Tuesday, October 29, 2002


TO SEE PERFECT STILLNESS IN SOIL & SOUL

blond dust, maybe
16 or 17 years old, blew into
New Orleans
on the wind of her own sorrow,
a piece of a smile
at one end of her mouth

eyes look for, I suppose, survival

I almost touch her to soothe

the wind pushes her around
during early daylight hours and
again as the sun begins to slip away

after dusk, the dust is very still

sometime in the night
a sweet young breeze from the south touches her face
like understanding flowing into truth

Monday, October 28, 2002


LOVE IN A HYPODERMIC NEEDLE

love in a hypodermic needle
sold by a desperate pusher, bought by a desperate


you eat an orange, juice dripping;
wiping it,
my fingers touch your bottom lip,
feel the air of your sudden breath

my fingers stick to you,
then my tongue to your taste
like the reflection of neon
on an empty parking lot
after rain

without reflection, the lot is grey,
the sky is dark, the rain was grey,

paper trash begins to blow past broken bottles

fear, homeless, lurks in
the concept of no earthly horizon,
the needle left stuck in the bleeding arm

Sunday, October 27, 2002


THE TWO OF US COME UPON A STATUE OF LIMITATIONS

The two of us come upon a statue of limitations along the side of the road, discussing buried pleasures with the grim weeper softly enough to wake the dread. So softly, silently, that we can’t hear them as we walk by, shivering, the smell of regret heavy in the air.

“We have seen bitter days,” one says. “We’ve seen the stuff that screams are made of.”

“We have been convicted of high crimes of reason,” the other says. “Of the joy of forgasm.”

“We have also, regrettably, committed crimes of ration.”

“We have seen the cold heart facts.”

“We know that furiousity killed the cat.”

“We have gone to the inane asylum, and heard the intellectual simulation. We have heard great expectorations.”

“We have heard cheap trills and actual sighs.”

“We know that the meek shall inherit the dearth, and that too often it’s binders keepers.”

“We have drunk from the primal stream.”

“We have seen a simple twist of faith, and taken it for granite.”

“We have seen paradise tossed.”

“We have heard glibberish, and seen the irreal.”

“But, I swear on a stack of baubles, we are spinning too much time on this rite to remain silent.”

“Dust will yet conquer us.”

“That’s an extinct possibility.”

“May we rust in peace.”

Nothing but the wind blowing . . .