The delusions of
Amherst virgins
be ******:
hope is a plucked fowl
about to be tossed
into a cook ***.
  ~mce

Life turns on a dime,
usually at just the moment
when I have no change.
  - mce

Her dress lay in a heap
on the cat furred floor.
A smile of satisfaction
spread across her face.
Having done this
time out of mind,
I knew it was my turn
to say something tender,
but my tumescent lips
just can't winkle out
pretty lies anymore.

  ~mce

Chaos mixed with uncertainty
stirred by a random spoon,
like one of those digital billboards
that you drive by too fast to read.

  ~mce

Feeling hopeless and inane,
I understand that memory
pales compared to the present,
but sometimes you just
can't manage to escape the past
because life is mostly
a precious few tiny victories
and a great many huge defeats;
sometimes size does matter
and small isn't always beautiful.

  ~mce

Most men notice
the perfect ***
of a 20-year-old
and feel lust.
All I feel
is the sharp nudge
of too late.
Age is a process
server it's best
to avoid.

  ~mce

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.* - JB

My inner resources have collapsed.
I am officially in a rut.
I am terminally bored.
It's like dying over and over again
but never quite getting the job done.
A strong change is called for.
Perhaps I'll cut off my head,
take up ballet or start a hedge fund.
I could take a road trip
if my car wasn't 240,000 miles
toward dead and it wasn't winter
and if I had any money.
Pawn shops don't pay well for poems.
Sadly, all those conditions prevail.
Which means my chances of escaping
boredom are limited, which is boring.
I realize boredom is my fault.
In my case, it is the San Andreas fault.
If I owned boots, I could pull
myself up by my bootstraps, but I don't.
I wonder if the Buddha was ever bored.
All he ever did was sit around.
If so, perhaps I'm really not bored.
Maybe this is really enlightenment.
That's a truly terrifying thought.
During the war life was boring but
dangerous. Sad thing to pine for war.
Guess I'll just surrender to this
redundant, monotonous splendor.
If I wake up tomorrow, things may improve.
If I don't wake up, they surely will.

  ~mce

Here's a thought. There is no market for poetry. None.
So why go to all the hassle and delay and dealing with
elitist editors' asinine egos to publish in a magazine with
a publication of, say 100, when you could self-publish
and give the books away. Either way, you make no money
and remain obscure. Except by self-publishing, your
frustration level goes way down. It was good enough
for Walt Whitman. Think about it before sending
a lot of submissions into the void. It's your writing.
Take charge of it. Be an anarchist!

  ~mce

It is astounding
how long you can survive
on a large assortment of nothing.
Each of us must find
our own way to live.

  ~mce

If I had $12 I'd
buy a bottle of whiskey
to ease the pain of poverty.
I don't.That is
exactly the definition
of poverty.

  ~mce

It is six AM.
Do you know
where your poet is
right now?

  ~mce

The day breaks like frayed shoe laces
and the situation only gets bleaker from there.
Poems written, bed made, dishes done,
it's eleven AM and the day is shot.
Not to say it couldn't redeem itself.
The mailman could deliver a bag of dead rats.
The food stamp Nazis could drop by
to ensure I am still appropriately thin.
Armies of angry squirrels could mass
outside my door preparing to begin their
drive for world ******* with me.
My cat might finally begin to speak,
albeit in a language I don't understand
or things could get really interesting
and it might just begin to rain.
After all, hope is a rabid dog that dies hard.
But none of these surprises  are very likely.
Physics says that inertia overcomes motion
and we are as rarely strong as our imaginations.
Don't fret, soon enough it will be evening
and you can fall asleep, best part of the day.

  ~mce

At just the right
moment,
she would let loose
with sounds
that would
make Mozart
jealous,
and God knows
I love Mozart!

  ~mce

Just say ***** it.
Pull your lover into bed.
Be sure to call in well.
Spend the day swimming
among the sheets.
Practice every stroke
you know. Invent others.
By evening, you'll feel better.

