Laughing Sneer

Death comes in a cloak that is hard to recognize.

I was walking near Azalea Park when I saw a spray
of blossoms that could've brought some yellow  joy.

They did not.

In the coal towns of Pennsylvania a man
has the crazy idea that his bowels will not move.

Surrender in the alley where Milton went down.

The laughing sneer of evil when it thinks

it has you caught.

The Language of Sunset

The language of sunset describes hieroglyphs of light
which, wisely, the palm fronds ignore. Watched from
a distance on high, through grey aluminum uprights
she walks unaware, metronomed by a creepy thumb.

(mist forgiven is mist forgotten down by the river.

there was that time when a bad thing happened.

the door to the chapel was rusted in a season when even melting could not be forgiven.

maybe in the light green spring a small salvation is born.

maybe under diaphanous blooms he will offer empty words devoid of healing. )

The language of sunset swirls down swirly orange
despite the mistakes of that word. Well, here goes:
what beats on a mapled uke is a homily on a range
strummed from a subtle D-major's humbling tones.

Body found on beach at Sea Bright

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

with its belt in a loop like Bogart, a way to justly sleep
on the slippy giant jetty rocks after a fey roundly night
of joyed 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 tidal release in a far weedy sea green spray

of midnight. Off the tide in a hollow is a seaside dawn
lost to him in a leaf strewn blind as he stands to yawn.

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

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.

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.

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.