ode to my love

my mind’s eye has

seen your beauty.

my selfish ways

desire you.

not today,

nor tomorrow,

or generations

to come, do i

wish to find

you sad.

the burdens

of your heart i

gladly carry.

i will extinguish

the flames that

have burned

your spirit,

buried you alive.

we have been

baptized by the

stars. passion,

intimacy and

commitment

consummate

our sentiment.

i give you the

obligation of my

ashes. i taste

the sweetness of

your scars. i sing

to you in the lexicon

of a mountain

bluebird. there

are no seasons of

careless love. we

have emptied the

vault of heaven.

our appetite satisfied,

our bellies full.

the rhyme of this

ballad is my

alms to you.

days that never end (for david bowie)

there were three bars, the run,

the diamond, and the stage door.

omaha’s queer bars. the run and

diamond were blue collar. the

stage door was the best disco

between chicago and denver.

when the queens were high

enough and drunk enough, we

kissed the boyfriends goodbye,

helped them with their furs and

pushed them out the door. it

was never soon enough. their

religion was dancing. we had to

be more profound. we had the

place to ourselves. the two of us,

drinking scotch, eating white

crosses and smoking good weed.

we played the clash, lou reed,

iggy pop, and a lot of dylan and

bowie on the stereo. we connected.

it was our space oddity for three and

a half hours. we never kissed and

never got naked. we were

heroes that lived outside the law.

something was happening and we

weren’t sure what it was. young

americans looking for a way out.

that was how it was in the

beginning. since then, things have

changed, but to this day he’s

still my only dance partner.

peeping tom

at the window i sit, pretty saro is

purring in my lap. the dogs have

gathered at my feet, baxter is

dreaming again. his lips quiver

when he’s chasing a bear. only

god knows what will happen if

he catches him. isis can’t hear

so much and is a cat poop eater.

old max is getting old. he romps

as fast as he can up the mountain,

and limps all the way down. gordon

is blind, deaf and doesn’t have

any teeth left. i have five seconds

after he wakes from his nap to get

him out the doggy door or he will

pee on the floor.

cars are whizzing by faster than the

limit allows. someone’s going to

get caught by the state police

hiding at the gravel pit a mile up

the road.

out my window is a world i barely

know. not enough to shake a stick

at anyhow. in all my years i’ve

never known a place like this. bad

and good entwined like lovers. most

of them working for eight bucks an hour,

part time. they’ve convinced

themselves it’s better than not

working at all. i don’t understand

their logic. i bitch when i have to

little and when i have to much.

i know where i’ve been and

where i’m going. nowhere is

just another stop on highway

six.

splitting ash for winter, filling the

bird feeders, and stoking the wood

stove for the night is enough for

the day. i’m going to watch out this

window for the deer to make their

way down from the trees at dusk.

they will be coming for corn and

apples. i named the fawn gideon.

she’s not so small anymore, she’s

ready for winter too.

at the window i get to wondering

about the weeds i pulled last spring

to make room for the roses. doesn’t

seem fair to the chickweed. i close

my eyes and plan where i want to

keep the goats come spring.

tomorrow i have no plans. i may sit

at my window, wait for the snow that’s

coming and write a poem about it.

que sera sera

our pilgrimage was consummated

with a pledge, bohemian vagabonds

of voluntary poverty. we were labeled

with african american jive. born into

this, descendants of the beats.  with

wordless crime, we spoke in rhyme.

the sutra poured through our veins.

nag champa agarbatti hammered our

senses. we covered our eyes to see

more. held our tongue to encourage

discourse. found peace in the bowels

of conflict. historic junkies in modern

times. our embrace eternal. content

to dwell in the desert or on the sea.

his heart desires mine, mine desires his.

 

everything is not visible

donatello

i am a sculptor chipping away

at my marble. the way of my

chisel penetrates the stone of

a self-portrait. every stroke is

premeditated murder. i am

donatello’s revealing bronze

david. an innocent and virtuous

youth, fixed on the shivering head

of the philistine. i wear nothing but

my boots and a hat with laurel

leaves. majestically naked.  my

silhouette will never hide from a

sunrise or run from the rain. there

are no flaws. there is no evil. the

dust of my labor is abducted by

the wind. scattered in moonlight,

pure and sweet. my independent

fancy spills out from an extraordinary

heart. it cannot be bridled or spirit

torn. i have climbed from a hole a

thousand miles deep. i will crawl

on cobblestone, a pathway to the

gate. beyond where poverty is not

suffering, nor solitude a journey. i

live deliberately without dire need.

desperation is the folly of a doleful

soul. tomorrow is just another day.

 

love

it’s easier to fall into a

well than to climb out.

the deeper the well,

the darker it is. oxygen

is thin, fantasy fills the

brain fed by empty veins,

dry as the well itself.

a limbless reptile without

eyelids  zigzags between

the toes. the perfume of

forbidden fruit blossoms

between the thighs. this

hole where devils dance

with neglect and sorrow

enchantment breathes.

where tongues are crippled

and wisdom is wretched.

from here the language of

the wind melts a cold heart.

i find here what is greater

than my faith and my hope.

nativity

five days to heaven, and a

hundred miles to go. the

trumpeter blows good will.

discord he pulls from a bag

of wind. he is the seventh

angel with gentle intimacy.

he leads the way through

immortal sunrises, and

habitual sunsets. this stark

messenger serenades with

thunderbirds and coverts

with blue jays. saint francis

of assisi made a perfect

sacrifice. art inside of birth,

birth inside of art. he executed

secular gift giving. puritans

lynched mince pie. adam and eve,

noah, and the twelve sons of jacob

were there. so too ladies and

gentlemen, the bourgeois, pigs, and

sheep, ducks, dogs and cats, the

typical gypsy telling the future.

only from within the heart

can the baby jesus be stolen

from the manger.