~mce

Rats nibble your thoughts this morning;
snakes devour the visceral world.
Nothing says I love you like an AM *******.
History removes her clothes and drops
to her battered knees, mouth open,
white as a bled-out corpse in an abattoir.
An ill wind whips up despair
and the sun has taken a terminal holiday.
Still, life isn't all that bad
if you can avoid the tyranny
of women, careers and money.
Worst case, your bones freeze together
and the bills pile up like mountains.
Ignore them and don't take art too seriously.
Let history's talented maw do its work.
You chose to be a poet and
there will be other mornings.

~mce

Here's to all my Aussie friends.

You fought with bravery and honor
at Kimberley, Passchendaele,
Gallipoli, Romani, Crete,
Tobruck, Milne Bay, Yongju
and even in Vietnam.

And I know why you did it.

Abounding in your back yards
were stalking cassowaries, spiders
that rot your flesh, invisible
but lethal jelly fish,
Coastal Taipan and Brown snakes,
not to mention saltwater crocodiles
Great White sharks, Stone Fish,
blue ringed octopi and
the odd Marble Cone Snail.

War must have seemed safe
compared to he horrors of home.

Here's to you mates. Fair Dinkum.
I would have been on the first
transport out, too.

  ~mce

Embrace the impossible.
Exclude no mixtures.
Learn the secret, lost
signatures of things.
Immerse yourself in the
language of silk and thighs.
Assume you are only
one step away from success.
Take the Holy Dove prisoner;
learn its arcane language.
Believe your fingertips
may shoot flames at any time.
See through appearances
to the invisible core of being.
Guard your aura carefully.
Do not expect gainful employment;
even poets have better prospects.
Burn your fingernails.
Accept and nurture absurdity;
make it the reason you never
give up.

  ~mce

Suppose I caught
you one day
and gently kissed
the sole of your
tiny foot,
wouldn't you limp
a little then,
afraid to crush
my kiss?

  ~mce

I only wanted
what all men want:
to be thought worthy
by a lovely woman;
to hold her close
as a bundle of lilacs;
to inhale her
deep as a spring forest;
to undress her
with trembling fingers;
to touch her
like the skin of a saint;
to enter her
like a portal to life.

A woman is
sanctified by love;
her beauty is lifted
to the waiting sky.

She becomes:

wise and deep
as the falling peals
of church bells;
holier than Mecca,
Bethlehem and Jerusalem;
lovelier than the wildflowers
of a Tennessee spring;
lighter than
the gentlest breeze.

She does not fear lust,
for she has sacrificed
at that empty altar before
and has learned
from loss to make love
greater and more powerfully
than a whole generation
of Amazons.

And she manages
all these wonders
with a Mona Lisa smile.

But in the end,
you are still a woman
and I am still a man.

We will come
to understand
what to make
of each other.

Forgive me my desire;
it is all I can be.

Darkness
leans toward me
like a lover
for a kiss.
So difficult
to resist
her charms.
Darkness,
sleep,
respite.
Perhaps
this time
I'll simply
relent,
surrender
and disappear
inside her
forever.
- mce

I vaguely recall
whole nights of deep
refreshing slumber,
waking renewed
and ready.
Now, every morning,
I stumble into
consciousness
from an
exhausting welter
of dreams and demons
wondering who
you must ****
to get a single,
decent night of sleep
around here?
- mce

Should women
truly learn
men's hearts,
convents
would flourish.
- mce

Revel in
the flesh,
but examine
the heart;
one lasts,
the other can't.
- mce

Job: work done for money,
to pay the mortgage,
to keep the wife and kids happy.

Vocation: what sustains you,
done for the love of it,
the pure craft of the doing.

Job: external, coercive,
necessary only for lucre,
status, accumulation, dross.

Vocation: internal, freely chosen,
necessary for your heart,
creative, affirming, alive.

