poems

A Lament for Emerald Eyes

Your eyes, to me, are emeralds, cut and polished.
I see them in my satin-sheeted dreams,
When, soul to soul, and longing,
Our hearts together dance,
Waiting for the warmth of Love's embrace.
I've seen them there, these emeralds,
On your polished, shining face,
Glistening in the moonbath of this place.
I wait for the wonder,
And long for the night.
I race to meet these dreams,
For Love's embrace has loosened me,
And left me now to fall.
I live in the pit of sorrow,
My dreams left--that is all.

America the Promised Land (As Seen on TV)

One day my friend
you'll understand
the politics of sorrow
One day my friend
you'll understand
the politics of hate
One day my friend
you'll understand
what it takes
to make the Promised Land
I just hope to god
it's not too late.

you know these days
we've lost control
they've bought away
our very soul
and they've sold
it away to the highest bidder.

TV shapes our lonesome lives
it makes the truth
and sells the lies away
with their bait and shiny hooks
they reel us in to vote for crooks
and we give our freedom away

we bought george bush
like we buy beer
it makes me feel so very weird
I just don't know what the hell to say

the Land of TV
and Home of the Slave
God please buy back the USA

Beach Love

The cool salt air whistles
Through the night,
Flicking and licking
The campfire's light
Around in a circle
The wanderers stand
Squishing their toes
In the cool night sand

We came to be lovers
We came to be friends
We hoped 'round the campfire
That summer wouldn't end

Across the warm fire
Our wondering eyes met
As toasters burnt marshmellows
(No, they're not done yet!)

Her eyes in the moonlight
Returned my long glance
I summoned the nerve up
And asked her to dance.

We danced through the evening
Until it grew late--
Was it the ocean? The salt air?
Of was it just fate?

We held hands and wandered
Through the silent moonlight
I walked her to her door
And kissed her goodnight

I remmber that cool air,
That fire and that shore
It burns in my memory,
With her, evermore

Now, when I feel lonely,
I'll think of the sea
I'll remember my beach love
And keep her with me

©January 16, 1993

Boredom Lingers on the Fingers of the Night

Pain and durdgery still the night
When sleep won't come to pass
Boredom lingers on the
Fingers of the night

Scratching the surface
of sleep, pen in hand
I take upon myself
A half-conscious battle
for the words of the muse,
now awakened,
ready to vent,
Angry and fearful
In insolitude
I think of long-past friends
And souls forgotten,
Like change in the pocket
of laundered jeans,
And funeral programs folded in
The put-away suit's breast pocket.
And sleep won't come to pass for the mad writer,
Pen in hand,
Thinking of Kerouac
And Chicago Blues, New Orleans,
And the infidels
And road trips to California, and Chicago,
Fleeing the mad monk of doom
And his temple of despair
If only they knew or understood
The pain and longing,
The silence and drudgery,
The forgotten hope,
The remembered pain
The sacred, unrelenting loneliness
and the steel guitars of
Waffle-House Jukebox picks,
And hash browns,
Scattered, smothered and covered by
a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Yankee diner girl
In a red and white half-sleeve
oxford and a red kerchief hat
singiong Fats Domino to the
Grape Jelly Toast Man, and
Staring sex into his eyes
And down his throat with the
Toast, as he dreams of
Being Kerouac,
The benzedrine hound, rascal,
Rapscallion
and Iconoclast.
If only then, naked and alone
he made the Buddhists cry
and sing with Mockery
"Blueberry Hill" and Elvis.

Such is night, over-burdened,
Under-alone, and skeptical.

©March 1995
1:52 a.m. (exact date unknown)

Colorless

I'm only as white
As a windowpane
And as black
As the night still air
Look where you find your colors--
Look for me . . .
I won't be there.

I don't need a color
Because I've got a mind,
And a mind is all that I need
The only color I identify with
Is the red from the blood
That I bleed.

I'm only as white
As a windowpane
And as black
As the night still air
Look where you find your colors--
Look for me . . .
I won't be there.

