middle of nowhere

my life is seven miles

long. nothing is pretend

or make believe. i am a

cloven hoof beast. a vulture

making his liberal escape. i

am a chameleon with hygienic

flesh. i wear mick jagger lips

and see through frank sinatra

eyes. i learned of the ogre

through my petitions. the hymn

of the wind i learn from the

trees. in flowers i sing the songs

of vermin. the whereabouts of

my sleep is kept secret. i hide

from the aurora. there is no

ecstasy entertaining the sun.

the moon heals self-slaughter.

i will saunter for six miles more.


i have no time for memories,

ambitious or rigid. they are

a bouquet of imperfect flowers,

no essence to inhale, no aura of

pleasure. I am an impartial witness

to the present moment. eternity

is of no consequence. i do not

long for the days of yore. every

dream is without anxiety. my

erratic spirit smiles with each new

dawn. a conversation with a

fair-haired boy is always fresh,

every remnant delicious. each

syllable easy to swallow, like

an artesian well that flows through

my dale. no ghost can deliver me

from ethereal beauty or from the

evil of unpleasant creation. my

social grace accepts all indecency,

and rejects protocol. desolation spills

over a fortification of redundancy.

i choose to be no one’s favorite. i

pay attention to no never mind.

it can be complicated

where does my love come from? i

have lost love and found it many

times. why should i care about love?

if i do not know what love is why do

you want me as your companion? to

be naked with you. to touch you in

places you hide from others. to tell

you my imagination. should i swallow

you? you are lavender in constant

bloom. your scent calms my timid

concerns. you are the poultice for my

trauma. this is my infatuation, not my

attachment. i am not indifferent to

sorrow, mine or yours. the sin of a

broken heart is sent from the land of

enchantment. we heal with misery

and wretchedness. i cannot freeze my

zen in time or space. if you have not

tasted honey the flavor is an illusion.

it has no ambience or wealth. this

love of mine is filled with gluttony

and aversion to itself. you ask for it in

your sleep. are you filled with

hydrophobic dreams? could you be

the fountainhead of my love?  the

angelic, and the beast in my veins.

no, you are not my love, not the

genesis of my love, not its sanctuary.

otherwise you would not be free.


there are a few things i have in

common with my old dog. i

can’t lick my balls like he licks

his but it’s not from lack of

trying. we don’t need to pee on

every tree, just a few select

ones. we can appreciate chickens

without having to eat them,

though the thought has crossed

our mind a few times. we both

like a good hamburger. there is

no room in our life for squirrels.

we don’t care if our feet get wet

but not big on standing in the

rain. we always go to bed at the

same time and wake up at the

same time. he doesn’t know

what i am dreaming and i don’t

know what he’s dreaming. max

is a good old dog, i’m a good old

dog  too.


i ascend the noble

scarlet oak. his arms are enduring

to the weight of my burdens.

he has shielded me in a shawl

of lucent ruby red.

he’s awakened me to the seasons

of jubilation,

to the sutras of the wind,

an opiate breeze,

and the rhapsodies of rain,

a righteous troth.

the robin gave me guidance

to this bough, laden with blossoms.

in the flesh i am vague,

in my nakedness i am bold.

from here i see

past a buttermilk sky,

beyond eternal rest.

i live in the soil past the coppice.

my heart is tangled

with the roots of this tree.

daily mass

the sparrow and crow are flying

shallow. lightning has stolen the stars

and a doleful crescent moon. rolling

thunder grovels obscenely through

the lowlands. crimson king maples and

northern red oaks dance a scandalous

waltz. i feel this tempest in my eyes.

i was born into this twister never to be

appeased. too nimble to ever be discreet.

i saluted the crucifix to gain favor, but

prudently concealed my faith. my icons

are filled with glamour and flamboyance.

i took delight in the pierced flesh of

sebastian. i licked the tainted arrows

immaculate. praying is a slow train that

never stops. it has no place to go. i eat

my harvest from my zafu, amongst

disciples with no mission. i don’t practice

truth or lies. my war has no graves. i am

crawling to where the sun falls away. the

road is not confusing. i go there every day.