There is
no such thing
as lost love.

Old loves
do not
simply vanish.

They always
reappear
in disguise
as new lovers.

  ~mce

The poem of the heart
must be the poem of the body.
The imagination of the flesh
contains the pure source
of all poetry.
Touch yourself in
silence and gasp
your words into
                         the world.
  - mce

When
neither
of us
can tell
where
we end
and the
other
begins
then
we are
both
exactly
there.
  - mce

A poem is
a hand traced
on a cave wall
that finally says,
"I was here,"
that's all.
  - mce

Just when
I am about
to give up,
the Muse
glides up
silently
and blows
seductively
in my ear.
God, I am
so easy.
  - mce

Lying is
tedious
and
difficult,
which
is why
I prefer
to  invent
the truth.
  - mce

We are made
to promise things
to one another
and to ourselves
beneath the
crushing duress
of desire.

Promises we
fling like silver
into magical
fountains,
convinced of
fulfillment.

Promises
we never meant
to keep.

  ~mce

Waking to birdsong and morning's promise,
the whispering breeze and murmuring light
dispels the fog of the evening's gloom,
the shaking terrors of the dreaming night.
Ghosts visit in the trembling darkness
and remain until they are chased away
by a soft explosion of solar hope,
by the advent of an untouched day.
To wake is to make a fresh pact with life,
to attempt to find a new way to see,
to take up the journey once again,
to struggle for another day to be.
Like the helpless moth to the fire drawn,
I cannot say no to the voice of dawn.
  - mce

A big snapping turtle
seeking living water
struggles slowly across
the rough gravel road
toward a dry creek bed
filled with rocks and sand:
                ///
Human, all too human.
  - mce

When the veil
of the temple
is rent, only
the flawed man
of pure heart
dares enter.
  - mce

Nature contains
the necessary
elements;

where nothing
is forbidden,
beauty blossoms.

The world exists
because it
sounds and shines.

The Vortex
remains
and reappears
unbidden.

Part your thighs;
open your mind:

the numinous
exists to find.
  - mce

The buzz
   of madness
       in the
          cicadas' whir;
insanity in
   the manic
      croak of
         tree frogs.

No quiet;
   never quiet;
        no quiet.

How fragile
   the fabric
        of personality;
how easily
   it rends, frays
       and tears

until what remains
   are loose threads
       blown randomly
           by howling wind

twirling within
   the whir
       of cicadas,
          the croak
             of tree frogs.
  - mce

Illness
Early in life,
     it's an
          interruption:

later in life,
     it's an
          omen.

Early and late
     the mortality worm
                    chews.

Early or late,
     it will have
          the last
                    bite.
  - mce

Open to me, love,
like a rose bud
unfolding,
surround me
with your being,
contain me
in your holding.
  - mce

Real work, whether of mind or body. Real work isn't a job or an occupation. It is any effort that occurs when what you know and what you do converge with who you really are.

Mammalian warmth: the touch of human bodies in all it's wonder and pleasure that reminds me of Nietzsche's saying, "First, be a healthy animal."

A cat's purr. It's existence requires no justification; it is complete in itself.

Blueberries, the plants and the fruit. A feast for every sense.

Books, movies, and works of art that are so compelling they take you on a vacation from reality by creating their own more vivid reality.

My white, 1997 Saturn with 245,000 miles on it. A gift from an angel, I call her Moby and together we sail the asphalt seas. She's a real lady.

Birds. They fill the world with color and music and desire no profit in return.

A lovely woman with bare legs in a sun dress. As Wallace Stevens said, "Beauty is momentary in the mind, the fitful tracing of a portal, but in the flesh it is immortal."

The electric charge of lips touching lips, of flesh brushing flesh.

Anything, on a woman, that is made of silk. Silk is exquisite, elegant and ******.

Weeds that flower, because their beauty is unexpected.

Evan Williams bourbon. Exquisite distilled ****** that burns and satisfies.

Cool evenings after hot days.

