arch

six floors below
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on the shore, a couple
with their first born, toddling.
they stand between him and the deep sea.
the sea that would swallow him as fast
as he'll grow, in
retrospect. he takes three
steps and falls
into the thin layer of water that slides
up the beach after the waves break.
gets up, waddles tilting toward sandwater
then falls again. foward this time.
kicks his feet. rolls over a bit of flotsam
on the surf. gets up and does it all again.





ode to sake
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the water's running hot
from the faucet into the ice bucket
making your molecules dance.
a wellspring a yosemite a joshua light

vera sez you
taste like lighter
fluid but i think you're
essence of fire

room temp, on the front
of my tounge ,
water, waiting
for the swallow to burn.



at the beach with rick and crow.


he's on the bed, with guitar in hand.
waves rolling fifty feet away
peace kind of sliding in like a fog hiss

algebra of passion simplifies itself as the guitar moves
into the bathroom where the acoustics are better
and you don't get the buffet feedback from the tiki bar

we talk about last loves, lost love, what it takes to hate
or believe or want. i'm forty eight. almost fifty. i feel
like i want to be fifteen again and sit on top
of your open mind in the half light of a half moon
dim gray lights reflecting off the monolithic resorts, hilton
hyatt, raddisson full balconies, o0r just wide enough
for doggie style. this morning joe peeked

into the open window with his nail gun and his morning
cup of coffee. the harsh punch of whining metal into metal.
woke my ass up, yours too, naked over to the window
to pull the drapes. they muffle the high freqs enough for her
to go back and finish the dram of the dream. joe toes

it back to work. but now it's time for a swim. in.
salt water and skim board sacraments.





strange places my pussy's been sleeping
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on top of the washer
in the laptop computer bag
the insides of my black capris
across jessica's neck, late at night
under the house, with tarantulas and sand
in your lap, what are you doing in my chair
between our bodies ourselves and rumi
on the black bookshelf
the warped and breaking windowsill
with the paisley scarf from paris
as her blanket her copper eyes sound
like hope and peace on earth her yellow
stripes inside the tree limb as a
lampshade beside the broken screen
that leads to another kind of bedroom
vast as the savannahs of old