Because We Are Inside

But yesterday, the weather
was of heat and sweat, heavy
wool, the air stood still.

Today, the winds swoop down
chilled and urgent, small
spattering of rain tapping

on the terra cotta roof.

Inside, I build a fire;
I have the right to mourn
what can't be saved or changed.

It isn't easy to ignore
the darkness, blackened clouds
or ravaged trees, but here within

the man-made silence, secretly
underneath the mystery of struggle,
another world is born.

In my time of

When I see the road by night
Glittering and chill
I think of Pierre Curie
Call your name, palaver
There's this scarf I have
Black and long
And I look out for it
Brushing up against the car fins
A little closely
Sweet Izzy Duncan
Full-thighed dances to mind
Dancing away to join you
And then there's
Wayward son
Carrying on
Don't know if we'll meet up
When I'll have skidded, glided, elided
Forgive me for going
Into such detail
This is not yet about me

Foolish Hearted

In the middle of my country,
I un-earthed my heart, carried
it in my hands to the sea;

overnight its roots shriveled,
dried like scab on old wounds.

I laid my heart in the sands,
the foamy surf caught it like
a small, pink shell or stone,

floating for a moment, then
submerged and disappeared.

Years went by before I found it
washed up on a lonely shore;

it's roots were long and large,
its body filled with stories,

bloated to the point of rupture
by what it finally learned:

no matter where your heart is,
it knows where it belongs.
Burden of Time

We bumped into each other on the small dark trail I always took when I was tired of mankind.
'Pardon me son,' the frail man whispered like leaves rustling.
'It's ok the way here is narrow,' I replied impatient to move along. He hesitated.
'Please spare a moment son?' he begged. I sighed and stopped.
We faced each other on the small trail suspended for seconds in the same time and space.
'Thank you,' we said at the same time after a moment.
Then we left on our opposite sides of time.

le corps

"Le corps est le lieu de tous les marquages, de toutes les blessures, de toutes les traces. Dans les chairs s'inscrivent les tortures, les interdits des classes sociales, les violences des pouvoirs, dispersés mais jamais abolis. Aujourd'hui, seuls les exclus créent. Car c'est leur corps qui parle, énonce le refus. Le cri NO FUTURE - si ce futur est le présent continué - est cri d'espoir." Michel Journiac.

Wide-Awake and Weary

I am sleeping. Ceaseless
horizon. The slowness of
a stone. Gray steel bars
of silence welded into night.

It's said there is a river,
black, whose banks are built
from dying stars, waiting
is a boat of bone to take us

where the lifeless live.

I am a sleeper more than
I am wide-awake and weary.
Here is my three-headed dog
who has not seen the sky or sun

here are my bloodless wings
white and pale as ivory, folded
down. Let me be a memory, a thin
laced curtain, a speck of dust,

forevor sleeping, a child whose dreams
are swallowed by the darkness.



YOU    i think you gotta revise that cookie thing. dont you? yes you do. well   how     revise the vise speaking of ,, the vice of grip,  they vice grip ,, the city grip the only one  to vice yr  presidency as wits do wallop their saying being

take that word fosting for example ,, what is that? a slip of ,,
of the tonguing? ,,



shes not juss any gal who cookies her beats down the gingerbread scoopyadig? shes willin'taplayanytime day and night. gotta a garter belt a footthickwide kickyerarse with it too. slang her's game, whipping fosting what was that word, coming like abeard down the dime store paperback of her willin' desire not like any sucker but any one at all was shovedto herpermiter of self. busted by ghost and no one. shes as likely to be had as spent.pained by gathered geese. a current theme'o mine.
O my cookie shuaga where's yer sweet label I dont mean labile or labia but the princess of your thighs


a cowl of flesh
thistle bone woven
into the shoulders
a garrotte of pigiron
turned round the spine
the day they spoke of came
in shuddered whispers
from the seabed below
shoulders nickered
the spine shackled
in pigbone

Metaphysics of Art

“The artwork must be born, excuse the grotesque expression, from the most vivid tripes of the individual, yet freed to the utmost from this viscerality in the end. That's the recipe, but it is difficult to apply”.

Stanislaw Ignacy Witkiewicz

Stuyvesant Bee, Volume 1, Issue 69


The Existence of Moths

Because I know
we're free to choose
joy or violence

I do not suffer
as I should.