Conversation that sparkles with intelligence, wit and conviviality.

Warren Zevon, Thelonious Monk and Mozart, not necessarily in that order.

True friends. When the chips are down, they are a treasure more valuable than even family.

The magical, healing sound of flowing water.

Trees, especially the deciduous. Their greenness speaks to and cools my spirit.

Writing and reading poetry, my craft and my solace.

Love. It is elusive and difficult and perhaps impossible, but the belief that it may be out there sustains even the jaded, aging life.

The fecundity of the unexpected.

Fireflies. Almost too much beauty for one world.

Sunrises, because they bring the undeserved possibility of another shot at redemption.

Garlic, the spice of the gods.

And on and on...
- mce

The Zen Masters say,
when you reach the top,
keep climbing;
the deeper question is
what do you do when
you reach the bottom:
keep on digging?

  - mce

The mind's fabric
begins to fray,
sun at night,
stars by day.
The woven brain
comes undone,
threads peel loose,
one by one.
Madness pulls
the final thread,
light goes out
inside your head.
  - mce

No devils,
no pitchforks,
no screams,
no fire,
no brimstone:
just
more people
and another
day.
  - mce

That's where he lives
and he spends his days
nailing up perfectly framed
pictures of nothing.
  - mce

a modest red house

two minds dying

age and disease/
grief and despair

two minds crumbling

a small red house

a slow falling away

faint footsteps
on narrow stairs

the patter of death

in a modest
                  red house
  - mce

Instead,
of birdsong,
the endless,
grating drone
of idiot
homeowners
grooming their
perfect,
unnecessary
lawns:
mindless
*******
by leaf blower
  - mce

Swallow a loaded
Exxon supertanker;
settle the
Great Pyramid
of Cheops
on your chest;
balance a 747
on its pinnacle.

Now try
to draw a
deep breath.
  - mce

How sad,
to admit
your love
only after
the funeral.
  - mce

Experience a
saboteur:
you already
know
they will
abandon you,
betray you,
break your heart
or die.
  - mce

Obviously,
the human heart
can subsist
on hope alone;
the question is:
how long before
hope turns bitter?
  - mce

Although
running short
of ammunition,
he continues
to skirmish
hopelessly with
the unknowable.
  - mce

A shaft of sunlight
sparkling with motes
falls through the window
on the cat plopped
purring on my stomach.

There are many things
I could be doing;
there are many things
I should be doing.

But the sun is warm
and the cat is purring

and it is important
to have your priorities
straight.

  ~mce

The cosmos are deaf,
and mute, too.

We are the beings
who strut about
muttering words
we turn into stories.

We then call these tales
our lives and blame
them on the cosmos.

The cosmos can't hear
our pathetic laments
and wouldn't care
if it could.

It is too busy
just being the cosmos.

  ~mce

I am splitting wood
with my brand new
just bought yesterday
Eight-pound maul.
Gripping its very cool
red fiberglass handle
I whack with abandon.
I am transformed.
No longer just an aging
refugee college professor,
I am become
a mighty woodsman,
a handsome lumberjack,
PAUL ******* BUNYAN!
Only now, my back hurts.
I need a cigarette,
a drink and a nap.
Transformations,
they always come
with such a price.
  - mce

Sometimes, for no
apparent reason,
I am reduced to a
fulminating idiot,
quivering and
flummoxed by
divergent impulses.

Do I hit the panic button
that will eject me to
anywhere but myself
or simply yawn
and take a nap?

This may be a proof of
The Uncertainty Theorem.

I'm not sure.

  ~mce

If you have never
heard God laugh at you,
you need to listen harder.

/////

It's easy
to bite off
more than you
can chew;
but difficult
not to choke
on it.

/////

Some evenings,
the voice
you don't hear
is loudest
in your heart.

/////

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

/////

I always wake up
exactly where I am,
uncertain where
exactly that is.

/////

The poet owns
a closet packed
with skeletons,
whirling and gliding;
he never needs
to dance alone.

