therefore I am
what most think
holds all of this together
gravity – just a gummy old shoe
I have seen
pristine lily unbesmirched snow
I dare you reach out and touch
I dare you now deny it exists –
LOVE also is
a century forward
misunderstanding at last resolved
women having dissolved
their winning streak
[winning is what men do, darlings]
and when, thus, the orders of relevance
[all error of King Eros spewed by guys
and satelites with whistle-clean brains]
there might be a hope
of a healthy humanity
the only answer –
predating all question
…and all the adjectives
affixed like tails on a two-dimensional donkey
attest its grandeur –
romantic maternal erotic brotherly –
merely ways Love catches the light…
and to this day
holds it together…
whatever else you can name
is less than library paste
There’s a fakery in sex –
I just can’t get away from it.
Is it because I’m so –
no, beyond over the hill?
I have the feeling it was always so
but I chose not to see it. . . until now.
It’s like some black and white movie
[you know, a leafy country road, 1940]
and she has her floral chintzed ass
on the fender, one ridiculously
platformed heel on an outrageous hubcap
while the convenient stranger
replaces the probably unpunctured tire –
hormones and a studio director
conspire to make it more than it is.
It always seemed to me
that after the first sip, even
great Belgian beer seems flat
I mean: he’s mine; I’m his
but beyond all that…?
not the bees knees
Am I maybe just hard to please?
We were just playin’ cowboys and indians
on some rocky foreign shore, but I was no Dale Evans
to some toy Roy Rogers, no. I was more – by blood
and for real – a distaff Tonto – or perhaps some newfangled
Tiger Lily or a genuine “little wanton” Pocahontas
cussin’ in Algonquin and bein’ a real devil…
or even, more rightly, the Agaidika Shoshone
boat-pusher bird-woman Sacajawea… albeit
with a bit of Sitting Bull thrown in
That last day, Lone Ranger looked
as only pedigree spaniels and men in love
ever do, as he sat dead center on the third
& foldup bed that had served as our setee
and he said just loud enough for me to hear
I love you girl
His head dropped a minute
while he shook it in disbelief
and then as if for comic relief
he looked up and added you got me
and I saw myself rise like some exotic hybrid
phoenix – half bareback buckskinned rider
bowstring stretched to the limit,
half pudgy cupid past its sell-by date –
arrows – all feathered arrows – or at least one
shot perfectly straight to the marrow
and any way you slice it, it felt unforgettably great.
This night was neither blue nor black
above a lulling, rhythmic sea;
the casement – half swung wide –
zinc white as Sisley’s Rouen sailboat, hotel
sheets, that sugared Chagall bride; and me (like
some legendary amazon astride my stallion,
my once and future mate) abundant mane
unribboned, bare arms in a great Y to heaven
not as if to question, no, in joy –
a joy which I cannot equate,
born of a spent & holy lust – a sacrament
unprissified, yet connubial in essence –
not some degenerate free rein given
to ungiving senses – that common
or garden depravity milled in ego,
riddled with vain pretenses;
no, this was wholly & completely right –
our secret, sacred, sanctified alignment, and oh
how mindful I was of all it meant, and of a taking –
of a being taken as a woman and of a sealing in the act,
but equally conscious was I of the fact this was almost
comically wanton in its innocence – erotic love sole opiate
& nectar – a robust, breughelien celebration, a superb &
mutual drunkenness – as devoid of exploitation as of malice –
two bodies, minds and hearts poured in one chalice.
[one of my very favourites]
Wet with midnight rain the upturned rake
glints by the wall. Nearby, hints of lichen glisten.
Autumn gardening – brown and brittle leaves
between the prongs of bright red metal –
less alive, they seem somehow, than the years
we gather for burning by the stones.
Would that they would smoke out the rest
in our garden of Now – but who among us
is truly free of shackles, unburdened
by imagined, sorrow-filled tomorrows
that creep like moles beneath the tufts of sod.
It’s been a constant struggle all my life
to find a way to live in truth and smile.
I doubt I could have been somebody’s wife
since disappointments sting after awhile.
I don’t think I’m inordinately vain –
I just don’t hide my feelings well I guess.
I find most pretense pretty much insane
and when the fault is mine I do confess.
Some think I’m brave but they dont know the truth –
In point of fact you could say that I’m blind.
I learned to tough it early in my youth
and now I simply say what’s on my mind.
Still, lately sadness seeps down to the bone –
I really do not want to be alone.
is a wasted emotion
is rarely the best question
the air is full of optimism – breathe deeply
no one replaces anyone – even a dog