poet

purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table

sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel

purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table

sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.

roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove

rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.

roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove

rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost

A native dance,
Saved for those of
Divine lineage.
Succession of movements
Owing gratitude to
The oldest nation,
The first people.
Eight owing their lineage
To Africa:
Four men, four women.
Glistening bodies
Rippling torsos
Chiseled into slate.
Orange and blue full pant.
Adorned: shells and beads.
Nappy hair, braided hair
Whipping and arching.
Bandoleers of shells across
Broad chests, full breasts.
Drums.
Flailing, bounding
Jumping --
The pounding of drums,
Like an exaggerated
Heartbeat, a basic
Hypnotic pounding.
Dancing prancing
Arms flailing up,
Around, down.
Stepping hard with
Full thighs and
Tensed feet.
Gyration and pelvic thrusts.
Arms pitching,
Beat driving,
Sweat dripping.
Synchronized movement.
A dance of hot foot.
Bounding, thrashing,
Arms propelling in
Circles -- around,
As though the air
Would give flight.
Showing reverence to
The blood flowing within
Those honored and
Revered.

she reclines by my side
under our sun, on her towel.
long limbs and nut brown skin.
hair like the mane of a lion.
in the sun buffeted by winds

winds the isles rarely see.
it is all anyone talks about,
these winds, the cold air,
their jackets and sweaters.

i press lotion into the skin
of her back. we laugh and speak
like blue bloods, jaws clenched,
reading from a book of fiction.
reading aloud for the sun, for
the wind, for each other, such
friends. such friendship to read
and sun, to bronze and feel
the cote d'azur on our flanks
in waikiki.

the book speaks french, the book
speaks english, and the words are
poetic, the words are absurd.
the novel calls itself surreal,

but it is self consciously erotic like
"the rose pulsates," "the skin is
nut brown," "the lover parts the
knees," "the smooth skin gives way
to fingers." out loud these words
are spoken and we laugh bright sunny
laughter.

Laughing at the absurdity of the erotic,
the protagonist taking many
lovers and weeping, always weeping,
for the sadness wells and pulsates
like her rose, like her chest, like
the surf lapping so near our
bare toes.

the air tastes especially
salty. i smell like a coconut.
she is so natural under the sun.

we laugh to ourselves that the
text is so hot we must swim.
we tip toe into the cold water
refreshed by the winds, these
uncommon winds, in hawaii.

slowly we enter. on tippy toes
en pointe like dancers. so slowly
making a quick dip agonizing, feeling
the sand give way to my feet. pulling
in tummies and wishing the winds to
cease and the water to turn bath like.

i am taller than she but she has the
leg advantage. water laps her hips.
stalemate. a count to three and away
to the bright orange windsock off shore.
swimming our heads bob, out further to
just before.

"this is where i stop, this is where
my fear of sharks begins. this is the
point past which i will be eaten alive."

we turn back, she sprints. i wallow
in the chop, having come from washington
days before. from the winter. her nut
brown skin, my pale white dough broiling.
i move my body through the saltiness, see
clarity when i open my eyes, feel my hair
wave like weeds across my forehead.

pulling myself from the water, i check
my bad washington knees -- they are strong
again. encore. il fait froid! mais non,
il fait beau -- it is always wonderful here.

this morning i made
a sacrifice to the gods
the discman to the tile
floors by my feet in the
john, and it might have
well broken for the hold
button that saves the batts
broke and now the discs
are always spinning
discs are moving, rumbling
through their little sambas
until the record stops whirring
and the music stops purring

the evening passed on my dry elbows, before a dead fire, next to a monitor playing reruns of the x-files. before the lcd playing the words of a former mistress, a milky little doll with a blunt bob, rosebud breasts, and a penchant for wearing dkny under the hawaiian sun. or showing off a tummy above hiphuggers and below a jogbra, black.

her words on the screen. x-sender. x-reply. x-header. she at work, me putting off the rower. the words. "how can you remember all of this?" she asks, "or a you making it up as you go along?"