/////

The owl's call
at three in the morning
asks the question
who who who
am I?

/////

When you aren't there,
I often caress the air.

/////

Old tears
cling tightly
to their hurts.

/////

Myths don't age,
people do.

/////

Two wrongs often
make a fright.

/////

A university is where
ants train cockroaches
to make new pesticides.

/////

Words create worlds.
Try it. Know what
it means to be a god.

/////

The only thing
that can slow
a clock is Joy.

  ~mce

The universe has
a millions signs
that say no,
but
only a few
that say yes.

/////

Everything is fragile
except the rope
around your neck.

/////

Just another
day in paradise:
exciting as a
hole in the ground.

/////

If you think
with your ****
expect a few
headaches.

/////

All the world's misery
is caused by men
who wear suits.

/////

Sometimes, you must
open a window
just to let a little
oxygen into your life.

/////

My ancestors
marched to war.
I flew.
Maybe there is
such a thing
as progress.

/////

Why do we
fall in love
instead of
rise in love?
Because there's
no such thing
as a rise with
a thud at the end.

/////

Cat's know everything
but divulge nothing.

/////

Death waits
patiently as
a dead cat.
They know
each other
very well.

/////

Enough now,
I am moving to
Lake Michigan
where I will
hunt wolverines
for a living
and learn
to eat ice.

/////

Have to flee,
there is a warrant
out for me for
everything I
never did.

/////

So difficult
some mornings
to face the
ugly emptiness of
the sober page

/////

Wanted:
a future
without
a perhaps.

/////

If I turned
wine into water,
made the living dead,
and called in demons
would these
be proclaimed miracles
and I hailed as
the new messiah?
Might be dangerous.
I imagine the sound
of hammers and nails
calling my name.

   ~mce

The Law is the Law;
**** is ****;
do the math.

/////

Try not to **** away
your life on nonsense.

/////

While I wasn't looking,
the whole earth was
zoned commercial.

/////

There is always
another corner
around the next
corner.

/////

It is hard
on your soul
to admit
how often
you have
been full
of ****.

/////

Never let clocks
control your life.

/////

Waking up
every day
is another
chance at
Spring.

/////

Wherever you go
you carry along
all the places
you've ever been.

/////

We are
breeding people
who will
have no place
in the world.

/////

It takes
a life's work
to recognize
the mystery
of the obvious.

/////

Much that you see
isn't for your eyes.

/////

Exactly how long
does forever last?

/////

I keep waiting,
unsure of what
I am waiting for.

/////

Sometimes, you walk
through doorways
in you mind
and can't get out.

/////

When you are sure
you can't stand more,
the worst is just beginning.

/////

We must learn to appreciate
our fatal savagery.

/////

Don't disrespect alcohol.
It provides consolation
for the inconsolable.
Not a small feat.

/////

Sometimes, art must be foul
in order to scrub the heart clean.

/////

There are no
brave, new worlds;
just this one
seen clearly at last.

it's great fun
when young
drink hard
inhale often
talk merrily
laugh deeply
pass out on
a strange couch

but when older
the terrible
price you'll
pay is only
a fluttering
of eyelids
away

Writing is not unlike fishing.

You take up the instrument
of your art, cut a raw chunk
of your heart for bait, cast
as far into your imagination
as possible and wait for
something likely to strike.

Then you reel it in, slowly
and with craft. With luck
you have caught a poem. But
quite often, just when you
think you've got it, it simply
slips away, leaving you alone,
frustrated and bewildered,
but still hoping it might be
only another cast away.

Poetry is ephemeral;
difficult to catch
when sought. Hard
to hold onto and
easily lost when caught.
All you can do is
keep the poem in play
and hope to land it
another day.

  ~mce

Just a few
sharp instants
of clarity
snatched
like ghosts
from blurry
lives.

  ~mce

The night you got shot
I pushed your scrambled remains
like a sack of red meat
onto the deck of the chopper.

I wonder what it felt like,
those bullets tearing through you?

