The frozen meadow
is a hard, white
**** carpet.
Seven wild turkeys
arrayed in a
gobbling skirmish line
pick their way
carefully across it.
I stand silently
on the frozen deck
in my bare feet
and watch.
The algid world
contains us all,
no exceptions.
Strutting fowl,
the flaneur
who watches,
no one escapes
this brumal vista.
The God of heaven
is simultaneously
the God of phenomena.
Skepsis slips away
when your toes
are cold.
  - mce

Cool?

Of course
I was cool,
back in the
cliched day.

I attended famous
rock concerts,
took the hippie
Grand Tour,
lied my way into
many lovely beds,
wrote horribly
juvenile hip poetry,
never met a drug
I wouldn't try,
imbibed lakes
of alcohol,
got blindly
behind the wheel
without a thought.

Oh... so cool.

But now I sit,
an aging man,
happy to have
come through
it all,

content to
have survived
long enough

to become
decidedly

uncool.
  ~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

Over and Over

Over and over,
no matter how vividly
we know love's landscape
and the lost cemetery
with its sad names
and the chasm into which
the others have fallen,
once again we walk together
beneath ancient trees
and lie down entwined
among the blossoms
facing the sky.
  - trans. mce

Autumn Day**

God, the time is now.
Summer was vast.
Drop your shadow
across the sundials
and loose your breath
upon the fields.

Command the last fruits
to fullness,
allow them a few warm days
to discover ripeness
and press their sweetness
into heavy wine.

No time remains
to seek refuge.

If you are now alone
you will remain so
for a long, long time.

You will stay up late,
writing letters
to no one,
restlessly wandering
the hollow streets
while the leaves
tumble aimlessly.
  - trans. mce

If your heart doesn't bleed,
you are dead.
You have become
just another greedy
little **** factory
on your short path
to becoming
compost yourself.

~mce

I am what is around me.

Women understand this.
One is not duchess
a hundred yards from a carriage.

These, then are portraits:
a black vestibule;
a high bed sheltered by curtains.

These are merely instances.

I see you sitting
on the red bed
drinking Retsina
against the white wall
where we had
drawn hexagrams,
in your black slip
smiling up at me
in the pellucid
Greek light.

Since that moment,
Forty-five years
have dissolved
like tears
in a hurricane.

You are only a
ghost who smiles
in my memories.

I never thought
I would find another
woman like you,
strong and complete.

But I have travelled
far and long
and like magic,
here she is.

Thank you for saying
that one day
I would know love
because I was worthy.

And you went away,
and  she is here.

Ghosts always
tell the truth.

If you are patient.

When you were born,
I was 25 and had
already been a hippie,
a soldier, a husband.

If I had known
your birthdate,
I would have sent
you a card saying:

Happy Birthday!
I'll meet you
in a few decades.
Can't wait.  Mike

It's a little late,
but here it is.

for SJH

Even when most frozen,
the soil of the heart
contains the possibilities
of fresh and better life.
Water it; tend it; nurture it.
Wait for the warmth to return.
Many flowers wait to blossom.
New bouquets for new days.
  - mce

He has devoted his life
to a Ph.D. in Uncertainty.
Now he is aging
and thinks it nearly done,
but he just can't be sure.

  ~mce

Resumé'**

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

The days run away
like frightened children.
Brevity is the soul of life.
Each sunrise becomes a miracle.
The only true sadness
is to age without a song.
This can go either way.
Some mornings the black dog licks;
but on others, you still feel
the kiss of fire upon your lips.

  ~mce

Let us make Spanish the official American language.
All Spanish speakers have a touch of the poet in them.
There is a bit of Neruda in every humble trucker.
It is a mellifluous and sonorous tongue.
If you want her in your bed, te amo is more likely than I love you.
English, on the other hand, is a language to make deals in.
How much? is probably the most repeated phrase in English.
English is the language of ******* people over.
English is the language of conquest, money and ******.
We insist that the world speak it so that after
we bomb them, invade them and **** them they can thank us in English.
Let us make the change official. What have we got to lose
except our insufferable indifference, arrogance and greed?
On top of which, siestas will become the national pastime.
I am taking this to the UN. I have no hope but it's worth a try.

   ~mce

Kiss me, Love.

Your body
is a soft,
white temple
discovered
at the end
of arduous
pilgrimage.

I stand
before you,
the pilgrim
who knocks,
waits,
and hopes.

Kiss me;
open your
secret heart
that I might
enter you
and dissolve
in your
mysteries.

Let me worship
at the altar
of your flesh,
of your spirit.

I have traveled
long and hard
seeking
the one
engendered
by two.

I tremble before
the possibility
of who you are,
who you might be.