The singer who sings
freely and from the soul
creates beauty
and informs the world;
the drudge who labors
for sustenance and stuff
murders time
and deadens reality.

What we do
paints the portrait
of who we are.

Real work brightens being;
useless work darkens the heart.

Choose carefully.
- mce

Lovers weave
the fabric
of creation.

Entering you,
I return to Paradise.
When your flesh
surrounds me,
the Garden
is restored.

Together
we become
much more
than each other -
one tapestry
woven
of two threads.

How many
existences
to arrive
at this life?

The particles dance,
rearrange, renew;
a universe
constantly reborn.

All of this
endless majesty
that my head
might find
the pillow
of your belly,
that my ears
might feel
the beating
of your heart.

Every breath,
divine
and precious;
each moment
a new world.
- mce

The rose
I discovered
tattooed
on her ***
made all
that effort
worthwhile.
  - mce

~for Gary Snyder*

Beyond the edges
of the dying cities
the human
reasserts itself.
Shacks and gardens,
hermits and wise men,
woodsmoke rising -
flickering flames
of a new dawn.
  - mce

I own a huge,
dazzlingly
blue emu egg
given me
by two lovely
young women
who used to make
omelets for lions;
beauty emerges
from even
the most unlikely
orifices.
  - mce

A man sits
along a dry creek
in an unmoving desert
with a fishing pole.
Every day he returns
to that bank,
drops his line
into the sand
and catches nothing.
The sun does not blink.
No water flows.
Not a cloud
disturbs the sky.
He continues to fish.
This is the definition
of hope
and
of insanity.
It is what
keeps us going.
  - mce

for Nietzsche*

Relax a bit.
Stop being so
****** Germanic.
Too much questing
after the truth
engenders, finally,
heartburn
and hemorrhoids.
Purge yourself.
**** epistemology.
Eat a paw paw.
Have a drink.
Count the cobwebs.
Learn to know
your toes.
Put that book
back on the shelf.
Accept the sunshine
that may illuminate
an uncritical moment.
Bask in it.
Release your mind
to wander aimlessly
in nature's delight.
Penetrate the Goddess.
Become the lover
content to enjoy
what cannot last,
what will be lost.
Save your questions
for a cloudy day.
There is more
to knowing
than knowledge
can say.
  - mce

Once, I knew
a woman so
utterly lovely
in spirit
that her laughter
invoked images
of seeds germinating,
of buds bursting,
of flowers blooming.

That was years ago,
but whenever
I encounter a freshly
opened blossom,
I still see
those sounds.
- mce

A ****** of crows
perched above
the newly
planted corn;
we expect sustenance,
they simply wait.
See how the world
mocks our plans.
  - mce

It's not a hobby. Be prepared to give your life to it.
Read, read, read: The more poetry you read now,
the better your's will become.
Don't quit your day job. No one ever got rich writing poetry.
If you are seeking fame or to get laid,
there are obviously easier methods.
Ignore criticism, unless it is useful, and even then be wary.
Consider: Your feelings do not constitute the universe;
your love life may not be all that interesting.
Write every day. Don't wait for the Muse.
She is a fickle ***** prone to take random vacations.
Forget originality. It will paralyze you.
Write like a ******. That's what poets are.
Look forward to embarrassing yourself.
Say it in the fewest, best words.
Nothing is easy. Be prepared to burn for it.
Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.

~mce

The man with no eyes
fixed his vacant gaze
hard upon me and said,
You don't look so well
today, my friend.
Well, I replied,
I do feel a bit blank.
You need to concentrate
on being an atom, he said,
being particles
is just too difficult.
Taking up his observation,
suddenly I felt solid.
Only the sightless
see clearly.

  ~mce

The whiskey bottle is empty.
Now there is a sufficiently
sad sentence. Succinct, too.
It speaks a grave-side quiet,
as when emptiness is all.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Five words leading only
to a garbage can.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
The simple, declarative,
syntax of nothing.