Imagine hovering
above the garden like
mist or moth; the gate,

the high road
filled with stones-

not a bitter path.

What can this mean?
Certainly, the absence
of the heart is flight

and just as quickly,
the carefree moth departs.

Orange Light

If even once I stop
to feel, I am closer

to dying.

A thunderstorm rolls
over the horizon, upturned

my face absorbs its darkness.

I recognize a shadow
in the window; how it grew

then broke apart.

I cannot learn to live
forevor; follow me into

the cold, black night.

In the morning, mountains
in the distance, clouds

dripping orange light.

Staid Plaintiff

A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nouns

Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.

That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind

What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.

We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.

When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption

No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.

The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.

haiku for the flu

Leaves and clouds galore
Falling, fading like old skin
Pause to let Death in
The world
Isn't dying;
Just falling

Of Stars and Wolves

Look to the wolf for ideas. How to
spend your time creeping through darkness

towards the nimble hearted who will leave
this world in nature's belly.

Once, I believed I was made of stars;
poor, sad shining light swallowed by wolves

each time they howl. And beauty was
a yellow eye that caught the moon,

held it in its claws and mouth,
caught the deer, the shivering mouse,

the wavering gold-throated bird
without a sense of grief or guilt.

Can we help but wonder of visible life
as if the unseen, the subtle illusions

of movement (rustling leaves, distortion
of light, the hidden, invisible parts)

may not exist at all?

'The Old Copy'

The old copy was damaged by water.
Still, I savoured the words
and discovered your prayer of fellowship:
no water drenching party or flesh fancy.
Even the best of intentions are often awkward to carry;
a tear dropped on a festival day is no different from any other.
all the wonderlust is cased in dire dependencies.
The call to ruin, the call to reward.
Nothing means much for more than a moment.
Somehow, the thought of someone writing today,
makes me remember how I loved that damaged thing.
The water damaged never mared the words on the page.

The Doom Day Parade

The doom day parade
Is moving down a downtown street past the library celebrating the birthday of TS Eliot
And the population is gathered with their children’s hands full of balloons
The nuclear bombs will bloom
The napalm will fly to bar-b-q the flesh of men and pets that aligned themselves with them
The missiles are aimed at the eye of a dragonfly
The doom day parade is only for human
Although it will change everything that commands man, it will kill trees as a happenstance
But the bees take no notice as if they can do without man, they go about their business as it regards flower
Look mom! There’s a bomb, can I ride it?
The doom day parade is full of high school bands
Playing the music of the last man to stand
Look mom! The generals in their uniform, can I ware one, can I!
The little boys cry out to be apart of the festive deeds
The doom day parade is moving through history
It is our story of the final destruction writ by the war mongrels
The doom day parade is coming down your neighborhoods; tanks, bombers and new M-16s gleam in the sunlight
Look mom a machineguns, can I have one, can I!
The children cry with excitement in their eyes
The doom day parade is populated with clowns with large over size shoes, a large red nose and baggy cloths
They are handing out claymores shaped candy, rocket launcher water guns and plastic G I Joes to the children of the parade goers

The last time love slapped me then wrapped me in its arms
I was about to cum, but there was none to hum the sensual delight of taunt flesh tight and dark beyond the tan of lighter men

The last time love pushed me over the edge I was repeating what I thought that I heard about two being one in the heat caught beneath the bed spread where the stain in the sheet looked like the continent of Africa

The last time love ran me down I was playing the down low in full drag with my prick in a splinter made of two twigs from an old fruitless mulberry tree had popped its nut in a cry of hallelujah

The last time love in me found a safe harbor to propagate its meaning I was caught sucking the tail end of a bum on the run for the rape of his son

The last time that love demanded money for its service done I had to rob the bank of my heart to pay the price of one night of joy

The last time that love held hostage my desires I sold my sperms to the highest biter who demanded that I cum in a jar in a tiny room full of hairless Asian boys playing with their interracial toys

The last time that love disrobed me I was a shame of my own nudity, it frightens me to be so bare with my graying pubic hair course and the dark rough tone of my skin

The last time love made me a prisoner my escape was betrayed by a kiss and a kiss did steal the breath from my lips and a kiss did wound the giving nature of my hands

The last time that love tried to school me I was dumb founded by its lessons of the common love for the common good fought for by the priest that molest the boy doing Gods business in the church of the profaned heart.

A Souvenir

Bring what you have
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.

I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots

to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento

of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?