A boy I knew was abandoned by the love of his life today, after two years
And all he said about it was:

"Funny thing love is"

And as I passed the grave yard driving home I saw an old woman whose hands were clasped in front of her, praying for the love of her life to come back home

"Funny thing love is"

Your clothes can’t cover my memory
doe eyed girl full of intrigue
despite her,
she became a woman
breast that lay with you
such a fluid form
for a body so firm
like god couldn’t decide with you
I however have made up my mind
I am not your creator
but I can destroy you
even the wrecking ball eventually erects new structures
The French call it “Little Death”
I’ve named it after a pair of monuments to a moment,
glimpsed through thighs up to you
hungry
tongue lashing out
words cropped from two bodies
in solidarity

Who is this that wakes each morning
a bit like binary.
Am I on or off today?
When living for tomorrow,
it's tough to be keeping time.
A lay away life
that's not mine.
A billion year itch that has somewhere to be.
Right THERE.
Termites in my wooden spine
buckling under the day,
like floorboards under my feet,
squealing with tomorrow
comparable to rings on a tree.  
A back breaks so you may know my calloused age
layered with the things I say.
It's no secret
my branches are blushing.
Sweet sunshine I'll save you
so soon we'll rake the sugar around me
and lose it all to my leaves
for the sake of where I sleep.
I am tired of tomorrow
this thing with no release.
In the backwards country roads of my mind
I know I am already there.
But on the tip of my tongue
I teeter upon
some see-saw child's play
of knowing better
but doing worse.
It's an intimate sense of hurt
that can't be contained in these words.

Isn't it all you ever wanted
to understand which parts of yourself
are huddled under the home somebody else
can make out of a word like grace
to hear an echo
would be to die complete,
satisfied that you did indeed
see yourself admired in the world
a bird dips on the wind
in the shape of a lovers body
while traffic
makes like ***
honking to move each other along
eagerly awaiting arrival  
here am I world
birth may have been adequately described as wet
death may be becoming dry
but nothin' is quite like catching life's eye
paper time drawing your mind
like the cornerstone
in some wild revolution

Hedons liken to sound.
The hungry cadences wielding that satisfying resolution.
The resolution we seek in between memories
and the spirit of the staircase.
Are we intricate bodies
or are we intricate worlds,
full of all you have ever known.
What is that sound?
I may be defined by my actions
but my actions are defined entanglement.
Some soft note
huddled under a hard and heavy chord.
Then victory comes in the 42nd measure
and is defeated in the next.

All of us can make noise
but nobody can be heard.

Even the altruist is selfish to an ideal,
I want then only to make music.

Ponder the milkman.
Uniform obsolescence met evolution
Occupation is what you are reduced to,
In a body
Not meant for boundaries
Some nausea from the neighbor’s perfect lawn
There is anxiety pouring from that clock
Cerebral mardi gras parade rolling the spine
Crackling bottle rockets that pepper nerve endings
Between the shouting and *******
Accompanied by beads of sweat
My love
Ain’t all in the hips, some comes
Outside of me, but through me all goes
All I could ever know
And always less I could tell you
Things aren’t the same, they never will be
That truth like a statue
Carved from ever step forward
That forgot what backwards meant
The Milkmen may be a dead breed
But I know children who have soul
Dressed all in that pearly white
Ready to deliver
Themselves
To everything.

Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.

But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar?  To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is German
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?

the hours rise up putting off stars and it is
dawn
into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems

on earth a candle is
extinguished     the city
wakes
with a song upon her
mouth having death in her eyes

and it is dawn
the world
goes forth to ****** dreams….

i see in the street where strong
men are digging bread
and i see the brutal faces of
people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy

and it is day,

in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror

and it
is dusk    on earth

a candle is lighted
and it is dark.
the people are in their houses
the frail man is in his bed
the city

sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes
the hours descend,
putting on stars….

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems