled over and made the Humphrey Bogart eyes-

I wanted to be serious and lusty and passionate.

I said, "darlin', you got what I need."

She said "you're such a nice guy."

She unzipped my pants and played with my cock.

I couldn't get very hard and couldn't cum.

She asked "what is the matter with you?"

She said "if you can't fuck, then we'll just have to be friends."

I said, "I'm a poet, but not good for much else."

And the earth only said "worship the cunt."

I tried again the next weekend.

I found a brand new girl to walk and drink and talk.

She also appeared out of my computer.

I most often use the computer for pornography-

I type "sex" into search,

It is the most often searched for word in the world.

They say the internet has other uses.

This time I didn't bother with the scents or clothes or car.

I was too tired for pretence, and only wanted sex- didn't care for dignity.

I left the paper cups down below, where my passenger's feet would be.

I drove to the Starbucks in the mall.

This is where I was to see and speak to her.

I hadn't spoken to her yet-

We had only texted back and forth on my ipod, iphone, electric ear.

When I saw her I realized she was an exception.

She was four feet tall, fat, and had cracks in her toe-nails in the flip-flops.

She was very kind- her mother was with her.

I saw she was mentally slow- she was dim- she was born without a hope.

I had liked her being without hope when she messaged me-

I thought she would be gentle.

I have forgotten her name.

Her mother abandoned her to me.

I bought her a coffee and said, "I basically live at Starbucks."

I said this in my most cool voice- which helps me not to stumble.

I'm a great actor.

She didn't care about that.

She was too busy being awkward.

She recognized her worthlessness and wanted to hide it.

She snorted and made a strange face when she laughed.

She laughed without understanding.

I walked with her through the mall.

She wanted to go to the puppy store.

We watched the orphan puppies wiggling their butts in their cages.

She snorted and laughed.

I took her to McDonalds- because she wanted a happy meal.

I had a burger made of dog food from the dollar menu.

She had ketchup and a pickle sliver in the corner of her mouth.

I said "this shit tastes like it fell on the floor."

She said, "I'd like to eat it everyday."

I said "I'm broke, and I do."

I bought her an ice cream cone.

She played with her happy meal toy.

I took her to the movies.

We watched Batman meets the Wolfman versus Freddy the Revolution part 3.

It had George Clooney and Kevin Spacey in it.

Hollywood is so clever.

After the movie I took her home in my cheap car.

On the way she told me she was kinky, into vampires, and wild sex.

She said she had sex once on a mountain top.

I asked, "was it romantic and passionate and beautiful?"

She said, "I don't remember- I just remember being scared so I couldn't think."

She said "he held me down, he finished, and I passed out."

I pulled up to her house.

It was hard to find because she had several times forgotten the way.

She smiled and said "lets go next weekend again."

I said "Maybe, but I got a lot of other stuff to do."

She may have been dim, but as she walked to the door I saw it in her face.

I can no longer live with this.

And the earth only says "worship the cunt."

I went to work.

At work the boss gave me a dollar.

He said "this dollar multiplies in value of eight."

It takes up all my time.

After work, I went to the package store and bought a bottle of Jack.

I bought a fresh pack of cigarettes.

I went to the doctor around the corner and got a bottle of poison pills.

I took out the pill container and swallowed a relaxer.

I needed to relax.

I shot the bottle of Jack.

I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes.

I went to the toilet and the toilet said, "kneel down and pray."

I had to take a shit and puked up in my hands.

I said, "Jack Daniels is a good and a bad thing."

I went outside and sat on the curb.

I tried to sober up, but went for a swim instead.

I couldn't find my way home.

I wanted to watch porn on my laptop and to masturbate.

I usually take a two hour shower with my head in the drain.

I stumbled around in front of the store.

A man in a flannel suit came forward and emptied my pockets.

He said, "for you, a dollar multiplies in the value of eight."

I said, "yeah, but not all at once."

He said "for me I get it on percentage, its better, and I use coercion."

I said, "I'm only four feet tall, and nobody would be persuaded."

He also stole my ipod, iphone, electric ear.

With no money or phone I went down to the red light district.

I came across a man named Friedrich.

He yelled into a crowd standing out front of a theater.

He called them all slaves.

