The Humor Was There

The humor was there

too,

in

the

lipstick

hysteria

if

you

looked

away

before

feeling.

I couldn’t keep a straight

face

in

the moment of extinction

of

illusion.

All the rot and rust

of a single

bull

shat

life

fossilized

in the extreme.

A

thousand

ships

of

Him

couldn’t save

beauty from

her

self

ishness.

The Shocking

The shocking

experiment

held

hands

with the Bible

and danced the only

way

forward,

into the mind.

The whatevers

were endeavoring

of

course

to care less,

than perusal. It

was

unkind

to thinkable

for an exclusion

of

folk.

After WWChildhood, the

big moreover of the city,

took

a toll:

our least

commandments, and

we

grew.

She Realized She Was

She realized she was

waiting for arms

to come

and

envelop

her

in a total

embrace

from

behind. They could be his

arms. She

was

tired of surrendering

to the meaning of solitude,

a cool sea

against the char

of

memory. She

was ready to writhe

again in the burning

pure

need

of living

skin.

I Want a Perfect

I want a perfect

world,

more

than

peanut

butter

or

strawberries

or

gin.

We

have

these

visions

sometimes

of

three.

I was watching

television

recently

in

my

mind

before

the

sun.

I can’t

finish

a semester

of a four-year

stanza,

because of

this stupid ?

you

know

something,

fuck

the death

of communication,

of

style.

After the Old North Memorial Garden

The lucky ones

are

dead.

The unfortunate

survived.

This

is

the

weed

of a thought

he

admires

in the desert

garden

of memorial

silence.

What

is

a

soldier’s

heart, and

why?

55 words

into the mist

for 6842

lives

in

the

dust.

The

weed

is a tree

now,

shading

his absence

long

before

this song.

Song of Boston

The ghost of

William

Dawes

perked

up

when

his name

was

mentioned

in conjunction

with The Ride.

His essence

abandoned

the

brick

of

his

repose

beneath

the Linden

on the Paul

     Revere

      Mall

and

rose

into the

existence

of

a man.

I watched

him

wander

with the touring

contingent

from

Bowie, Texas

toward

The

Church.

In New York

In New York

City

you

forget

about the sky

(of impossibility).

You

don’t

even try.

The young, tan

woman

in

the black

exercise

suit

asks

the old, bald

man

if

there’s

a pattern

to the arrangement

of the books

outside

the Strand

and he

is

struck,

I can tell,

by the other

question

she

poses.

Late Sunrise Over Dane Street Beach

I was lonely

for

discovery

at the door

of impossibility

all

night

in

the

hot

cold.

This is where

I became

a stranger

to

my

death.

The report

of a heart’s

conversion to

stillness

woke

me

back

to sleep.

I have nothing

to say

to

your

pain.

A seagull

crying

over the cove

is

sufficient.

We Are Different

We are different

because

the

storm

damaged

us

differently

or

not

at all.

A living

sycamore

fell

dead

against

my reason,

and ruined

my

sky.

I don’t know why

we keep revising the

same spring of memory.

The

song

is over.

Go out in the dark

morning, before

the angel

is

awake

to explain

things.

A Sparrow Brinded

A sparrow brinded

red

of wing, landed

on the sill

of his open

window.

He watched

it

fidget

and be still,

and finally,

leave

him.

He fingered

the rim

of

his

empty

whisky

glass,

till

his

finger

was moist with

prospective

solace.

A door shut

in his

memory,

echoing as

footfalls in the

real

corridor.