Monday, February 29, 2016

Except What You Provide

You want to call him Merlin, maybe,
or imagine him as some phantasm
from another fairy tale – you’re caught,

perhaps, by a disarming light in his hat’s
creature’s eyes – rather too alive
for a chapeau. Then you let go: give up

the notion that there’s anything to know.
Except what you provide. Maybe that
is always what gives meaning to the ride.


Sunday, February 28, 2016

A Very Good Friend

Riding an animate carriage
which offers a marriage
between the mechanics
of transport and sweet happy sentience,
he makes his way through to an end.
A head with a seat and four feet
make a very good friend.


Saturday, February 27, 2016

Like You, My Dear, and Me

Some friends you wear.
Some friends wear you.
Some friends wear you out.
And others do all three.
Like you, my dear, and me.


Friday, February 26, 2016

The Heir to Everything

Riding through the warm and greeny air
the Heir to Everything regards
the imminence of Spring
as too conventional to bear –

surely he can conjure up
a rarer mission for the year than March:
something with more punch and starch –
a sharpness of division, split as if by a harpoon

into a mad excess of sultry midnight, frigid noon:
full of the ignoble forming
of conditions human beings
will insist on calling global warming.


Thursday, February 25, 2016

Around the Yucatan

Two abrupt eruptions
ineluctably broke ground,
encamped and gallivanted
all around the Yucatan today.
They’re evidently there to stay.


Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Night Wouldn’t Say

Florid swatches and large shards of pretty people
fixed your dreams as if to stained glass windows in a steeple

all night long last night, last night when night had longed
through you for consummation. But of what? Night wouldn’t say.

It simply wouldn’t let these florid swatches
and large shards of pretty people go away.


Tuesday, February 23, 2016

How's It Hanging?

“I have done one braver thing
  Then all the Worthies did,
Yet a braver thence doth spring
  Which is, to keepe it hid.”

John Donne, from “The Undertaking”

How’s It Hanging?

I'm not a nature boy,
I'm a city boy.
But I'm not a city boy,

I'm a metaphysical poet.
Except, I'm not a poet,
I'm an animal. Well,

less an animal
than a big bang.

That’s how I hang.


Monday, February 22, 2016

We Like Our Friends

We like our friends
for all their sassy assonances
with what we imagine is akin to us.

We like them for their mysteries
that we can’t plumb.

We like to talk with them
vociferously but we don’t mind
when they strike us dumb.


Sunday, February 21, 2016

Beelzebub’s Unwell

Beelzebub feels lost.
His system’s down, its wires crossed:

obscuring how to get to sin
which can’t be found without, within.

There’s no more shame in strife.
All he can find is life.

Which makes him feel unwell.
There may not be a hell.


Saturday, February 20, 2016

The Only Thing They Had to Do

Had life depended on their understanding anything today
we’d all be dead. Lovely that the only thing they had to do
was go to bed.


Friday, February 19, 2016


Just now,
as you blinked twice,
you discovered there’s no time.

What there is, instead –
incontrovertibly –
is rhyme.


Thursday, February 18, 2016

Mutable Flesh!

Mutable flesh!
Immutably fresh –

relentlessly shape-shifting on
to a dawn and a dawn and a dawn –

ever courting the brink of new light –
and forever refuting the night.


Wednesday, February 17, 2016

The Ladies Who Know

Talk to the ladies
who know.
and Flo.


Sometimes the Best Thing to Do

Sometimes the best thing to do
is to hire a creature to fly you.
Ride through the lavender night
and let heaven supply you.


Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Fine and Fit

Strange to sit there fine and fit,
and start to watch the end of it –
to see the might of energy
concede the fight to entropy.


Monday, February 15, 2016

As Soon As We Had Started To Exist

Just as soon as we had started to exist,
Existence took a twist
and stopped us cold.
It seems we’ll be like this until we’re old.


Breathe With It

First you'll seethe with it.
Then you'll breathe with it.


Sunday, February 14, 2016

The Answer

“The answer is always yes.”

“Did you say sex?”



Saturday, February 13, 2016

Whatever He’d Believed

He hadn’t seen it until just this very minute –
but now he’s seen it and there’s nothing to be done.
It’s like whatever he’d believed had just been shot out of a gun.


Friday, February 12, 2016


When we think of heaven,
why do we look up?
When we think of hell,
why do we look down?

There isn’t any down or up.
We’re only ever looking out.
Which is also looking in.
Either, any, every way we win.


Thursday, February 11, 2016

When We’re Ready

I’ll take you under my wing, my dear,
I’ll take you under my wing –

we’ll swing on a swing
with the babbling king

and return when we’re ready to sing, my dear,
return when we’re ready to sing.


Wednesday, February 10, 2016

What Reads as Confidence in Us

We’re comfortable breathing forms,
warming to our reflexes like friends:
nothing isn’t conscious, unconsidered –
nothing generously lends itself

to everything. Autonomic functions sing –
pumping heart and coursing blood
are full of choice – what we had thought
was mute turns out to have a voice.

Existence’ flood is sentient with intention:
held in its suspension, we proceed.
What reads as confidence in us
is that we’ve ceased to need.


Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Knowing Nothing

Looking back
at all that’s gone.
All that you’d
depended on.

Knowing nothing
about this.
What next
will you miss?


Monday, February 8, 2016

Her Private Parts

 Today the Soul
became a giant yellow lady and
the Body morphed into a several-headed spinning top.
The lady held the top up by the feat of spinning it
around her private parts so that
it wouldn’t drop.


Facing It Together

Facing it together.
No matter what,
or if, or whether.


Sunday, February 7, 2016

Today’s the Day

Today’s the day
to roundelay around

the pounds and ounces
of your joyfulness.

Toy with it and pull it –
make a mess.


Saturday, February 6, 2016

Some Volupté

Today, it’s true,
you felt so good
there were no words
you knew that could

remotely have
described you.
Some volupté
imbibed you.