He played the bongos, and called it thunder.

Friedrich is a crazy motherfucker.

Standing next to the bongo man were two drifters.

One said he was called William, the other said he was called Bukowski.

One asked "you got any junk?" the other asked "you got any booze?"

Over by the door of the theater was a workingman.

He had on dirty clothes with paint and metal chips tangled up in the fabric.

He had hands all grimy and beaten up and stained.

I said "hi dad."

He said "you know you're a real piece of shit."

I said "yeah I know, gonna have it on my tombstone."

Ridiculous Insignificant Piece of Shit.

R.I.Piece of Shit.

I asked "wanna go watch the show inside?"

He said "alright but your mother is waiting for me."

We went into the theater.

The show began and the actors flew out on wires above the crowd.

They were elevated above us for an hour and a half.

The lights came up.

I realized they were just puppets.

As I was leaving I said "see ya later pops."

He said, "remember your brother's birthday is next week."

I walked around for a while,

My drunken sickness was disappearing.

I saw a girl in a coffee shop window dressed up as a Cat.

It must be a new thing to do, I thought.

She was very beautiful with black hair- I like black hair.

I had a fondness for her for no reason.

She was made-up wild, but I thought it hip and appealing.

I found a piece of newspaper on the ground by the sewer.

I took out my pocket pen and wrote a poem for her in between the print.

I linked her beauty to a concept and slammed it on the page.

Feeling extraordinary, and looking well upon my verse,

and feeling all dramatic and courageous like-

having just come from the theater,

I took my poem in hand and walked directly into the coffee shop.

I slammed it on the table in front of her.

I demanded an answer, "so what do you think of this?"

I asked it in a wild dramatic way.

She read it and I saw she really did admire it as well.

She looked up at me and asked "who's it for?"

I said, "I wrote it for you, because you're beautiful."

She looked down at the paper thoughtfully.

She said, "I would give my life to be able to write like you."

I looked down at her thoughtfully and said, "I have."

I say "I'm a poet, but not good for much else."

The earth only says, "worship the cunt."

Walking out of the coffee shop I traveled down to the shore.

I went straight out and stood on the edge of a cliff with the sea down below.

The gulls were flying overhead and swooping down into the flow and foam-

Snatching up the little fishes.

I watched the sun come up.

I watched every color in existence flash in the sky on the horizon-

as the light came up.

I watched the waves throwing themselves in opposition upon the rocks-

and breaking.

The earth only says, "worship the cunt."

Man on the Wires

Where did the black dragon come from?

He made a sound like ROOAAAAAARRRRRRR!

And spouted fire- blazing the pigeons up on the wire.

They were lit to flying burning comets

and crashed into the earth.

I ran down the alley,

slipped on the slime

and tore a muscle in the escape.

In the apartment I climbed into the refrigerator-

which makes a sound like GGGGRRRRRUUUUUMMMMMPPPPPP.

I sat in darkness-

the little light goes off when you shut the door.

I got scared when I felt the cheese between my toes and milk run up my legs.

I pushed my way through and thrust out the apartment door.

I got out on the street again and decided to walk with my face.

I knew one day my pretty face would get me somewhere,

don't believe me, talk to my cheese toes!!!!

I ran up to a telephone pole and began slamming my head into the iron.

Which made a sound like PAAAAANNNNGGGGGGGGGG!

Up on the wires you feel free.

So I wriggled myself up the pole- to sit on the telephone wires.

The pigeons looked at me. I tried to listen in on everyone's conversation.

I couldn't hear anything- as I stuck a finger in their mouths.

I got myself electrocuted and fell to the earth like a comet.

FUCKING PIGEON'S, YOU SHITS !!!!!!!!!!!

Social/Political Poems

I sometimes consider the political world and write poems about it, although I write most of my political thought in essay form. These poems are made up of considerations of our social lives and also our political lives. They are not intended to be read looking for ideology, but more intended to speak to our lives living in a social context, or searching for the purpose of an individual life.

Come to Me O Lost Ones

Come to me O lost ones,

those who are wild in the night,

who fight in the bars, drunken,

or challenge the police.

The unsung heathens,

who wreck themselves in sin.

We, all of us sinners, in that we hurt,

without knowing why.