It must have been quick,
but what is quick to the dead?

It's forty-three years later
and I am sixty-four
but you will always be nineteen.

Which of us was lucky?

Last night you appeared in a dream
all shot to pieces and gave me
an enormous, important hint
about my future which I forgot
as soon as I woke up.

Believe me, buddy, you haven't
missed much. The world is still all
****** up and don't mean nothing.

No one has learned a single ****** thing.

Would you have had a good life?
A happy life? A successful life.
All pretty much moot.

But at least, you would
have had a life.

you must learn
     the music of death
          in short phrases
   and
     stitch them together
          into a complete piece
so you are not surprised
     at the Grand Finale

  ~mce

What falls away is always. And is near.* - Theodore Roethke

It begins when you are small:
some marbles, a jack knife, lunch money,
simply seem to vanish.

Older, the stakes go up:
lovers, chances, a bag of primo ***,
disappear without explanation.

In war, it's your comrades,
your lighter, perhaps your sanity,
gone in a ****.

And then the big stuff leaves:
wives, children, careers,
down the cosmic rabbit hole.

It's not all bad. No one misses
a mortgage, car payments or taxes.

But then your body retreats:
a hip replaced, wobbly knees,
no more rock hard erections,
the creaking back and bad omens.

Until, at last you are an old man
- sitting with a beatific grin -
        alone, broke, bored, yet
                                        curiously joyful
at having nothing else left
                                         to lose.

Looking down, you find a missing marble.

  ~mce

“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”* ― François Rabelais

You didn't notice when it happened,
but with age death has found you out
and stalks you like a mad cassowary.

Wherever you look it looks back.

You think of your mother,
slobbering, shrunken, demented,
dead long before she knew it;
the father you haven't spoken
to in years, alone in a nursing home,
rotting and uncomprehending.

You recall the perfect ******* of
the wonderous first girl you loved,
become an old woman, then immolated
by cancer, chemo, radiation,
reduced to a heap of ashes in an urn.

You hear of a friend's son's untimely
passing and though you haven't
seen your friend in 25 years your
spine tingles with sorrow for a full week.

The smashed white cat on the blacktop
you would not have noticed 20 years ago
brings your heart to a full shivering stop;

the wet half fallen leaves sway like
fragile tombstones in the darkened
autumn trees, whispering your name.

          Doom sits upon you shoulder
like a pirate's parrot and sees all
through your eyes.

          You lost your fear of
dying 45 years ago in a forgotten war,
believed it meant nothing, it didn't,

but now the reaper has returned to cast
his chill on everyone and everything
before you.

He scatters his reminders everywhere.

          And you know that once again
you find yourself trapped deep within
the valley of the shadow of death,
alone, but you are no longer the meanest
******* in the valley.

          It's enough
to make you want to believe in a god of mercy,
but it's far too late for divine intervention,
god is dead and mercy is granted to no one.

Soon enough you will stumble into that
final ambush and the bullet with your name
on it that has followed you since birth
will find you and come to rest and the
contract made with your first breath
                     will be fulfilled.

In the end,
                we all look
                                 into the Tiger's eyes.

  ~mce

When I go out,
my cat sprawls
on the carpet and
dismisses me with
a half-opened eye.

When I return, I
find him in the
same disdainful
posture.

But I imagine that
when I am gone
he calls his cat
buddies, they come
over, drink beer
and whiskey,
smoke cigars, play
poker and watch
kitty ****.

Small wonder the
poor beast needs
so much sleep.

  ~mce

Just as dawn
hinted at itself
I saw something
large and winged
staring at me
from the roof of
my neighbor's garage,
dark against
emerging light.

Angel or vulture,
I couldn't see.

No doubt the
day will tell.

  ~mce

It's all in The
Formula, boy, and
I have perfected
the formula.

It has worked on
women from
seventeen to seventy.

It even works
when you are older
with grey hair,
a (small) gut
and no money.

Start with the smile,
(still boyish),
self-deprecating
and selfless.