Come-uppance

It's a bitch to pay the piper
When the song is half done
But you've gotta do it
If he plays a mean finale.
It's true what dead men say
"What comes around goes around."
"Payback is hell."
You'll get yours
Whether you like it or not.
"If you stab a man in the back,
he'll remember you."
Come here boy,
I've got something for you.
(Something good.)
Come-uppance.

Dear Jesus

Dear Jesus
What good is this kneeling?
This praying?
This bowing my head?

I feel empty inside
And sometimes wonder why
I feel like my spirit is dead.

Am I crazy?
Misguided?
Wanting? Or needing?
Why do I have such trouble believing?

I feel so alone
In this flock of believers--
the pious, the praying,
the bowers, the kneelers.

They mock me with prayers,
Psalms and confessions.
And they tell me of all
My worldly digressions.
When will they stop
these ritual obessessions?

They know what they want to,
And cast me aside.
They bow and they scrape
with self-obsessed pride,
but they do not know you at all.

And how can I hear your call
Above the chanting of this thrall?

Jesus, what good is this all?

Death's Exhibit

In the Gallery of the Masks
The sullen faces of dead men pass.
Their dignity enrages me,
For every dying moment
Stops in time,
And waits for me to see
That life hurts,
Time kills the pain,
And death solves it.

Desolation Places

Lonely people with desperate faces
Live in desolation places
Not far from where other people are
They live their lives in longing
Wanting company
Waiting for love
And down the street
and around the corner
Dancing all around
Happy people sing happy songs
amd play happy games
While lonely people frown
Not far away.

Don't Sing Me

Don't trivialize my words
By singing them in songs--
So, it's got a mean new beat--
I've been beaten all along.
Beaten by a world of hate,
Slashed by men gone mad,
Forced to face this ugly world
That killed the good and saved the bad.
Don't sell my words to other men,
Don't sing them in a song.
I've written words to save my soul--
To sell them would be wrong.

Down on Canal Street

Down on Canal Street--
The little Russian girl buys
Queen Anne cherries and raspberries
And puts them in a borrowed basket
to take home to Mom.
Picked in faraway thickets
by sweaty migrants,
A sweet delight of modern slavery.
Cutting through the crowd
she wanders
Past the brimming fish stacks,
Puckering for watered gills,
drowning on the air.
Celebrity cutouts in the windows
of Broadway storefronts
smile their cardboard smiles
And the fashion rack runners
scramble and dart through
the streets of the fabric Jerusalem,
where rich Jew businessmen
and gay French designers
dream of breaking
next year's fad.
The streets burst with activity
yet lack meaning.
Why is there no dew on
the streets of this borough?
The silent cathedral echoes
the lonely man's
Esperanto prayer.
"Tell me it exists."
And the dawn spreads
on past the little girl
on Canal Street with
Queen Anne cherries
And she disappears into
the thronging pack of people
Down on Canal Street.

Dream Things

There are things
I see sometimes
I wish were dreams
I lay in bed
And wish them all away
But they stay, stay, stay
They won't ever go away
Until the day I die
I don't dare to wonder why
Because life's a bitch,
And they're more real than I am.

Dreamed of Dandelions

Last night, I dreamed of dandelions.
You have no idea what that
Means to me.
And neither do I.

Drowning

I'm drowning...
but I won't kick.

Shit floats, remember?
You'll see.
I won't kick.

I'm sitting here,
breathing it in,
getting muddled,
But I won't kick.

Shit floats, remember?

I wonder if the fish
will care?

I'm sinking.

The Passionate Frat Boy to His Slut

Come live with me and be my slut
And we will knock a nasty groove
We'll Soak my sheets with lover's sweat
--Let's fuck 'til we can't move
I'll promise you no worldly things.
Just go to bed with me--
I'll put on that hat that lovers wear
So I won't get VD.
And if you come to our frat house
And drink up all our beer
You'd better lay down on your back
I'll have no virgins leaving here.
We have some little sisters
They're cheap and easy whores
They'd have to be to stay with us--
We're such obnoxious bores.
And if you think I'm tedious,
I'm coming to the end.
After all, what do you expect?
I'm paying for my friends.