Come to me O lost ones,

to the lonely worker, who earns little for his day,

a meaningless empty wage,

who spends the nights alone,

counting the bottle caps that stack up-

like his bills on the countertops,

like his envy, of better lives lived.

Come to me O lost ones,

to the hair colored faggot,

or the rock 'n' roll dreamer,

who melt with the amplifier waves,

dreaming of sex, and a new connection,

in a world where passion is fleeting.

Come to me O lost ones,

to the whore on the street,

weeping for the aborted child,

her scraped up and bruised knees,

and the scars which never will heal.

Come to me O lost ones,

to the immigrants without a home,

the cowboys and the Indians,

that roam, far over the endless fields,

shooting at one another from horseback,

killing each other for little reason.

The bandits without mothers,

who have to hide their tears.

Come to me O lost ones,

The first born or the last born,

those who will die in the flood,

or in the midwife's bloody hands-

their stories untold-

their great works never written.

Come to me O lost ones,

for you are of myself,

and I wish to know you through myself.

Look. Listen. Feel

Now you wait right there- stop in this meandering about.

End this revolving door nightmare, end this abstention.

Stop the chamber dancers and their chamber pot mouths.

Stop the clamber for the milkman, and this feeble remonstrance.

Stop the traffic, both inhuman and human, on this crowded city street.

Stop the newspaper men, stop the printing press, stop the infomercial.

Sit down here beside me and Look. Listen. Feel.

Know that it is all here among you,

It has always been here among you- all of you.

Do not deceive yourself with fanciful futures.

Do not conceal yourself with trivial discussion, and behaviors.

Do not repudiate this struggle and this day.

Do not replace for pleasure this pain.

Do not dismiss yourself from this man, or this woman.

If you would only stop and Look. Listen. Feel.

You too could hear the agonized soundings of the lyre-

and better know the songs and moods of our many worlds.

Animal Cages

I rode my tricycle down along some animal cages.

My hands grasped tightly to the bars,

The cards clapped within the spokes.

I saw a chimp mother with her fat little baby,

Hung around her neck.

She was reaching for a bag full of exploded kernels,

Which had fallen too close to her air conditioned environment,

And she looked longingly with a bored look.

Orphaned

Let us all be orphaned,

To forget the rapacious creed-

The guilt that dwindles,

Like our mother's menace of words-

Let us become this folly to the world.

There is a Question you are asked

There is a question you are asked-

When you are very young-

a small bud, a sapling yet to bloom.

It is asked beneath a blanket with a flashlight-

Toes on your bottoms-

In your childhood rooms.

By the river and the waterfall-

Like imagined inspiration,

Pitter pattering like rainfall-

The secret serpents' carnations-

And the lunar eclipse.

Quiet and imperceptible,

You feel the mist and splash/

Without words to form its asking,

An adjunct to its quality,

You will be unaware-

Of its call to action.

With pink blossoms in your hair.

And a pout and dribble-

Down your cheek.

Will you sleep?

Will you sleep?

It will be the whisper of the fallen flakes-

Who sprinkled beads of water-

Which smote through vapor,

and smoldered the flame-

in the molten center of the world.

The tragedies and odes,

Of the garnished and named-

Faces of famous relics-

Cast out of cement.

Will you follow?

Will you follow?

Rise like steam.

Prisoner

There are many heart sick and

well meaning women,

Who send their love away in letters,

Written on a crinkled pad-

And when on visits to the penitentiary,

They ready themselves for romance-

Seeking an exchange of promises, separated by the glass.

Yearning and hoping for an escape,

From the boredom or the loneliness of their dull lives,

They seek to save, and to give themselves away-

Like nude or erotic photographs of themselves-

They send through the mail with the courier,

In order to ease a prisoner's sexual longing-

Again, the desire for release.

But, I have yet to commit any crime,

And no woman has ever proposed marriage to me-

To save me-

Has ever exchanged promises with me,

or written her love in a letter-

Never has she sent me messages,

detailing her state of undress.

Poets and Prophets

When I see what has become of my poets and prophets,

who have wrecked upon the rocks,

wading through the raging river,

and left their planks and paddles floated there as drift wood-

whose forms have been dispensed, but perverted,

through the ripple,

yes, even I grow tired of my philosophy.

