Pirouette, Simple Trappings of the Body

Here I lie

Pointer and thumb
Rub a dub dub
Within the creases of my dark-bonnet pleasure.

My appetite, never one for forfeit,
Shall bite decidedly
With portable skill
On the damp little figure of my pick-pocket thrill.

O the dimpled exterior of screen, spot blue
My swifting fingers slowed by a thought,
The ready nonsense that was my open mouth-
Cavernous portent wanting for you.

Nestled extension of my thimbled self

Peeks behind careful stitch covering, until

Your nimble digits pluck me

Susceptible, but still,

Burning flame circuitry and consuming
The imprint that is this mysterious union.

...

Loose Jargon of the Shaman

Worried willow

keeps me wispy-eyed

in its spotlight, by and by.
Magic Mister,
wire blister,
how my fingers fly,
fingers fly.

This night I'm gathered in my battle dress,
my quiet gown is simple.
Nonetheless, I'm open toe'd and feverish
O, now I am,
I am, I guess.
Let us sit and find an alien muse awhile on the springy lawn,
the earth's envelope.

See now, this goose is grounded in her doubts from
crazy silt
sidelong glances,
contact,
brushings,
sleight of hand,

where do I stand, man?

When all is boiler perfect,

how pot belly can your kitchen stove be?

Hop,
stew your gaze upon my power windmill salute,
juxtapose the funeral march over my quick Budda star-
I'm weightless and defining,
suspended from threadbare elastic lining,
dangling from the loose jargon pocket of Mr. Mojo Risin.

Collect the leaves
and we "Roll, baby, roll"
like a divine trumpet scale of old,

but not before the fireworks of offset lunar light
shady stories,
captured cloud visions,
Ferric ringing,
"Waking Life"

Mad juncture,you leave your needle track marks
on the bruise-easy flesh
of my good-time loving soul.
You are my smack,
my flow,
tall man's big celebration
stomped in the icy melt snow.

Again I capture the fuse of the floating negative,
lazy white on my dark lid hinged,
The words replicate distance,
better used
at the time
when this porticus indian will skim my news.

Then it's the bright sober fish belly,
flashing white and supernova,
cornucopia of the color-wheeled projection we are audience to.

Through one billion window'd etchings,

I have seen the exacto-edge of the morning,
boldy jaundiced eyeball, blink
behind white puffy lids.

I have seen the peripheral puncture of the rising,consecutive blaze of the blurry-eyed
surruptitious sister star,
red-rimmed spectre of the native man's fount.

I have seen the polished armour peak,
the quarried silver mount.

Now,

I have seen.

And how now, Horatio,

my breath-checked diaphram's harpooned me some control:

I recollect the gaping toothless maw
of a friendly boardwalk demon,
a lazy serpent log,

pickwicked lighter,
cigarette fingers,
barely believable three-legged dog.

And through the pinioned tumult,
these pinwheels we've over-thought and undergone,
I've known the light fandango-

Incredible Night,

Incredible Dawn.

...

From 3/27/07

Even Messiahs fall on hard luck

I’m a sculpture.

An elegant origami crane in flowery print,
A fierce little poise
of impressionable paper ideals
hung on thin wire,
perfected artful arrow in moist resplendent hues,
a faint, muted monument
suspended
in an airy eggshell room.

A child of good manners and collected interest once fashioned me,
her voice a singing breath in cold
but how she worked
so quietly.

I know that she meant well,
creasing each permanent fold
with innocence assurance,
shaping every point in careful execution-
but little did she know,
as she created her bird of paradise
-perfect prototype of wings and beak and breast-
how fragile her creation would be;

No one told me, in my still exercise
that with one swift blow at best
my folds would yield and cease to hold,
creases no longer straight and precise
but crumpled and messed,
that form of innocence no longer pressed
into my colorful pulp.

Wings that once modeled
in detailed distinction
jut from a brittle ball.

A color-masked mound, wadded,
once paraded permanence-
now a maimed existence,

a thousand and one wishes

crippled to a muttering ruse
on a rough stained floor bed

...too soon a nest for naked pups,
no gallant end when I am ripped to shreds.

From a lower weighless vantage I recall
a windy breath,
a sweet slight afternoon
that called me to blue abovein practiced ease.
No longer will I please
those upturned eyes;

Smiles, whispered admonitions
will not reach
this bit of me that lies
forgotten and discarded in a corner of disillusioned dreams.

...

From 4/9/06

Dampened Portraits: A Dream

So tickled the thought
when once I knew
the sky was suckled up with dew
with leavened folds
that brighten hollow scarlet cuckolds

I tasted in dreams
those fuzzied few,
and 'ere the morning away they flew

Then all I held
was bleak and fey ;
a soldier in garnered swift array

But let's not talk of tin toys press'd-
It's Orange who's the adulteress ...

She peeps from every bauble'd surface
of white teeth
that sink
into ethereal fruits
..those insubstantial
still-life delights

...

From 4/20/06

Practical, The Rash

Skin skin

skin,

Leaving in tender sheaves
like layers of pastry from week old baklava.

Some say that we rot
from within,
like old rusty watering tins,
distilling in ripe, peppermint gin
from 1967.

I, however,
seem to think
that appetites reflect current trends
and clinical propaganda
rather than the latest tasty dish,
but who’s to say the initial itch
isn’t from that fermented cream
you force onto it
day after
day

without a thought as to why
it pricks in the first place?

...

From 3/12/06

Saline, Postmortem

The sea once visited me in New York.

It rang with strands of likewise separated pearls
and crashed with keen croonings of pleasure upon my summer afghan.
The pearls were dislodged;

they lay like eggs on a cushioned spool of milk,
warm and fresh in cream linen.

...

From 3/2/06