the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.

I'm in a room without recovery area:
a room of intermission, a room
of collapse. Where are
the convenient little windows
to release a wicked bird of thought?
The quiet there is monk-like,
rogue, and slightly unpleasant, guilty
of moments spent with shadow.

I want to build a clock
that ticks once a year
—more dark than shark,

my confessional capacity
—time-stretched,
like the heavy intoxicated *******
of the witching hour. And I'll
make soup from the leftover prayers
of the day before, all in hopes
the rooms of me, then so clear,
will one day be faraway suns
in the temple of heaven.

One frigid day
when I was finally feeling warm
on this side of the dreaded Capricorn..
I invoked the paintbrush of manifest
painting the skies blue from east to west…
Taking the hammer of eternal unknowns  
I chipped away the cold winds blown…
Pick axed the frozen bergs distractions
salted my path for better traction..
Let the spring come early this year!

hold my hand
so your thumb
can tap that beat
on my wrist
the one my heart
decided to keep

full to the brim
is from where I start
full to the brim
the love of my heart
full to the brim
God's blessing art
full to the brim
thankfulness all part

Somewhere in this paradoxical space our imaginations are free....

Quantified and Eroticised

The sacred cow of the community
Drooling on doorsteps
Sleeping on sidewalks,
Looking into our silent world, sheathed in ice
Like exotic minarets and baroque domes
These brilliant and exotic creatures
From an innocent world of contentment, drunkenness
To a state of chronic edginess
and
The perpetual scanning of the great twentieth-century delusion
Micro doses of madness
Strychnine in a nerve tonic
Reality
Stuffed inside our heads
Commercial and nasty
An ideal marriage of function and design
Intelligent sensibilities with no possibility of escape
Hoarding every morsel of life
Between the burial mounds
Our famine of peace
In a deep dream of war
Humanity
A truly free psychopathology...


g.