Poetry

Strindberg shouldered a cross and climbed two giant snow-covered breasts. In the crucible of his palms he said “Lead: turn into gold!” In a rooming house bed he felt the walls closing in, the roses plotting against him. And something else Strindberg did — when he drank pernod or anise, he watched a small child…

Tarzan refreshed. He completely emptied his mind for two minutes lying in underbrush; not even “rhinoceros” the word remained. His open hibernated eyes looked for snakes and other jungle effluvia. I’d settle for that power if I could also be handsome like a slightly chubby blonde folksinger. And my non-publisher likes my snide frivolous tone…

once they were algae eaters sucking at the drama matted around bone coming from one hot drop now little more than a shriveled black spot it has been funneled down to their clay: tons of treacherous fluff every spec fleeced from the world not a memory left to piroucette & brag

Looking at his woman of the moment, He congratulates himself on his good taste. Her breasts, lips, legs are a moving sight, Worthy of this investment — Dinner out. Providing similar sustenance, he offers his own      substantial smile, A little work of art, Always a breath-taker. To himself he drinks a toast. Were he to…

Through the window the moon shone on the table so hard We once in a while shielded our eyes While we told from our lives stories that broke small Bones in our toes, sent you crying to another room Only to return to tell something that popped my nipple Across the table, making a sudden…

the night is slow a large snail pulled on a string by the sun on its back it carries all that has been lost as it goes past your house you strap everything in place you retrieve a dusty crate from the rafters of your attic it is empty things are as they should be…

From where they return is not known: mouths of rivers seethe with their fever. Pilate’s finger bowl is waiting to welcome; fruit can be found in anything, even death. Hands are speaking softer than our voices. Your body lies like braille in the dark. There are components that make up a sentence. Call everything a…

You are sad. You are leaning down on your sadness like the rain is trying to do to us but we are in the house. You are watching the water fall so easily from the tap, you are whizzing through the dishes, you are a man sweating in the next room in a few minutes…

Frontiers are explored in a mirror; sharks contained in their appetite. The skin occludes all but the pen, harvesting love from any field. The clock is a compass leading to the corridors of sleep. The borders that will be crossed occur as we sit alone in our rooms. An island is waiting with the promise…