Kiss me, Love,
please be
the end
of my journey,
the sanctuary
I have sought.
- mce

A few moments ago,
my computer crashed
and I lost a poem
I had been writing since dawn.
Why did it vanish?
Where did it go?
Possession
is a comfortable illusion,
but uncertainty
rules the universe;
we own nothing in this life,
not even our words.
- mce

Try to paint imagining. What does that look like?
Maybe use a thinner brush or none at all.
Wear Birkenstocks with white socks.
Helpful? If not, look for details of masochism.
Listen for the fractal music. Hear its nots.
Those are swirls that were your eyes. Blink!
Try playing dinosaurs at a local **** store.
Chug a quivering quart of whiskey as primer.
Focus on penetrating the dance of ******.
No? Then imagine your imagination imagining.
Or, just give up and buy a copy of Cheese For Dummies.
Kick back and enjoy a gnawing evening off.

At three AM, on the deck
gathering stove wood,
the air is as cold
as an ex-wife's heart,
the looming full moon
drips luminescence
through stark black branches
onto perfect new snow,
and the only sound
is one lonely owl
asking his eternal question.
  - mce

The future is a movie.

We sit in darkness
before a blank screen,
worried and uncertain.

This is our movie
and we know that
we don't know
how it turns out.

Will we be happy?
Will we be together?
How can we make it
happen as we'd like?

Separated by distance,
country and age,
we have to write
this script together.

No one will see
this movie but us,
yet it must be
perfect as a
a technicolor dream,
perfect as this
deep attraction
that we feel.

Only we can write it.

We hold it in our hands
like a crying newborn.

What does it require;
how will we know?

Whatever lies between
the now and the then,
I'm holding out
for a happy ending;

how about you?

In warmth and safety,
the lucky few
argue about slogans
on coffee cups,
red, green and blank.

On a frozen
Syrian mountainside,
caught in
a season of hate,
men are tortured,
women are *****,
and children starve
like trapped
forgotten vermin.

A world away,
angry arguments
about which words
to best mark this
season of love.

Whose side are
you on, God?

Hallelujah.

  ~mce

Temagami, Ontario. 1967*

Take out wheat wafers,
spread on thick cheese
and crunch loudly.

Wash it down with
long cool swallows
of Molson's.

Sit by the window
and watch the rain,
smoking a cigarette

and dreaming.

  ~mce

Look It Over**

I leave behind even
my walking stick. My knife
is in my pocket, but that
I have forgot. I bring
no car, no cell phone,
no computer, no camera,
no CD player, no fax, no
TV, not even a book. I go
into the woods. I sit down on
a log provided at no cost.
It is the earth I've come to,
the earth itself, sadly
abused by the stupidity
only humans are capable of
but, as ever, itself. Free.
A bargain! Get it while it lasts!

The future is a portal,
invisibly outlined,
through which time rushes
like a flooded river
sweeping on its torrent
the flotsam of our lives
and the years
swallow themselves
and disappear
forever into forever.

  ~ mce

Tonight,
the Dark
gathers it's
greatest might,
but will
be broken
by morning's
triumphal
Light.

  ~mce

The poem sprouts
from the compost
of the mind.

People, events, desires
memories, hopes,
dreams, disappointments,
all mixed and turned,
watered with imagination,
until something
catches and clutches,
pale and fragile,
and begins to *****
slowly for the light.

Coax it,
nurture it,
tend it.

Pour your soul
and your love
into it.

Bring all that is you
to the task.

Perhaps a poem
will blossom.
- mce

Every man has one. You notice her when you are sixteen and she still inhabits your heart at sixty. She is the angel always just out of reach. Her scent is of Ivory Soap and lilacs and spring and youth. You never quite forget her. She becomes the template of desire. You tremble for her flesh, but wouldn't know how to touch it.You spend your life wishing she would invite you up to her room to play, knowing that she never will. You want to embrace the texture of her being. You want to brush your tongue along the thighs of her most secret longings. You want to hear her moans echo in your own throat. You measure all the women you will ever stumble into against her. Some fit; most don't. You believe she holds the answers to all your unasked questions, the dark ones your soul is afraid to speak out loud even to itself. Sometimes you wish she would release you, but that can never be. She is the Queen of your dreams. You are her subject. You will always kneel before her. You will always believe that her touch could heal your deepest wounds. You will be her Fool forever and be glad of it. On your deathbed, you will catch her scent one last time, smile and carry her with you into infinity. Every man has one.
  - mce

Rain plummeting
like rivets.

Seated in the mud,
soaked beyond notice,
beside a fried APC hulk,
eating cold C-Rations
with my ***** fingers.

Eyes like vacant windows.

This photograph
can never fade.

  mce

Just an instant
twixt breath
and death.

In that living
blink-blink
let us lie
eye to eye

(moan to moan,
groan to groan)

so when we go
we will heart
happy know:

we were never,
not once,
not ever, alone.