A Sad Suffering Grasp

Take heart lonely dreamer in the night,

Forgive him a trespass.

A man can't live for so long without tenderness,

But whose seeking to touch outreaches his length,

And is the cause of his error in judgment.

A sad suffering grasp at the air,

Is a pain more sorrowful,

Than a proud one which lands,

But, which is more dangerous?

Faces of the Mob

In the faces of the mob,

I see nothing but complacency.

The women worrying about fashion,

and the men worrying about women.

It is so frequent for them to borrow.

I hear, the wagging of bitter tongues.

the parlance of the times.

Complaining so loudly that it makes them all useless.

Sighing so loudly from boredom,

that you could be blown over from the wind.

Ego's so large they could bust at the seams.

In the faces of the mob,

I see hideous constraints-

I would not even be vindicated to be vilified among them.

They will try and kill you with their warped speech-

warped from the popular culture/ cliché's that they readily consume.

And you cannot fit among them, if you are different,

and you cannot sleep with any of them

without becoming contaminated.

If you try to step around them, or walk over them,

they will cling to your boots.

They will glob together as if a jelly,

and will come at you with common hatreds-

and common in their hatreds they will feel it is justified,

and they will call it 'truth'.

The Ultimate

I am not willing to compromise myself,

by working a job for the government,

pretending that it makes some difference, to someone,

to hand out a few false vows or statements,

to a crowd of idle minds, who grasp at thin air.

I am not capable of being responsible or reasonable,

or caring for myself, or about myself in general,

when it seems so unimportant,

too careful, too trivial, too condescending, too civilized.

My shoes are untied, my clothes are all wrinkled,

my teeth are not brushed, my hair is not combed.

I stink of yesterday's late dinner, or like sweat in my palm.

I have nothing to think about, and the time drivels on.

I have no desire to farm the land, or to build great buildings,

like the stadiums or the amphitheater halls.

I see no reason to contrive mechanisms of modern engineering,

like working at a bomb factory, or spinning things out of yarn.

It is not interesting to me, to sit on the assembly line,

or to go off to war, full of a false courage,

or to fly to the moon on a rocket ship full of love,

or to ship out to sea in a vessel full of hate,

or to put on a uniform, to try to save my fellow man.

Most of them are beyond the saving-

and I am not willing to have them even as a vassal-

like a fortune teller, or a business man would have.

they're like spilled pennies, or water through my hands.

I need something more, some nearer connection,

some instantaneous reaction- some cause unknown,

an effect unseen, for which to make my stand.

I don't want to live in a realm of false choosing-

to be condemned or ordained- the winning or the losing.

I want something more fully realized, more impeccably truthful,

nearer to religion, but not of any common brand.

What I want is the ultimate,

and for that, I'll give everything I am.

No Masters!

King's and Queens with their stolen jewels,

Set in their heavy crowns, with their faces stuffed,

And their populations in awe, at the pretty princess,

Who has a wedding to her prince in the Abbey.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

Tyrants in military uniforms, spending the poor's blood,

On themselves, and have harems of beautiful eastern women,

At their beck and call-

Stockpiling armaments against the West-

Stealing from their own people,

bringing guns into the streets.

They imprison all dissidents, defectors, and critics.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

Napoleon and his generals, or Julius Caesar,

Who went to war against their neighbors,

Becoming national heroes, for leveling towns into dust-

A trail of blood in their wake, orphans by the side of the road-

Their names now renowned for their 'greatness',

The historians have fallen in love.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

Hitler, who attempted to create a 'master' race of men,

By convincing everyone of their superiority to the Jew,

Who used bombs and bombers, tanks and munitions,

To try and take Europe for his own-

To span across the sky as a hawk.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

The pope, and the religious elite.

Who have convinced the chosen people-

they are necessary to their salvation,

-that there is a heaven and an afterworld.

And the catholic men smell sweet incense

Around their father's caskets.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

The capital in Washington D.C.

With men who stand before crowds waving their arms,

Making speeches for the voters- people who vote-

And making promises for a future of equality,

and liberty, for all-

While setting themselves up as the leaders of the 'free' world.

No Masters! No Masters, I say!