   - mce

Every day I toss it
a raw piece of my heart
so it doesn't **** me.
Strange to feed something
so it won't devour you.
I have lived with this
for years beyond memory.
Perhaps, I have always
been like this,
rending my heart
to keep death at bay.

  ~mce

To make a new world
you must be willing
to ****** the old gods,
step over their corpses,
through the madness,
out of the darkness,
eternally alone,
into the empty garden
of your own creation.
  - mce

The pay scale
for poets
is bleak indeed.
I could use
a wealthy
benefactor.
Where are you,
Lorenzo?
Even the Muse
needs to be fed
occasionally.
  - mce

Disdaining experts, he specializes in
generalizations. He knows just enough
about everything and almost everything
about nothing. It won't earn him a Ph.D. or
gainful employment, but it's much more fun.
Poetry, like physics, announces the universe.
Who would not want to be
the town crier of eternity?

  ~mce

What you love best
will **** you
and you will smile
as you die.

  ~mce

Demanding happiness
requires standing
in an endless line
hoping that
something good
waits ahead of you.

  ~mce

You must give him your life.
He won't settle for less.
He will turn it into poetry
and become you
for a little while.
He will wear your skin
next to his own
and feel your darkest pains,
your most exquisite pleasures.
He will finally understand
your definition of love
and why you will leave him.
He will steal the secret
of your deepest longing
and know how to satisfy you.
But he will make
a few unasked for
subtle alterations
in your soul.
Then he will return it
as something
slightly different.
You will notice.
He will amaze you;
he will charm you.
You might even love him,
but you will never trust him.

  ~mce

In his whole life,
he had loved
only three women;
she was the last.
If love
is a Trinity,
that makes her
his Holy Ghost,
the breath of God,
always present,
never visible:
so stunningly
appropriate.
  - mce

These gelid mornings
engender island dreams
of pinkest flamingos,
hot sands, swaying palms,
chattering parrots,
and rising tropical sun;
but finer far, Lady,
(closer, nearer, softer)
would it be to wake
beside your naked flesh
(willing, inviting, enfolding)
beneath a pile of quilts
in the dawn's iron chill
and coax from that
smoldering feminine heat,
from the striking sparks
of your eager kisses,
the exquisite, explosive fuel
of your caresses, deep
within the you of you,
the first fire of the new day.
  - mce

He once knew
a woman who made
every room
she entered
a work of art.
Her sentences
pronounced
like calligraphy,
pure as plums.
Her walk an
aphrodisiacal promise
of terpsichorean
delights.
Her laughter
a paint brush
deftly caressing
the atmosphere.
Her body a unicorn
every man dreamed
of hunting, but
feared to possess.
When she left
a room it was
transformed.
She should have
signed the walls
and left a mark
on the masterpiece
of herself.

~mce

Even
an octopus
wants
to be
tickled
occasionally.

~mce

Silenus, sad old satyr, wearied of seduction.
He'd cultivated enough nymphs
to last an immortal lifetime.
They were all the same anyway,
ubiquitous, their beatific bottoms
lifted and eager to be impaled.
He dreamed of mortal women, wary and with wiles.
A bit more of a challenge.
But a job is a job, even for a demigod.
Onward. he plowed another furrow.
Back to work. Hard at it. Poking eternity.
Once more into the breach.
  - mce

Come, Muse,
don't be just
another teasing
*****.
Sing through me.
Time is short.
Everyone dies.
Breathe into me
while I still
have a voice.
No one wants
a song
from a corpse.
  - mce

In the still evenings
I watch movies,
read, write, think,
and listen to music
waiting for true love
to knock on my door.
She never does.
But I am patiently
waiting yet
and never totally
without hope.
  - mce

Sing me your pain, Love,
and I will sing you mine.
Together, we will make
a harmony of dissonance.
Lift your voice with me.
Let us make a song
against the darkness.
However brief and fragile,
the melody belongs to us.
What more can there be?
What more is necessary?
  - mce