Thursday, November 26, 2015

We Have No Words But These

What is there to say today? –
we have no words but these –
we see the fleas,

but where’s the dog?
something’s clogged –
we’re feeling something

prescient, pressing –
something wants  to be in us –
something that can see in us

what something else in us
is hungry for.
We bungle toward

Perception’s door,
but can’t get through.
Oh what is there to say today?

We wish we knew.
We wish we had
a single point of view.


Wednesday, November 25, 2015

A God

A god is not the word made flesh
so much as passionate appeal
made breathing blooded icon.

A god is ripe: incensed
with sweet supernal
sex and sweat.

A god’s a bet that it can rip
through skies until it flies so far
and free the pious lose all sight of it.

A god’s a star
without the heat:
a god’s the light of it.


Tuesday, November 24, 2015


Peopling is what he does –
sorting out the buzz

innumerable faces who

for moments lend it sense.
A sort of recompense.


Monday, November 23, 2015

Plural Pronoun

I like to travel with you – there is a sweetness
in our camaraderie which lends a lightness
to the tightness of experience I often underwent
when we were separate. To season life –

to pepper it – with your and my inimitable
takes on what we see: I like the difference
this makes between the “you” you seem to be
and my own panoply. I wish that I were strong

enough to hold you on my back, the way you’re
always holding me: I hope someday to make up
for that lack. But now, with what great tenderness
I find I’m savoring the plural pronoun we!


Sunday, November 22, 2015

Ectoplasmic Essences

Spirits gently, thoughtfully accost each other in your dreams –
sometimes you overhear their internecine schemes – discover
that they trade in infinite availability: on tap for anyone
including you who wants them – only you have really got
to want them. Settle deep into your couch, lie back and take
a nap: know their ectoplasmic essences await you in your lap.


Saturday, November 21, 2015

A Trident Like Poseidon’s

You seek another mind for clues, and find it:
you’re sure those other eyes peruse an inward sea
which hides the news you need to breed
dimensionally through to views which might

effuse you into light:  provide that aid to greater
sight. The night grows late, and later, but you’ll wait
for something like a symbol in the ocean of his
consciousness to rise: a trident like Poseidon’s.

Then somehow, suddenly, you know:
there’s no such thing as guidance.
Knowing isn’t thought.
Guidance can’t be sought.


Friday, November 20, 2015

A Sweetly Private Fuss

When we’re aware
we’re being looked at,
we often tend to pose:
make a sweetly private fuss,

straighten spines and toes
and smile like Mona Lisas –
summon up the faintest blush:
acknowledging the Other –

that someone else is noticing,
someone else than us:
cutting thus through
solipsism: existential plus!