On Watching the Parade

Watching the parade, I saw the military men,

Carrying one thousand little flags.

And there marching rolled by a tank, a bomber, a scout,

a marine, a guillotine,

A rocket, and screeching above an F-16-

a cruiser, a bruiser, a battleship,

a tomahawk, a six shooter,

and a bunch of people taught how to walk the same way.

And the crowds wept for the fallen-

With children held up high-

To watch the hero's on their march home-

And the mother's all weeping waving red and blue ribbons.

Fireworks to light up the sky.

Manic Depression

These are an assortment of poems dealing with my emotional exuberance, either being high or low. I go through many extremes of emotion, and I write poetry at such times. I have included in this section the remainder of those poems I wish to publish.

The Stars Gone Out

Tonight is a weary and cold winter's night,

My thoughts are all bare, and a chilly unwanted breeze blows.

My dreams, like those lost little dots in the heavens,

that have so long enacted upon my own image,

have silently closed up-

leaving no more than a trace of themselves-

not but a pin prick in the great amplitude of the night sky.

All flame and light, from my soul,

has mercifully been trailing off-

There is now only the blackness of an eternity in its place.

The nervousness of my cold black state-

Oh, tonight is a weary time, which makes waiting,

or wading through waves impossible.

So long and unmerciful has the long waiting already been.

I have been spent-

my body- my hopes- my dreams- all spent-

among one thousand wounded cries,

among one thousand cursed reproaches-

among one thousand churned and bubbled faces-

melted, in the boiling cauldron of the starry sky.

Let Me Be

Let me be but a weak cry or a whimper – from the storm of my soul.

A weak voice with a wasted sound- Wasted on the obtuse.

Let me be a secret infant, with a secret coveted pain.

A devotee to my own wind and my own rain.

Let me be outrageous, demented, and insane.

A fellow sufferer with a perpetual oppressor- Perpetual,

you feed on his body.

Let me never be so full, but always hungry to go hungry.

A starving man with a rotting body, I refuse my jailer's refuse.

Let me be all elbows, knees and knuckles.

A pincushion penetrated by an ugly beauty-

Penetrated like virgin beauties.

Let me be an old disgusting man-

A victim of your health, I diminish myself-

Because of your 'what should be.'

Let me be 'what is' and keep my torture for myself.

A child in his cage refusing to eat, old in his wounds- and stuck by his feet.

Let you be an obtuse beauty feeding my jailer- and my jailer's great love.

A penetrating beauty is the hunger for freedom- in an oppressor's bed.

Let me be struck down by the sacred winds of my being-

And let me be at peace when dead.

I'd Rather stop the world and listen to the sounds

I'd rather stop the world and listen to the sounds,

The sleeping sounds that kiss with sweet lips,

thoughts that glide frictionless, and cut to the quick,

A quiet kind of sound,

more thoughtful than our waking confusion.

I'd rather listen to the sounds of my inner-voice,

Rather than one thousand other voices in the day,

For the night is sweet with gentle lips,

And it kisses gently, and corrects me gently,

With my room like a cavern, with my own reverberations-

A remarkable incantation, like ghostly dolls, or water sprites-

That spin and spin and spin, through illustrious mazes-

Or go falling down through steep havens of the mysterious.

Dreams are delusions-

But they are my delusions-

and I love them so.

Why do I love them so?

Because they kiss me gently and correct me gently-

Like the sleeping sounds-

And they know only me, and comfort only me.

Surely as One could write upon the stars

Surely as one could write upon the stars,

Or explicate their beams,

The more so to aspire,

Towards one's individuated meaning.

Confined within the cellar,

Dungeon window, moonlighted-

Which glitters and sparkles, your perceptions,

With the cold flake.

For the night,

When it fades,

Is just another painful etching.

Surely, I obsess over her image still,

And am haunted by it 'till,

Inspiration challenges me through that window.

She moves with lustrous violence through the pane,

And I ravish her in the bedroom.

She is driving me insane,

With her love and beauty.

When dawn reaches through the wavering curtain,

And the sun in ghostly hardship is strained-

I reach back into my silence still,

Of these images to continue to dream.

But, as surely as I sleep the day by my ever living hearth,

Is as surely as I suffer in my poet's suffering heart.

