tiger on the windowsill

the white sky begins to crack under
the weight of wind, cold and falling into skin
deep as bone,
all alone it blows a thunder
solitude its home.


first the old stuff, passing. frozen explosions
on grassheads, multiplied by fireworks rippling
over head. the finale is short and the buildup shorter
but still it's an orgasm. the crowd shouts, releases.
i give up my love for you because you told me to.
really, this time. please.
don't come asking for it back.
you know how i hate to say no.

saw an old lover last nite. he's past the age
of nihilism, still survives
on the dregs of the belief. he wrote a book.
i'd like to see it.

the orange and white creamsicle cat
watches treebranch morph to rat. starts with her eyes
to chase it. but her body never stirs. she's still
a kitten. nuerotic and small she loves to climb
atop us, lie across a throat, absorb communion's purr.

i think he might have discovered there are things
which sex can't cure. the lover. the ex. he gave me
his number in front of the man puck supplied.
i took it. you bought me a drink anyway. and breakfast.
grilled chicken and avacado on a hot cross bun.
there's lot of things i like about you.
but your lack of romance is not one of them.

there must be a balance i say
it needs to exist within oneself
i am too far one way
you are too far another
we will not mix well for long
the combination'll taste good till.
leftover lettuce leaves curdle insouciantly
dressed for the dumpster. i like
to eat out, it's a thing i want now
so i guess you can say whore or you can say
what you sainted was more or less a primitive model
based on assumptions attained at puberty.


i'm still evolving , based on the way stacks
pile in my hallways. magazines maybe or the scraps
of receipts written in cursive on the back of poems.

one night before new years
we sat on the porch in seminole
under crystal blue lights, emulating ice
fairies, with a sparkling snowflake dancing
in the humidity. the wines were red and white
like candy canes. she said i think
there's a certain age where women become invisible
to men. i think now but didn't say then we become
unseen by everyone else. then we remembered susan
sarandon, katherine hepburn, bette davis, lauren
bacall. so it gave us a sort of hope.
at jury duty one woman i saw was over sixty, her hair
gray but not grizzled her face, lined with peace.
i wanted to get to know her. she looked
like a poet. but i was only there for a break
after lunch, submitting
some writing, my obsession for the day.
you can glow in small surroundings, this is what i believe.
a lightning bug in a courtroom.

























()_








i really tried to feed him to the fire last nite.
short circuit my bleeding love into a final exuberance and loss.
i knew we wouldn't last. and i lived it. why go back there
in any form. so i lose the conversation? well, it was getting
redundant anyway. but to try to recreate that with another
young one? it wasn't about age anyway and
well let's just say i have tried to but have been unable to be truly
insane. and so, doomed to not love again? still not trusting that it's
all you need. not true. doomed to love
let us say
on all levels, unabashedly inclusive.
i have a liberal idea of love i guess.
the more you give it the more it comes back to you.
i'm getting used to sleeping alone.
the fire's roar in my ears a familiar.