Sunday, November 27, 2011


the mortgage broker calls
at all hours of the day and night
hassling for money they know
you do not have.  perched
on the banks of the river, slightly
above the brick streets , a modest
sentry's soft  blue  eye   guides
me into the drive, up the  stairs through
its waterous patina

into this home, inviting entry through
unlocked screen.    bugs are bid
to remain outside but cats are welcome
 geetings! proclaim china red
walls covered with feminine mystique
flame in the fireplace, accents of cyan,
la madre de dios and budha smiles
all around. a hug to the woman of the hearth
the woman of a heart too deep for reposession.
she is giving it away. the banks want this?
fine, her imprint is deep. the walls
will bleed her for years.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

cello lust

he strokes me sweetly
across one string.   my neck
in his  hand, the bow cuts
across my breasts,  waist
between his knees, back
on the center of desire, breath
on my thoat.  i sing
under his hands.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


dont look back
grooves transglobal on the pan
adora. trance fits the decade
occupy this: drum circle
at the next level. derivsh and delilah.
take the poetry , make  the words
seldom hit , often heard. sitar on a star.

reading rilke in the social security office
to reflect on a lie i told when we never met.
strum and drang echo on the verdant pavement
of downtown safety harbor. in an email,
lioness mother rescues her cub from a precarious
situation. who else would?

two cops flash lights on a broken down car
traffic lights barely co operate on the migration home.
time to get out the healer. tik tok bongo drop.
dance lola, dance in the streetlight to the djembe beat
the herd urge, the one way stampede.  make the lights
move to your retreat.

for the rhyme. it's heating up time. the moon declines.
life is prime, prison or paradigm.

stuck on pg 327

i've been reading the same  5 paragraphs
from foucault for a week now. eliminate
categories and confront the boundless
stupidity of existence.

you ask me to clarify the statement
we are all one with infinite variation
so i try to phrase it differently

i just confuse you more
until you realise i'm smoking.
then it all makes sense.

at this point in the ongoing con
i am bored. so bored i answer again,
better to confront stupidity
with thought than succumb
to the categories you place me in.

you're satisfied that we're not meant to know
  you're not playing the not know game.
wish i had that hammer for my own mind.


the lady slippers
which died in the summer drought
have sprung up in mild weather.
i want them to survive so i place
the water hose above them
and let it dribble into the sand.
i hope the association
doesn't name them weeds

talked film with a british trader
yesterday. almost mentioned
the programmer but don't want
to know if there are any
degrees of connection there.
mystery has its attractions.


stopped having sex a few weeks ago.
the whole fwb thing wasn't workin out for me.
after you, i realise that if i have regular sex
with someone, i'ma fall  in love. i want to
be there before
 i fuck him this time.
my body may have other plans
but i hope to scuttle them until
it forgets what that's all about.

the flesh is very demanding no wonder
the mystics   want to scourge it.
but hunger has a strong resonance.

so i return to the trough.
sometimes i pick at the fare
sometimes i place a morsel 
on my tounge and just as often
spit it back out.


i want to be less controlling with my writing
therefore i  find myself exercising
extreme control. the irony of contradiction
is not lost here. perversity gods.


"hey, you havin any luck on this site?"
no, just talkin to you.

no need to be snarky bitch.


i'd like to become engaged
in the outside again. this vanity thing
makes me vapid. so what
if you don't think i'm hot?
so what if you do?
what i want to know is
what is going on in your head.

but i can't get past these pages
and i must. 

(pssst hey. just skip it.  
place your finger under
the leaf and flip it)


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

cotton sky

watched some youtube 
"scarey clouds"
"clouds appear from nowhere"
"these images will make you believe"

and it's true, zeus shot a bolt
from his nose. it was pretty awesome.
but clouds appear from nowhere?

today is a grey november
wet warm morning. chubs whines
  collared to the runline
for a few minutes before he gets
to come in for the day. i want to be
a pet in my next life. but not a goldfish.
i hear weasels are easy to keep
and kinda private.

i think of past lives, what choices i must
have made to make this life's loves
behave this way. then i realise i don't
understand karma at all.

rumi said a lot of things about love
but he had  wine and poetry to eat.
every day.  what a kind master.

mine doesn't care for either but
he'll let me have whine. oh bother
wine, but it makes me sleepy or sick.

  it's with distance
that we see anything at all.
outside the universe, looking in.
sky a blanket to curl into.

Sunday, November 13, 2011


welcome to florida, land of the  mid life crisis. it's warm here, much better than that snow filled state you fled. you've had enough of shoveling snow and splitting logs and that ex to last you till you leave god's waiting room forever. so, what to do now? you've blown your retirement fund on a) the move b) your failed entre into the stock market/groundbreaking sales model  c)that twenty something arm candy or d)all of the above.  you've moved in with the rents because they need care  but that's like having kids again. don't you deserve a break? the divorce will be final soon enough, why not find a chickie to spill out all your angst to/ bag for a one nighter?  you hear the older women , women your age, can be sympathetic, even when they just tossed someone like you aside for the money. you can tell one your entire life story over a nice dinner. they've been fed, you've got your cheap therapy, everyone's happy and or payback's a bitch. it all works out. never mind those childish dreams you had before you got caught in the swamps and riddled with three layers of mosquito bites. you understand now that the beachfront properties are for tourists and couples that worked through the empty nest/recession money losses together. the ones that made it through the fire intact. that's love, and you've had enough of delusion as well. right now you'll settle for a warm, semi attractive body with a sympathetic ear  and tape on her mouth. that's where i come in. my guillibility is primed to be exploited and you remember how to do that so well. so, hey thanks for the dinner but we have a different definition of conversation and checked baggage is still something you have to deal with when the flight is over. do me a favor  , just let me know it's a session and i'll pick the appropriately priced restaurant so that neither of us walks away with a bad taste in their mouths. k?