Once I fought in a losing war,
I never asked what I was fighting for,
but now my warrior days are done,
I leave the battles to the young.
They will fly and they will die,
I’m content to watch  and sigh.
It seems that I am not so brave
as I approach the yawning grave.
It felt much easier to fly and die
when swooping from a youthful sky.
I took those chances, I made that bet,
but now it’s easier to forget.
My wars are over, my fight is done,
I leave the battles to the young.
They will fly and they will die,
but pray they ask the reason why.

The overwhelming
importance of beauty.

What could be more brutal
than the meeting of a child
and a bullet?

I have seen it.

There is a choice in this.

Accept chaos and ugliness
or fight back by
creating beauty against them.

Artists are essential.

The only beauty in the world
is the beauty we create.

Taken together, that is enough.

  ~mce

She was my student;
twenty-five years younger.
I noticed her
the first day of class,
got to know her slowly,
fell into bed
with her later,
and then
in love with her
abruptly.
It was unlikely,
broke many rules,
was doomed from the start.
Still, I have never
regretted a moment of it.
You never get to touch
what you are afraid
to reach for.
- mce

he calls it that -
last,
      long,
            five
                 days
before pension payday

always an adventure:
will he, won't he,
how much is left?

this time 30 bucks
to last till Wednesday

piece of cake

money is a fickle *****
a goddess of tease

never let her force
you to despair

her only real power
is to make you wait

and being poor
in Amerika
you have already
mastered that skill

   ~mce

You know it is over.
Your shoes walk away.
Your phone dives into
the pit of despair.
Your cigarettes
have become healthy.
Your knees no longer
knock, but clap.
The chipmunks are silent.
Wolverines arrange
mass suicide pacts.
Chameleons permanently
turn invisible.
Everything transforms
into Other.
You are a stranger
becoming stranger
day by day.
You know it is over.
Ten Four good buddy.

The wind is part of the process/The rain is part of the process.

Gesamtwerk.* Parts making whole from parts.
Language. Alphabet, words, phrases, sentences
create a total work based firmly upon... alphabet.
Throw in grammar, punctuation, syntax. Anything possible.
To be. Verb not noun. Moves beyond syntax. To real.
Poet as tinker. No matter. Poems as language. Do.
Right language, correct path, shining mountain.
Seeker sits. Solitude. Transcends journey. World announced.
End as beginning. Form. Gestalt. The beginning of Awe.

  ~mce

It’s all smoke and mirrors,
he declaims in Caesar's voice.
Do nothing until you hear from me.*
The yokels weep sincere tears.
Women get wet and men tumesce.
He mounts a gilded Mercedes,
glances over a shoulder with disdain,
and motors away, counting the take.

TN 2008

There is a girl in my cabin.
She sits on my 70s brown, velour
*****-couch with her long legs
tucked beneath her
like folded promises.
She wears nothing but a pair
of wool socks and an old, flannel
shirt of mine.  The wood fire blazes.
Her honest blond hair
cascades to the small of her lovely back.
Her skin is the flawless pink
of an unexpected spring sunrise.
Her eyes are emeralds that blaze
like novas when we make love.
Botticelli might have painted her.
I am reading Harrison to her aloud.
She imbibes his words like a toddler
learning language for the first time.
I light her cigarette and she laughs,
radiating the shameless pleasure
only the very young experience.
She expects nothing of me,
but this one evening,
and that is all she will get.
She tells me her name;
she is all of twenty-one.
Perhaps I am a ***** old man;
perhaps I am incorrigible;
perhaps I will burn in Hell;
perhaps I am a casualty of Eros;
or, perhaps, I am simply
still alive.
- mce

The ones I loved,
who made me what I am,
dead or dying.

Jim Harrison,
Leonard Cohen,
the other Saints
of word and song.

Death spreads like ink
from an octopus.

Not so long now.

I'm running short
of things to be.

With each passing,
my broken heart
breaks again.

AT THE NIHILIST’S FUNERAL**

(Hope delivers the eulogy)

He was always so interestingly wrong.
I loved him, in fact for years couldn’t live
without him, he who helped crystallize
what I thought by being so opposed to it.
But it’s time to rejoice.
Some of the invisible roads
that run parallel to the great boulevards
can be seen now; the era of darkness-
as-illumination has passed. It was useful
while it lasted, but how nice to discover
that so few of us count on negatives
these days to preserve what we hold dear.
My friends, if you can think of me
as such, take heart. Meaninglessness
has ended its long run at the Palace.
Already, a few of us mere specks
in the universe have begun
to insist on our importance.
May the odors of lilac and laurel waft
across the river, and float over his grave.
The great nihilist is dead. He’ll rise again
when needed. He always has.
But those of you standing now,
having turned your backs to me in protest,
how right that you honor him so.
It’s the kind of negation that he, I suspect,
would have thought might lead somewhere,
might even have thought was hopeful.