easter. on the phone with m, and it was not great for her: tiles, barracks, linoleum, beer, bbq, schofield, military, comingling, easter is made for the east coast, even the mid-atlantic. i look at the picture of me in Paris when I was mid-twenty, 1990. even then i knew that for me, europe was hollow alone. i saw the sites like i was preparing my life as a tour guide for her, for she. for the partner who would like to travel with me, to allow me to show her the paris jewish ghetto, the little gay neighborhood, shakespeare & co. the evening light, the wine, the bastille and its opera house. people on the rue, on the walks, crowded in pens of cafe tables. le louvre. the centre george pompidou. even lyons, cherbourg, around and about. the buzzing enduros and our buzzing, our own humming. paris not as a romantic destination but as a place to be, as a place to enjoy to just enjoy each other. no real sight seeing for us! now, its all about being there together not sigh seeing, not walking our feet off, not climbing the radio tower just to see the grim tops of the low low old town-cum-city. no, instant intimites, with friends from Uni and the night clubs costing US$30 for the unsuspecting. the turn of her hip, the way paris invites a woman to walk, a woman to dance, the way she eats her strawberry or touches the silk scarf around her neck. the way she touches me, each other, kissing like school kids along the seine as the voyeuristic dinner show barges barrage us with spotlights, illuminating out expert hands. our knowing touches. this is the paris for which i was prepping, the paris exposed in trite editorials in the new yorker, the same paris eaten in gulps by hemingway. not the ruined paris -- we shall ignore her ripped tights and smudged lipstick -- but the youthful daring city, ripe and flush, breathing heavy with a bountiful chest and apple ass.

Exploding boy!
The kid who wanted
To know it all;
He tried to cram infinity
Into his finite skull . . . .
Exploding boy!
He desired to possess the wisdom
Of all mankind,
But with the effort managed
Only to blow his mind . . . .
Exploding boy!
Were you not aware
That you cannot pursue, nor amass
Wisdom
Like one does knowledge?
That you can't become a sage
By taking hallucinogens, and
Going to college?
Oh,
Exploding boy!
When the books wouldn't
Take you there,
And the LSD
No longer shed new light,
And you felt your quest was leading
Nowhere,
Did you know that finally,
You were right?
But nowhere is everywhere
And everywhere is
Zen --
So all along you were right on track,
Right where you were supposed to have been . . . .
Oh, exploding boy . . . .
If only you would have stopped
Looking
And allowed yourself
To simply see,
Maybe, then,
You would have become wise --
Instead of just plum crazy . . . .

fallation brass axe shitake falling away into and running with the entire concept of the boy finally reaching sweet sixteen blowing oh so sweet woo woo cat melodies into the center of my head thick pressed paws thump beat honk of geese in the small floating room below the exit sign before the moving leaves and the red light the red burning eye. the. the. the. he bought me a drink but i was afraid to drink it, there might be something in it, might be something else but the boyman drinks from the brown glass condensed hoping. hopping. jiving grooving saying its me i am doing i do not i try not. i do not. buzz buzz. the strain and staring into the mirror for five under stalin red budsign loo loo skip to the loo loo loo skip to the loo my darling and the window to the soul the man with the cruel face the cruelty hidden hidden and the slash across the face, that which i knew before but without the beard even more cruel like sneer and dogs jowls rabid slather pores wide fixed and moving, eye/eyes/eye/eyes dark cruel sanitary tp tp wiping the water wiping the water mine eyes mine eyes leaking leaking -- watering. bad choice... all choices. exhilarated glide on wings to nest here dishrag making pruned paws clean pieces steel glass gyrating oregano, basil, hemlock.

I'd like to write a note to say goodbye. I think our time together has to end.
I used to love you, now I wish you'd die. But maybe someday we can still be friends

And by the way, you have a funny face.
Your stench offends my sense of decency. Your mere existance is a waste of space, not worth the match to burn your effigy.

Your momma doesn't love you, so she said. You have no friends, your dog left town in shame. A coffin gets more action than your bed. Your daddy loathes the moment that he came.

And I can't help but laugh, 'cuz your life sucks. Oh, don't forget, you owe me fifty bucks.

The day runs away
through the clouds
onto the green lawn
outside the house
Three birds sat there
looking rather hungry
so Frank shot them with
pellets until one lay
dead.

We threw it into the
bed of a red pickup
It was still there last
week when the trees began
to give off steam, the
Ford abandoned to bird shit.
Crumbly white and black
Clay lumps, smearing like
Chalk, leaving dusty trails.

We often skidded in the
Gravel and fell on our
knees, losing skin to bone
standing up, dusting off--
resiliency. It was our
bodies that felt young but
not our noodles, they felt
sharp and cagey like the
scary old man who always
caught our pranks