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

on a napkin between two gylfs

you could tie him up
and he'd struggle a bit
succumb and
love it

sounds great
when do i start?

i dunno, ask him.

oh forget it
he's always got a co ed on his arm

yeah, you know, he's already hadhis cougar.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

scrap of cloth with sequins sewn on

stretch marks
exposed  under
yellow gauze

Monday, November 07, 2011

november vespers

it  must have been
your absence i love best
gone into your own obsessions
  so much quiet
time , as if words
intruded on the catacombs built
between us.

you never walked through the fire with her
  you never had it rough,
forced  to recognise
in shared sacrifice.
words made you believers but
coals made you run
deep into yourself where memory raised flames
hot enough to destroy
your home before  you were
born your daddy
dead your mommy
gives  you up
for good.

fire on the mountain.

foretelling of the ways in which you love?
a wave, formed, resonating, rolling?
no,no, not you, you
control the wave.

"when i die, will you write about me?"

this writer only deals in corpses.

Sunday, November 06, 2011

apple wind

 i chose to not brand
the  movement
does this make me a hippie?

murphy's oil soap for hardwood floors
cleans   pet hairs. the dog is mellow
cats well fed. rise from bed, outdoors
lake breeze and cafe bustello.

rimbaud in reverse, poet's curse/
poet's pleasure in the measure
eight by  eight awaits. which is worse
to not hold or to not treasure?

hidden by reeds a boathouse stares
  at the backyard, blinks as shadows
and cypress sigh. the gate swings, shares
exit with entry , i suppose

i  could stand on the dock as  moors
creep , geese flock wild and  yellow
in the sun's gleam between shores,
wait for this or that fine fellow.

the apple wind blows fit to burst
 a careful bubble, takes pleasure
 dropping fruit on heads, an alert
  all seasons aren't for leisure.

gather,harvest, breathe  fresh air
shake out the sheets, mend holey ghosts
that creep into your house,   aware
of autumn's promise to the host.

Saturday, November 05, 2011

casual fire

the  way he burns
every one around  him
announcing departure
in a whoosh
one minute you hold
a poem in your hand
the next you're both ash.

Friday, November 04, 2011

observable universe

what did i observe in the bar. against the wooden countertop of mixers, a bouqet of young women, gladiolas grandly lounging in a loose vase. lined up behind them, watching the game from a feigned indifference, a  tall grassy edging of men, bedraggled and bonnie both, dried stalks and sweet juicy stems leaning into the radiance and moisture of the heady flowers shaded by the tv screens, helpfully playing football, a manly sport, while three dart boards reminded me of you trying to show me how to play, struggling to keep the game from being over too soon, so you can watch my long depilitated legs bend at the knee to retrieve the darts in my short skirt, no jacket, forget the 90s they're so last century oops but at this bar...

Thursday, November 03, 2011

the light that's lost within us reaches the sky

--jackson browne

gotta love you tube , the  music arm
of the acaciac library. any song you want
you prolly got. unless you wrote it. even then
if you had, like, a video camera and the ambition
you could put that up. ahem, 2ybf.

so yeah, i tubed my teen infatuation.
i didn't have a bf in hs bc i was always in love
with a rock star. jackson browne is my, like so many other
ex virgins of my time,   ideal hunk. soooo sensitive!
soooooooo sad, so insightful, a poet! his wife killed herself!
he had a baby girl to raise! oh if i could only meet him!

tonight i watched him from a 2008
concert, brown hair
stark against a white old man
beard he looked
like he should be playin at open mic down the street
but he sounded like
jackson browne.

oh if only i could meet him.

snort. i'd prolly just stutter and stammer and blush.
still the skool grrrl crush.  i always thought we would be perfect

for  each other. no wonder\
no real man
will ever
satisfy me,



no um. i don't think that's right.
he beat his wife they say, deflowered
half the girls in orange county by all accounts
a player i mean come ON, his wife killed herself.

doesn't that tell you something?


right? so we all have some baggage.
as a fantasy   i show jb the picture
i found of the inside of a turtle flower
along with a graph representing
a mayfly's life cycle and a hologram of fireworks.

he mulls them over and writes a song.
even in my fantasy, it's
never recorded
it belongs only to us
and the pot gods.
but we do it at open mics.

let the pirates and the journalists
keep the records. we want to keep
the moment, always ending, hold
its brightness in our palms
and feel   wonder rise by and bye.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

audience of one

  peacock feathers flutter
in a corner
cigarette breath from the fan.
move over make it former
stutter, move like panang paran

i do not know if i have it in me
to do this one more time
she told me , my advice-
watch your words 
so i go mute watch your
words, repeated twice.

sometimes it's better to not know
what's coming, you probably can't
change it.

i am disbelief and decadance
a rerouted sphinx perched
atop the palms spray painted
bold and blue.

every thing you said i want i said you  everything wanted

the spider spits a line across a great divide
from  inside a broken doll stroller
a mass of hatchlings boil and bubble
down the leg , scurry out the door
but not as fast i. pandora rocks in her
box, catalogs thumbs up and down
holding on to the evening as long as she dares.

what are you supposed to think
when you read this? memory
is strange puppy.
keep smokin da weed. it will
all make sense in the end
when you've found the eggman
woo. the cat slips out the window

baby girl calls boo DAH
commanding , understanding
soon she will speak to us
in our language, forgetting
 in her excitement all the things
she  already knows. the sweet taste
  of angel tounge
birds, verbing.