I had to duck
for the seeds were raining hard
it wasn’t an apple-
that’s a myth-
but I ate away at some knowledge
tried to share with you
you were happier not knowing
I was too

I always look left
since that’s the way you lean
want to lick you clean
keep holding through the dance
churning til we’re fused
blown glass shapes

can a day ever be new
when carrying the same bags
let’s wander
dress our nakedness with pages
adding to what we know
forgetting what we’ve learned


dateless snapshot

small floating things on a glimmer of sun between tall buildings
long tangled hair moved by dusty city wind
it’s always a quiet summer day
alone on the playground
in the memory

black mary janes, green dress, knobby knees
pushing an empty swing
nothing happening
but waiting
just in case there’s something
other than lost dogs and cigarette stubs

rusty chains, piled rubble
writing in dirt with a stick
childhood treasures
dappled snapshot, yellowed taste
smell of pie for someone else’s birthday

so aware of every breath
counting each step
swinging but careful not to let go
just in case someone’s watching
afraid to test beyond the fence
when all perfect remains within


another deep breath
there seem to be many lately
and it’s onward and through
rather than back and around
can’t get fixated on a number
it doesn’t tell much of what’s behind
just some years of learning
and touching and tasting
forgetting and trying
and taking and exploding
courting and counting
and feeling
the vague notion of mattering
eclipses what we were told
of the unreal or magical
quotes from dead people
we’re supposed to understand
stand like grave markers
cold and rough and obscene
moving dervishly feels right and true
the deep breath
holds what’s needed

almost punctuated

if I lose one more thread,
I fear I’ll lose connections that matter.
or should matter.
used to matter.
if I let go of a few old strings,
will I just float away?
maybe I’ll wait for a windy day.

libidinous gleaning

so much to grasp from titles
and yet
being left cold and empty
like swallowing balloons

separate the porn from the chaff

someone made a switch
from the mundane to the grotesque
I think it was the hippie movement
heralding freedom
but finding filthy vacant lots

we’re back to wearing gloves and fedoras
but with gas masks marring our bouffants
there is no better taste
than stainless steel and rubber

reading fine print only when libidinous

did you read the headline
or just the photo caption
do you count the number of deaths and births
and try to figure where the souls went
or just attach string to the balloon and rise