Shot down three times
in that forgotten war;
an old man now,
all his dreams
are of falling.

Not nightmares
or flashbacks;
not specific,
just generally
of falling.

He never dreams
of those abruptly
ended flights
or the strange
loose sensation
of the chopper
headed for the dirt,
just of falling.

Age has brought
a new fear of heights
and he won't get on
or near an aircraft.

Despite these obvious
precautions, the dreams
continue to plague him.

It sounds so pleasant:
"falling asleep,"

but falling, falling,
falling in your sleep
brings no rest.

To sleep calmly
and peacefully
remains his most
elusive dream of all.
  ~mce

What if the cost
of machines that think
is people who don’t?
Think about it,
before your phone does.
   ~mce

Love**

Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist'ring then for aye undone.

Pain it is not; wondering pity
Dies or e'er the pang is fled;
Passion ‘tis not, foul and gritty,
Born one instant, instant dead.

Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist'ring then for aye undone.

What have I made? What have I done?
Let those I love forgive what I have made.
Let the gods forgive what I have done.
Let the wind that speaks Paradise,
let it speak of what I have tried to do.
To be a man and not a destroyer.
To find the path to Paradise.
Beauty, not madness or unfinished
tangled works. The pillow, not the case.
In my homeland only shades stalk.
Fear is the forefather of cruelty.
To escape fear and find the way.
There are many ways but only One Way.
We live a thousand years in a wink.
Many wrong turns but perhaps a few right.
Let those I love forgive what I have made.
Let the gods forgive what I have done.

  ~mce and elp

Were I a conspiracy theorist
(which I'm not), I would
tell you there will be
no 2016 elections
because before then
another faked terrorist
attack, like 9/11 only
worse, will be staged,
the elections will be
suspended, martial law
will be declared
our own military,
will occupy America,
resistance will be crushed
and dissenters will
simply disappear.

But I'm not a
conspiracy theorist
and I won't
tell you this
because it would
make you
uncomfortable
and Americans
do not like to be
uncomfortable
regardless of
the cliff they
are about
to step off of.

  ~mce

They gathered
in skinny packs,
in laughing circles
around him.

He stitched their cuts,
bound their wounds,

gave them,
like some OD Santa,

chocolate bars,
antibiotics,
aspirins and
C-Rations.

They laughed louder,
begging for more,
shrieking and calling him
Doc-san #1.

This phony comedy
made him feel better,
feel human,
even though he knew
at night their parents
would do their best
to take his life.

Decades on,
he knows behind those grins
they must have hated him:
his height, his food,
his round eyes
and the doom
he had brought their world
that no trinkets
could ever allay.

Now, there is nothing to do
but remember and be sorry.

   mce

Simple Song
a wooden room:

waking in the morning light
beside you in a simple bed.

we drink from simple cups
subtle waters.

simple wood and light
simple cup and bread
simple warmth and calm.

difficult -

the simple world
is difficult…

or

simply open the door:

the breeze calls us
the birds sing
our mortal names…

plain table,
subtle fire.

two plates as round
as owl’s eyes.

your heart and mine:

simple,
simply,
beautiful.
  –mce

You shapeshift
in my dreams
and whichever
shape you take
fits perfectly
with mine.

~mce

for Paul Brandt and Patrick Dunnigan

Somewhere,
the choppers
still beat
the air.
  - mce

What is sadder
than the poem
you forgot to save
vanished forever
into digital darkness?

Where do words go
when computers forget
and memory fails?

Is there a
dead letter office
for lost poems
and in which
circle of hell
would that be found?

Do the poor lost poems
huddle and keen
knowing no lips
will ever sing them?

Too many mysteries
for an ordinary morning.

Birds and lawn mowers
call out for justice
but the lost poem
purrs just beyond reach.

   ~mce

One more same same morning.
Ah, but there are perks to poetry.

A flick of imagination and I am gone
to a warm country, green, with beaches
and castles and four poster beds
in one of which I am just now
waking to a vision of a lovely lass,
ready for a dash of dawn plunder,
to open a day of azure skies and heat.

In some ways, poetry doesn’t pay well,
but in others, it can make you rich indeed.

While teaching at a local
community college,
A 19-year-old man
announced to my class
there was no reason
to learn foreign languages
because if English
was good enough
for Jesus, it should
be good enough
for everyone.

Only the dead
       know the end of war.*

Sit abruptly upright
into shivering darkness.
Nothingness shimmers
before your eyes.
A whiff of cordite.
Echoes of screams.
Distinct feel of falling.
War holds on tight,
even in dreams.
Blessed absence of details,
although the stink
of fear remains.
Remember when you are.
Try to go back to sleep.
The past has passed.
The future will keep.