The look of a victim
that says I've
been hurt many times,
but for you
I'll risk it again.

Listen engrossed to
their every mortal word
with the intensity
of a fortune teller
and gaze deeply
into their private eyes
to see what is
really there.

Make them feel they are
the sun you circle around.

But mostly it's about
the poetry.
           You write
them a poem and
they melt like sugar
in a microwave.

'You wrote that for me?'

(Soulfully)

'Every woman is a poem
waiting to be written.
All I did was write you down.'

Offer them your
heart as a hostage.

Bingo!

Make love slowly,
their pleasure predominant,
and gently open them like
petals on a fresh flower.

Then, in bed, read them
a few lines from Neruda
or Lorca.

All cakes need icing.

Say a few wistful things
about war and
'back in the day.'

Few women can resist
a wounded warrior or
the Magick of nostalgia.

But what you must
absolutely remember,
boy, is that this is
not some scam.

Even if it's only
for a moment or a week,
you have to really
mean it all.

That is the
secret ingredient.

Make them feel special;
own their hearts.

It took a lifetime
to discover this recipe.

Use it well and
often and
you will decrease
the loneliness in
the world, if only
for a while.

That is true Magick.

And no one ever
hates you for
making them happy.

Women come and go,
but The Formula
is eternal.

Good luck, kid.
You won't need it.

  ~mce

Truly, being
without a job
or much money
presents problems
        but
              ah....
the exquisite
consolation
of laziness.

  ~mce

I once had
a deadly matt black
Colt 45 automatic
lent me by
an evil uncle.

I cleaned it,
coddled it
and prayed my
life would never
depend on it,
for I am
a woeful shot
with a handgun.

But when it
happened, my
aim was true,
luck guided
my hand.

I said a
little prayer
to the god
of war and

tried not
to look at
the dead man
20 feet away.

Good luck
and bad luck,

so close
together.

  ~mce

Often I awaken
into a world
different than
the one in which
I went to sleep.

It's nothing
dramatic, not

people with
green hair or
cats who speak
fluent Latin or
leaves that fall
upward in autumn.

It's only a
slight difference,
everything just
an inch or so
out of kilter:

like the first
moment of
consciousness
after an acid trip
45 years ago or

the memory of
a girl I should
have kissed,
but didn't or

a slight breeze
from the distant
wings of angels

or especially
like Monet's
endless *******
lily pads
floating at
Giverny

always seen,
but always
different,

simply
challenging
me to notice,

to wake up

to be alive

that most
important thing
of all:

just to
          notice.

  ~mce

It's just another
drizzly morning.

My window frames
the world's portrait.

The rain falls
certain as death
on graveyards
and prisons.

Across the way
a mangy, soaked,
orange tabby cat
hesitates,
eying the street,
wondering if
he'll make it
across one
more time.

All around,
people are stirring,
getting ready for
work, meetings,
boredom.

I am already
on the job

peering through
the frame,

checking out
the rain,
imagining
the orange cat,

doing the work
I'll always do
on rainy mornings
for the rest
of my life.

  ~mce

The stillness
of Sunday mornings
always makes
me feel like
an amnesiac
jumping down from
an uncomfortable train
after a long ride
onto the platform
of a station
in a town
I can't remember
where no one
is waiting for me,
another deadly step
into an impossibly
inevitable future

  ~mce

the hippies called
the puerto ricans
spics
the puerto ricans
called the hippies
cabrones

not much love
there
but mostly
they got along

sharing the dirt
and hopeless
avenues

i knew a girl
with long legs
and longer hair
who stood barefoot
on the corner of
110th Street and
Lexington Avenue
selling flowers

she only had
one gift to give
and she gave it

and in the rain
her petals
washed down
the gutters

and magically
made the streets
clean again

   ~mce

When that day comes,

when the clouds darken,
when the shadows lengthen,
when there is no escape,

when my goose
  is good and truly cooked,

I hope to relish a meal
  of tender fowl
before it's time to go.

   ~mce