How You Get It

 

Two guardian
angels
and a hat.

You get your

happiness
from that.












.

This May Have Something to Do with Spring

 

We haven’t moved.
We never will.
We’re where
we’ll always be.

Without a center,

edge or form,
we are Eternity –
to which we

occupy the same

relation, cold
or warm, it does
to you and me

No escaping

where we are.
Why does that
seem so bizarre?









.

In Lilac Light

 

In lilac light
a week or two away
from May,

one might

be moved to say
the time is right

to dress up

for the night –
to plan a sweet soirée

for somebody

and you.
But who?











.

Elsewhere

 

Distracted
by the alien
morphology –

the untoward shapes –

you can't foresee
the usual agendas

of the species

you were sure
they had to be.

They are looking

elsewhere.
So very far

from what

you thought
they were about.

There’s not a single

plausible alternative
to doubt.







.

Just Put on Something Pretty for It

 

Sitting in your Spring dress

waiting for the Spring –
which would appear
determined to be late this year –

is surely just the thing

to bring the evidently
fearful Spring about.
Frontally accosting it –

railing at it for its incapacities –

would just exacerbate
its vast apparent nervousness
and doubt. No need to shout.

Just put on something

pretty for it. Wait it out.










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Transparency

 

He passes you,

preoccupied – then
through a sidelong glance

he reels you in

with such alacrity and depth
it steals your breath.

Are we transparent

to whoever pays attention
to us till it’s burned?

Wonder if

that can
be learned.











.

What We Love

 

 

We love

the predawn hours.
The predawn hours
are ours.
















.

Rude Hairdo

 

Feeling blue,
misconstrued?
Radically

change your

hairdo.
Make it rude.











.

Après-Sex with Aliens

Your canoodling maneuvers are fini.

You each have plumbed each other’s circuitry
without too much unwillingness.
It wasn’t some drear chilling mess.

You successfully collectively contrived to come.

You’re dumb, a little numb.
No words for this.
You remember you forgot to kiss.












.

If Flame had a Face

 

If flame

had a face,
it wouldn’t
be yours –
and yet

its contours

might suggest
a blest breath
of what
you radiate.

You’d both

have some blue
in you, true –
and a similar
bait

in the blinding

white light
that you'd
share at
the core.

But it would

have less
of what you
possess
more.








.

South of Two and North of One

 

Here comes that late inevitable moment
when you wake – shot out of any possibility
of harmony and confluence: burped
abruptly into sharp insidious incongruence –
somewhere south of Two and north of One –

stranded in the new unexpurgated Purgatory

of an estuarially mixed alertness:
consciousness, all edge and jerk. Hmm:
who’s that little blue nude flying dude?
Perhaps he’ll lull you back to murk.












.

A Critic Opines

“Preposterous

pretension! –
though no less
prosperous

for its faux pas,”

he thrilled as if
he’d trilled
a tra-la-la.











.

The Buck Stops Here

 

 

You thought it was symbolic

but it wasn’t.
You want it to have meaning
but it doesn’t.














.

Within, Without

 

Influences brew
through each dimension.
Their instruments are DNA,
imagination, and a rapt

unutterable sentience held –

within, without –
in soft suspension.  
Antecedent spirits heed you –

need you: breed –

exempt you from the old
and tempt you
into new creation.











.

The Real Miss Muffet

 

The real Miss Muffet sits not on a tuffet.
She sits on a hard wood stool.
Spiders do not sit beside her to bluff at
her. Lord knows she never eats gruel.

So how did this lady get stuck in a verse?

Who thought to write and preserve it?
Was Muffet subjected to some vile curse?
What had she done to deserve it?

We don’t have any idea, we must say –

and neither, it seems, does Miss Muffet –
who tipples Blue Curacao all through the day,
reciting Stendhal to her puppet.









.

To Bill, Who Sleepwalks

 

 

Funny how you always want to know

what happens next.
Until you don’t.

You hope your dreams will be a flow

of some illuminating text.
Oh Bill. They won’t.












.
(n.b.: "Bill" exists entirely in the poem. He's not anyone I 'actually' know.)

These Questions

 

What’s a blessing?

Does it require
confessing to Sublimity?

Does it proceed

from a Divinity? 
Is it something saying

that it understands?

Does it involve
the laying on of hands?

What is spirit?

Are we far from it
or near it? What does

it mean to pray?

Why don’t these
questions go away?









.

This Thing You Do

 

Ruling your

dark realms
overwhelms.
Too many
helms.

 

.

A Secret

 

In chill green shadows
of reluctant Spring
whose portents bring
no guarantee of scented
flower or singing bird,

a secret’s passed to you

you wish you hadn’t heard.
Now it has nowhere
to go. There’s nothing
to do but know.











.

Sometimes Sitting Naked with a Friend

 

Sometimes sitting naked

with a friend
can lend
a certain comprehension
of the mystical.

All the competition –

egotistical exasperation –
in the day,
disassemble,
waft away – permit you

both to undergo

an unconsidered
even flow
of nothing
whatsoever

but whatever

was each other’s.
As if you’d
been born
brothers

with a secret –

with nothing
left
to challenge
or to damage it.

At least, that’s how,

if this were ever
to occur to me,
I might
imagine it.






.

There are Words for You

 

Conglomerate
abomination!
Unrelenting
turnip!

Involuted

root!
You are
not a fruit.

You’re barely

sentient mud.
You’ve
a penchant

for gratuitous

complexity.
You bleed
the thickest blood.

You’re a mole

without a purpose –
slowly
rolling

just below

the surface
in the rain.
Brain.








.

Cosmological Constant, Revealed

 

Like toxic semen,
demons pop.
You cannot
make them stop.

They fuck

the quantum level up.
Each wanton devil
will erupt

in parallel

realities to spark
them into terror
like a shark –

and watch

their atoms scatter.
Demons
are dark matter.










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