The Vine

The Vine tangles around my concepts,

And my metaphors.

Leaving only yellow glistening gloom.

The smell of cologne makes me sick,

I recall lost evenings.

The feeling is of doom or damned.

The suffering of it.

The shallowness of it.

I would have nothing.

It shakes my tendrils.

Clear water I say,

clean water,

fresh rain.

Rain that alleviates the strain,

And allows me to sleep.

Sleep is what I want,

Clean sleep, deep sleep.

Without images in the night,

Which come to me and leave me in hurt.

To rest in the cold by an empty hearth.

A bed of spent matches having swiftly burnt.

My verse is in the vine,

Twisted and crooked-

Around this poem,

And around all my poems.

The words are stressed and repugnant now-

This melody isn't rain,

It is sleeplessness.

My Apartment is a Mess

My apartment is a mess, I feel like Silverstein,

got an unwashed plate and a bed sheet over the window.

If I felt a look from behind, I'd worry about being unclean.

But, as it is, I got a big lock on the door

-and the smell isn't so noticeable anymore.

My friends got their apartments all set straight,

Everything right and dust free, set in its proper place.

I don't think I will, it's uncomfortable for me, an empty space-

a clean floor or a bed without books trapped in the covers.

When the place is sterile, my mind is still a ramble-

I pace back and forth- shot off to no place-

I'm really just waiting for the fall.

Sometimes in the day with my brown penny in my pocket,

I feel like Silverstein's clown,

Everybody is laughing at me,

and the world's having a day that forgot about me again.

In my messy room I am in a way, content.

My hurry of spirit, by some inexplicable variant of nature,

I cannot contain it, and it spills forth,

and when I spill my soda on the floor, in a black gooey pool,

I care not what I wipe it up with-

My sock, underwear, or a pillowcase- there are no rules.

I got a standard practice of not caring where I set things down,

Or running out of silverware, every cup is in the sink.

I forget where I put it and pour another.

When my mind is bouncing around,

it is ever a race through the routine,

without time for the little considerations.

I never finish a book, but I've read them all.

I never remember who said what,

but can remember the entire conversation.

I can't sleep and have 24 hours to think a day,

but waste every one of them on wild fancy.

It's strange, I am not lazy.

I would just rather sit idle at this time.

Maybe the world didn't forget about me,

maybe it was I who forgot the world.

A Face in Wax

A face in wax.

A candle which burns at both ends,

Burns with the heat of passion,

Or fixes its sorrow into a mold-

Each night a new sleepless blemish,

On the white pearl porcelain- entrapped.

Like the tears in the wells of your eyes,

Pretty and blue eyes that shine.

Or your lips full of voluptuous desire- that sweat.

The liquid with the end of youth,

Pools around your bare little toes.

The sensual not to be admitted by touch-

As you try to explain away the loss,

Of every year of eighteen,

With the crest of your hand-

And the waves are like they swell,

When a tremor shakes them.

I would find it so easy to love you,

your corresponding soul- as we correspond.

If you'd not abandon the abandoner-

But, like Shakespeare to accentuate me with words.

A long conversation is my sweet succor,

Should it come from your heart to mine-

I am charmed.

The tears cascade down a pretty little cheek-

Gathering in beads, like heated little gems-

On the soft sultry crests of ruby lips.

If I would impart a kiss to where it gathers,

I'd share the tears and the sorrows-

Forever and tomorrow.

Widow's Walk

Reading upon my book of poems,

The lines are desperate songs of prayer.

No father through the silk gale gazes,

Back at my fair forms laid bare.

My child is fatherless.

And the creaking old house,

With longing from the widow's walk.

The bell tolls and the fog is thick.

I keep my silent vigil, with candle.

My prayers remain behind a black vale,

My depths impenetrable.

My voice an appeal for an answer which-

Is lost out to sea.

I am this woman,

with a child, who now is fatherless.

Wet Damp Mule

I have discovered the essence of the beaten mule,

The one whom the tragic story surrounds,

With whom the poet commiserated,

And wrapped his thin arms around-

To keep the whips from ripping his wet hide-

To split the yoke between his shoulders.

