the boy

He grew up
surrounded by
concrete structure
asphalt bitumen
stone iron steel

had to search
to find a tree
some small of grass
a sky not brown

his song was
from a rooftop
the words a
way
down

a search for
the meditations of grass
incantations of birds

he plays his piano
on the roof
upon an architecture of stone

collision is imminent
catatonia encroaches
he dreams of death
he plays of
graceful arcs of stone
with iron hearts and steel bones
cracked windows

he plays his life

seeing your way

the blind man saw everything
with his fingertips
even my upside down places

no one had ever looked at me
that way
heat and definition and moonlight
all pouring out

Identity:

definition: defining
parameters: edgy
outline: sketchy
edges: parametric: a constant or variable term
in a function that determines the specific form
of the function but not its general nature.

cortex: white star
medulla: Easter eggs
fringe: Mexican bobbles
intermittent extensions: fingertip control
micro-biology: cellular exposure: Non-targeted
and delayed effects of exposure to ionizing radiation.
II. Radiation-induced genomic instability
and bystander effects in vivo,
clastogenic factors
and transgenerational effects.

external factors: dolly-shaped
and transgenerational effects –
whipped in sand.
architecture: glass by nature.

Doorknockers

I had a knock on the door this morning and when I opened it there were two women standing there.
Oh, did we get you out of bed? One of them said.
Yes I said, in my dressing gown (9.15)
Oh well, we might as well talk to you now, she said,
Ok I says.
She started to talk and I interrupted,
Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses?
Yes, she said smiling.
I’m disfellowshipped says I.
OH! she gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. I’d better write that down, she says,
Practically running away down the path.

It’s funny, I don’t really think of myself as the personification of corruption, here to contaminate the innocent
with my wicked, wordly ways. But there you go.

Funny how every now and then something you haven’t even thought about for ages suddenly jumps up
and smacks you in the face and says ...
Remember me?

Music Man

All the baby girls scream
their panty throws
at the guitar guy
swimming spotlight waves
as they ripple and dance.

All the Barbie babies
dance and cry and scream
and dream of dreamy him
and they -

but his eyes are closed
and far away he sways
in his ocean of music.

Michael Louis R.I.P

This morning when I woke, before I opened my eyes,
I felt the sun, warm on my back, gold
through my closed lids.

Birdsong and leaf rustle lulled me into daydream,
a raft of thought and feeling
to float the day upon.

Then I remembered -
you will never see the sparkling day awaken again.

I hope that somehow, beneath your coverlet of earth,
you will still feel the seasons turn, feel
the glow of love against your back.

The Sound and the Fury

And I will look down and see my murmuring bones
and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind
and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones
upon the lonely and inviolate sand.

William Faulkner

Water Blossoms

I'd like to go there, but I know I should stay away.
Pillows of shimmery grey press through the black
metal grid that keeps them suppressed.

In any single moment they could burst and splash through -
mercurial - exposing the transgressions of a life long past
and now fully regretted, washing over talented beggars
who must plead for sustenance from strangers,
lost in strangeness, like golden carp in a glass jar,
watching orange flowers burn above their heads.

I fear to look over my shoulder because I know
the clouds are forming shapes behind my back.
Cloud symbology that drafts memory into pictures
and projects them, pale wisps, on the green walls of future.

How dreams break from their drawers, all longing
and ambition, make-believe and secrets,
in symbolist disguise. Like Doves made of paper
if they fly too close to the sun they'll catch fire.
Paper doves aren't real, they're a symbol of
the transient nature of peace.

Events long past reshape and form banners of protest
for battles we will fight again tomorrow. This
is the circular nature of history, of life.

How lips betray - outing the very thing we would keep in.
And once out, how words pht pht pht through the air -
like the circle of a thrown knife - with flawless aim
at the tenderness of each other.

Swim the monsoon rains. Even the maelstrom is a circle/
sinkhole, where we strive. Water holds the light
just as we who are water hold light -
glutted with crimson blossoms,
the meaning of secrets meshes
with weedstars in the darker depths.

Summer Poems

The jolly men hold their bellies
and rock and rock, as they laugh

at the women holding their skirts
above saggy knees and elephant ankles.

How they laugh at the idea of tanning
such baggy, blobby legs.

Who'd ever want to look at them?
The women stir, fan hot red faces,

and talk a mirage of romance beneath boardwalks,
sunbrown muscles luring eyes and hands

to places parents forbade. Their talk weaves them
into the silky girls they once were, weaves them

into tapestries of memory.
The jolly men lapse to stillness

as they feel again the sift of sand
shuffled down between the planks across bare backs.