Apologies to Masses and Self.

If I could indent a line or two,
--or three or four or five--
I'd bet my poems a spot better
and feel slightly more alive.

If Blogger knew their four one one
or I a web tech geek
would the mistress' breast be dun
or her chamberpot still reek?

So to you friends and kin out there
if anyone be reading
shit formatting limits my keyboard and
behind it, a poet is seething.

Comings, Goings.

dreams I had were that there was a
path winding paths green and a touch
dark with deeps of brush and twig branch
piggy backing I leapt on back attached of you,
dirt road and words worded
letters like fixed falling away in seconds
impractically it all was I know
but still we lived it with
wheels my mind did move
sense made there was. I think

gaps in conversation so I still
don't know what your head meant or
my mouth dream-said. Never can I do word but
know what mine meant and know words spoken
by your muddled mouth and hazy body.
You shout while running I on your back
got we moved by the clear river the stream
paths passersby.
When my mind be dream cloudy always what
I mean to say gets said through teeth
unopened:
my mouth might not open wide.
or your eyebrows gesture desperate
to get a yes a cross my way, cross

the river and through bramble
tangled with messy flowers, teardrop poison
berries I ate when not hungry and wake
from living the chaos fragmented
down paths that forested my sleep
that encased cases of waking thoughts;
sense there was none ever anywhere.

Tonight and Other Nights.

Tonight is an old full moon
yellow, even
with a circlet and freckled face

our faces are
yours is, too.

Last night I sat on the curb
looking out at the glow soon
to land on rooftops and stone paths, on
my nose

on your face, were you here. Today
I climbed a swooning steeple and pulled off
with my ragged nail
soft moss of the Salisbury West Wing and

gently placed it by my breast, in my dress
till it is carried by some licked envelope,
carried by the sea.

There was a time when she sat on swings, lived
under blankets, wrote stories no one would read,
slid down the mountains of her parents' knees

ran around the house with stars on fuzzy toed pajamas
and gave neighbor girls shots with plastic medicine.
They protected her from the cooties, from disease and
spreading plague of pinks, purples, and glitter.

Things are different now.

Things That Travel.

My body warm and worn
wants streams that are lived in

where trees droop into cool
water, where insects doze, wander
as I do, here across fields on dirt paths
and over bridges.
The leaves are small and light, delicately
punctuate the ripples on the surface
of the water glaciers have made.

I can't see straight; sweat runs down my
back and front, meticulous in its travels,
finds me
like rivers on the map
moss and spider's trails
find their ancient way into my mind,
not hurried but calm, not grasping
laced over my hands refracted in wandering river.

If I were to think, to strain, if
my voice were to echo through the canyon,
would I start some forest fire
some rock slide
would I hear only myself
where the river joins
parts and
finds its mate again?

would I hear only myself
or would my words be returned?

Ethos.

1
One tall drink of water
one taller cup of coffee
one mug of beer. That's the tallest.
This is the best.
I'm not afraid of the worst.

2
Close the door and open your eyes before you settle.
If we sit on the sofa it goes without saything that
an indentation will remain after we leave for other realms
or simply for the outside balcony.

3
This older wiser one in front of me speaks ethics,

but I want to think of the ethics
where we touch fingertip and nail
sensitive nerve endings, electrified
through currents, a mess of tangled wires,
lightbulbs.

You light up my eyes like some sort of electric luminescence
like seeing glow worm caverns and caves carved and ruptured
by flash floods, by rivers from paleolithic times. Before my birth.
See me trying to tell you about rivers
with a river of words and furrows of my mouth,
of my brow,
of my palate at the back of my mouth.

4
Powerful obligations of hospitality he says.
Care for the poor bloke on my porch he says. Sure.
Come and let me hold you on my porch,
let me let you hold me, something I must do:
this is my code of ethics.

The sofa
two stained mugs
a cigarette and a half
getting it right in the way
our lips vibrate, hesitate, wait and
touch.

Upon Going to St. Mary Mag's.

Hallelujah

today is a day
unlike
any other

because every Sunday
we celebrate Mary
the unwed mother

Jesus
John
Judas
and all the others

who have debts unpaid
beds not made
and haven't prayed
in years
smell the incense
kiss the buttresses.

Sunday, the day
the Lord hath made.
I will kiss ass and
be glad in
priest and hymn.

Amen.

Snail Mail.

Since you wrote me such a letter
I thought I'd do the same.

Chimneys here are in a row,
roofs angled and shingled
everyone calls me love and cheers
but I am neither of theirs.
I wear the same dress two days' time—
two months' time you write me letters
and I'll do the same.

Orderly grass needs running on,
needs me to mess it up.
A red-faced old man sat in the park,
muttering his breath out
strongly smelling acrid, alcoholic.

School boys drank Coke on the same bench
calmly next to him, hovering shadows
of their bodies played on the ground
from the lowering sun,
all joining in the same.

I could never ride a bike on the left
even though I'm no right-winger.
I have more wings than I care
to count feathers on
overwhelmingly off white,
still learning how they work
you learning the same with yours.

Pray, think about me.
I'll do the same for you.

I write a haiku,

a haiku of a heron,

which is now over.

Anything Good.

Like the old woman with the shuttlecock,
tying the knot,
fibers tear away from the red and blue dyes.

Water makes cutting the rug easier but
makes me worse, too.

This is that liminality you were mentioning
wasn't it
that point in time where we're shadows

the point when the grass we indented in young mayhem
takes time to spring up again, the

lag time takes
yes
jet lag and reading
talking and walking
coffee and cigarettes takes time
as does anything good.

give me your hand and
I'll photograph Scottish rain
to give to you in person.

Post-Milton.

Death was free to all,
not here it thus has grown
for when cool breezes stroke my neck,
Spring, its seeds hath sown.

And how shall I appear and lay
when buried in my grave?
My bones to reach through dust and dirt
and hold the hand that stayed.

The hand that staid hath nail endured,
builds firelight at day's gloam.
For where those feet are planted near
it's there I call my home.

thank you to the world

thank you deep friends

thank you deep love

thank you my family

thank you deep breaths of air



thank you God for all of this.