Saturday, August 5, 2017

Body found on beach at Sea Bright

A body found on beach at Sea Bright turns on sand
and breathes: coughs a gnarled seaweed at the tide
and saves his soul.: what was alive on a fairy strand
left him denied at night, trench coat dry drunk tied

with the belt in a loop like Bogart, a way to just sleep
on the slippy giant jetty rocks after a fey roundy night
of joyous carousing: with a kiss unanswered he creeps
down the wooden drop of wounded stairs, takes flight

across the darkened road, dark store under the stairs
closed but unlit merchandise points the drowned way
of escape: denied, salty now with surf spattered tears
he seeks a tidal release in the far weedy sea blue spray

of midnight. Off the tide in a hollow is a forest fawn
lost to him in seaweed as he slips towards the dawn




Sunday, July 16, 2017

When the grey rain comes drowning

When the grey rain comes drowning though pastel,
washing a turquoise bench near two curved palms,
sadness. A numbness in hard red hands and sandals
streaks the blinded window with moist rinsed songs.

Many's the picture that curls in a cork-board frame or
gathers dust in an obscure drawer, recoverable only
when, in late August, crickets can be sensed at dusk
or black passerines fly headstrong into thunderstorms.

There was a photograph of you I almost missed, a profile
shot in late summer when the smell of leaves turning to
crimson begins eclipsing the promises of spring. Winsome,
you shyly teared, but we laughed about it later over wine


Saturday, September 10, 2016

If I died right now, I'd have to say it was a pretty fantastic life

Big cursors want very badly to run your life
for in you value exists the nature of which is
lost today. When a cold rain wafts grey grief,
and pebbles a little dampening puckered kiss

it is possible to forget life, if only at the punch
of hazy late afternoons. Haze and cold together
remainder deep pockets that should be scarlet
and free. But should but really hurts your heart.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

A Small Crematorium Can Only Burn Little Things

Upward facing leopard is a pose that few attempt,
also the schoolyard will seek to hide its red bricks
behind old charcoal stains that rise over hard pent
rust iron doors. Tight shiny coils, a cast door thick

on a handle that requires you to lift. Here was fire
applied to damp papers that needed to be hidden.
Peels lifted by flames curled every dried leaf higher,
each lick hiding a lie in letters. The pale boy bidden

by black habits rakes after days bygone in cool ashes
looking for raised capital alphabets in the palimpsest.
There was one 'A' that outlived fiery janitorial trashes,
left exposed on red brick creases squaring, now best

remembered as a curse. Up to facing a leopard pose
it's the hardest part to face, even just now, I suppose.


Sunday, May 22, 2016

Joy

The joy I felt when you bent your warm neck on mine
in the curvy aftermath of beige pillows happily tossed,
and your sweet deep snore.

It's the only joy I will ever need.

Sunday, May 1, 2016

Draft of a Poem not Written

When the window broke with a wide teal shatter,
a lattice pine painted in this world, but strained,
burst into a wet torrent. Hurricanes arising matter
when, unexpectedly, a blue frame is broken. Rains

misunderstood wash away squares looping green,
but yellow bleaching on a toothy tin frame, swells
when the weather turns drier. A sneaky desk seen
as elder mahogany had no shallow bluish inkwells

but two creaky drawers. We ran ourselves silly
in a shallow concrete bowl near the graveyard
in anti-gravity glee, slipping on the moss willy-
nil in green defiance of the dead. Sanctus hard

blew when a storm came and left with cool grey-
ozone in my nostrils flared, a sparrow flew away.





Saturday, April 23, 2016

Chapter One

Off-key melodies show the genius in the rhythm
of austere cold in the yellow shale neighborhood
where the cute doctor shaved downstairs. Ahem.
Yes, doctorates are awarded to the expected brood

Because dark blue courses lay down a bonded way
that will not, for a gold chance, be easily forgotten.
Up the stairs a landlady starts at a pale green May
coming through her window not uninvited, but then

reconsiders. A child's short bark is only the start
of a correspondence that will haunt a generation
that is yet to be born. Yellow letters often marked
by the pale man late of radio did birth the notion

of a halting voice that still quakes to speak. What 
if a block from the cold stones a quiver arose but