Late Season

Late season there are
yaller leaves
that fall like rain
in night breeze and
cricket moonlight
wherein our hair curls in
silent humidity,
humble in late
seasons and the twilights.

To have dog slobber
in measurements
I'd rather not think
about
and to have short
fish-nibble
adrenaline
course through the reel and
cork bark handle
carrying us
to the few
streets we walk
downtown
and I, I sing
 song of dysfunction and fear
     because I wonder
     if they are watching us, and am I standing straight enough?

Are we up to their standards?

these burgher, bourgeoisie,

these people who voted for Bush then Obama,

and I flee to sand and dirt and great
blue
heron
shit
because I just want to prove my love for
all of us, and don't kid yourself,
I remember the recession
those days of
people not leaving
the house
and
of kids
drinking
drinking
drinking
cheap whiskey underage
behind the post office, so don't
think I don't remember
when
love was all we had.

And you fall asleep on the sand
and itch from poison ivy
and I try to thank you for your night breath in the tent
and spirit in love
without
making
it
seem
weird.
 

Summer Squash

There is hardly a day when the rains
Of the past
Fall upon the gardens of hope.
And soak the roots of tomorrow.

Summer squash and cucumbers
And the beer that cleans parched soil
All march together down rows
Of ego and id
To inexorable returns to
The fundament.

Summer showers and estival smoke
Make light of the sauna sun humidity
And we laugh in the face of west Nile virus.
Therein is our love of change and
even if we think we'd like to live forever,
we know that it's all temporal, and the chanterelles of our youth
Will fruit again in the moistened copses of oak and hickory.

So let us all never fear time or its passage,
and be only concerned with
how we swim in its current.

Resurgam

And there is always a fall
a cadence into fishponds
splashing the mistress and the statue
breaking upon impact.

But there, too
is the glue, and the
craftsman.

There is resurrection,the
bring-back, the reborn
and once again.

Now I am sure
they once hated elvis,
but who is he now?

Surely, the King

I am a Wasp

I am

a

wasp

I

reserve

my sting

I only wish

to chew my paper

and sculpt my nest

But here I am, being

shooed out of

a four-door

sedan;

chased away by a

rolled up

magazine

I have no malevolent intentions

I reserve my sting

yet here I am,

my wings are broken,

and the ants are carrying me

away.

Old poem #3

We've got our analogies

and metaphors

and similes

and

allegories

We've got our red clay and yellow silt

We've got dust and grime

dirt and mud

and what we lack

is clarity

we have stones

when we need crystal,

we have leather

when we need glass

doors

instead

of

windows

There's no maps, no direction

no guides

nor a destination

we've traded lenses for gems

and our telescope is blind

"Expires 10-29-06" or (Old Poem #2)

I feel like a carton of milk

that can see its own expiration date

I won't apologize for curdling

and I won't feel bad for ruining

that little kid's

cereal.

But I will feel bad for

is spending my whole life on a shelf

even

when i can see

my expiration date

But I'll still spend my days dazing and dozing

in the

fast

flicker

of flourescent lighting

and I will regret much

because

my past

is clear

and I'm already starting to spoil.

Old Poem #1

we ignite

lifting

raising

shooting

flying

burning flaming

combustion

all propelling through

our atmosphere

breaking clouds

and the sound barrier

shattering the water vapor

veils hiding

our deep pools

and

dark forests

fuel's gone

dipping

diving

dropping

descending

free-falling

far down

breaking the Sargussum

surface

sinking

swimming

floating

wading

deep in

sapphire

pool

we rest at the bottom