To be eviscerated like the prowling cur,

Damaged by the wagon wheel,

Ripped into his soft belly,

Like a spinning violent flail,

A death so unknown- a carrion song.

I have heard all manner of stories,

Written for the lonely man-

In the icy breath of deepest night,

Under the blue moon, round, high-

Gathered, but alone,

Beneath the wooden roofs- nigh unto midnight-

Alone- with our collars on our overcoats turned up-

Our chins turned into our chests.

While outside blasphemies the ripping hail,

Like providence-

Dancing, shattering, enthralled.

The windows streaked with rain, like tears-

And the cold suffering quiet like footsteps.

A silhouette of a beautiful woman,

With the white wavering curtain- she sighs.

Bathed in the light of the moon.

A cross of the window, above my dampening grave.

No lover's shadowed arms wrap about her,

She lingers there- and no thunder lullabies.

Like the lonely man who hung a noose over his wooden chair-

He dangled there, with the creaking rope.

They cut him down, disgusted with him – carrion song.

The ceiling fan, the soft breeze rippled the yellow note-

With his toes scraping the chair.

So often he had sat and looked out- no words to represent-

For the heavy dampening.

Buried in a grave on a wet day,

And at night a light from a yellow lamp-

Would aid you to trace his silent marker-

Trace his name as the wind howls.

I have fixed my sight upon the huddled, mangled together-

They surround, but the sound is like the rain.

Loneliness is here, and in all those windows-

And the wet damp street, and the wet damp mule-

My arms closed about me- commiserating.

Chirping Bird

Run and hide.

The lesser from within me.

From fame and fortune-

To a mind of ruined prophecy,

To my pack of scattered cards.

A disturbed expansive progeny-

An incomprehensible rapid litany,

Creatures of the rhapsody-

Music of my mind.

Cast out and transformed,

From the deepest inner-agency,

Of self-loathing piteous ignominy,

To the most grandiose re-creation,

Of the world's wicked entity,

In the image of my father-

His high minded idolatry,

The sermons of Deuteronomy-

The serpent eel, and the slug mind.

Run and hide.

The more loving within me,

Little resentments behind me-

With a motley chirping insanity,

The perched pecking hurtle jumper thrush-

Active in a cage in front of my mouth gust.

The stoned, drugged, debasement,

The spells of worms and tunnels-

Slipping through the swinging casement,

Of my mind blown eruption.

Longing for the sutures,

To close my gaping wounds,

My lonesome sultry moods,

And a Christian's streak of poverty.

Spit in my dust, laugh in my face,

Eat a junk wasted grace.

A parochial chocolate kiss confectionary,

your cards gathered greedily,

Stacked up high and neatly,

Disturb my chirping bird.

Becoming

This evening I sat at table with a lovely child lady.

A blonde headed meager thing, and eager of energies.

She listened as I spoke-

She made slight smiles and small leanings toward my voice-

(My vehement condemning voice which both cries as it denies,

And throws flames about to burn the spectacle.)

My voice curses as I despise- my weak fellows,

and the reluctance of their fellowship to man.

But tonight unlike other evenings of the selfsame touch,

One not small burden was uplifting,

For only my own meagerness did I lust-

And not her blonde and eager energies.

I thought not of destinies

or conventionality,

Or wedding bells or vows.

I spoke not for her impression,

or with abhorrent exhortation,

In jubilant exhilaration,

And cared not should she linger or allow,

\- my lingering,

And I felt my heart had lightened,

To follow my voice which had all the while,

\- been calling for such.

Tempest Toss Me

Tempest toss me! storm surround me!

Give me rain and thunder, a great bellow in my ears,

massive waves which endanger my ship.

I want the crash of thunder!

I want the flood and torrent to wreck my boat-

A gust and swell, a perfect whirlpool-

break all the windows majestically.

Let the tree branches bend in the firm wind-

Let me be soaked with water, and scatter the leaves.

I want to be your lonely sailor, just one in an ocean largeness.

I want to raise my little sail and have it blown around the mast.

Let me never see the land, but always to be carried away,

Let my house be shattered on the shore.

I want the flood! Bring on the flood!

I want to be taken by the storm.

Contact Information

John Christopher

Email: manofopposition@gmail.com

Blog: manofopposition.blogspot.com
