"Where are your gloves?"
A man with watery blue eyes,
And steaming black coffee asks me.
I almost cannot hear him over the brutal wind,
The city taken by storm.

He leans closer and whispers,
"They are giving some away,
Under the bridge."
As if I know exactly which bridge he is speaking of.

Winking,
He continues past me on the street.
Homeless,
But fortunate in his kindness.

Colorful breath
escapes lips frosted with a hint of cinnamon

the picture of immortality
captured with soft patters from

falling flakes, each one
a world in itself

One way
                               Stood at the top of a knoll
                A new low
No waiting looks welcome
                               One ultimate perspective

      A thousand open faces
                                                     Enjoy the passage of time
You had me at
                        Today matters, darlin'
You had me at
                        Archipelago Lotus Flowers
      3 pink hearts, an ornament of a house
Your world in
                        Every
                                ­ Square
                                             Inch
Just for fun
                         Make it worth remembering
Just for fun
                         Love heals (hazy yellow dreams)

      These hand-forged items
                                               Absolutely ridiculous
Became beautiful earth
                           that happily shapes us
    
       Though our feet may leave
                                             Have faith in the future

Jackson's trespassing music

Fresh from the water
I embrace the soft yellow glow that
Fills my writing space

This week's end, a resolution to explore
And the crickets sound their approval

Happiness runs
          from where you need it most
    to places it should never dare to explore
        
but even feelings grow tired
  and this one is not the athlete she used to be

"who taught you to look so good?!"
says a thought *[shot] in the dark.
--- this to no woman in particular but to
all womankind i suppose.
outside there is a dog haranguing me,
saying WOOF (that is, "where d'you get those old clothes?")
i tell him the sally ann but good luck
getting in there, dog . . . he takes off, complaining ---
but i pay no attention to the bellyaching of an old mutt...
"nay," says i there's not a ******
thing of any real importance in this
universal dustbin/save the dharma.

yea i could live in a woodsy cabin
deep down a valley-ay shoutin' "HOOO-EE!!" out the open door
to anyone who comes by and
be thought a crazy young ('ventually old) ******
off his rocker in the trees.
--- and why not!!
chop logs/cook bread 'n brew potsa tea
'n otherwise lead a silent but meaningful old existence
out there with weekend friends/girls/wine/talk.

--- tell all that to a bookish pal
who scoffs:
"some dharmy of yours, boy. all that work.
where are the café sittings & sunny youthy days of
readin' sutras on a lawn somewhere?"
"bah," i says. *"bah..."

she is organza and rough, nubbly raw silk
that tears your fingers
and bleeds you purple, sweet.


civilizations rise and fall
in the curve of her mouth.

you had birds in your mouth and sunlight dripping from your eyelashes.
i promised i wouldn't speak if you wouldn't change faces twice an hour.
we made conversation under a tree and sleep-walked through your kitchen.
i couldn't stare for your poetry disguised as fingers, always moved your hands.

i opened your window and slid to the street, took a walk with the recycling.
my hands looked tired the next morning, and you wouldn't take no.
when the lights fell asleep, we ran for the boats and slipped into the water.
the moon smiled and pulled us apart, i never matched your shoes again.