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MIND MELDEN 

Beach Walker 

photograph by Alyssa Timon

MIND MELDEN 

Collected Poems of 

Mark Timon 

Bloomer Press & Audio Corp 

Walpole

THIS IS A BLOOMER BOOK 

PUBLISHED BY BLOOMER PRESS & AUDIO CORP. 

Copyright © 2017 by Mark Timon 

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 

Published in the United States by Bloomer Press & Audio Corp., Walpole 

Distributed by Bloomer Press & Audio Corp., Walpole 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901101 

Timon, Mark. 

Mind Melden: Collected Poems of Mark Timon / 

by Mark Timon-First ed. 

Includes index. 

ISBN 978-0-9986441-0-3 (Acid free. paper) 

Manufactured in the United States of America 

Published March 10, 2017 

First Printing, March, 2017

Dedication 

To Debbie, whose devotion is unshakable; 

to our children Morgan, Ariel, Alyssa, 

Marné, Hudsen, Carter, Mallorie, 

stepson Jason; and to Bill Shieff, who 

first believed.

Contents 

Introduction____________________________________________ 7 

Prologue________________________________________________ 9 

CHAPTER 1 

LOVE LUST LOSS__________________________________________ 11 

LOVE___________________________________________________ 13 

LUST___________________________________________________ 41 

LOSS__________________________________________________ 65 

CHAPTER 2 

NO COMMENT_____________________________________________ 87 

CHAPTER 3 

PHOTOS FROM ID_________________________________________ 135 

CHAPTER 4 

1970S NYC______________________________________________ 167 

CHAPTER 5 

EUPHORIA-MELANCHOLIA__________________________________ 183 

CHAPTER 6 

BEYOND 40______________________________________________ 217 

CHAPTER 7 

GRANDPA SPEAKING ______________________________________ 243 

Index_________________________________________________ 270 

illustration credits ___________________________________ 274

6 Mind Melden | Mark Timon

Introduction 

I am at a loss to tell a compelling story 

about how these pages came about. So 

let me just step out of the way, and… 

Thank you for buying an edition of 

Mind Melden. 

Poetry is neither widely consumed nor 

commercially viable, but we all have 

poetry inside us and in our lives, just 

as strings hide inside a piano. Reading 

poetry sets those strings humming, 

leaving each of us enriched by the 

experience. 

If you like Mind Melden, please tell 

your friends. If you don’t like it, then 

that can just remain our little secret. 

Mark Timon 

March, 2017 

7


Prologue 

Know not by word alone how 

I 

am. 

Thought comes through true, but 

is 

it? 

Oh, the Joke! 

Oh, the Truth! 

Oh, the Lies! 

Oh, the Wonder! 

Mum’s the word. 

9


CHAPTER 1 

LOVE 

LUST 

LOSS 

photographs by Steve Zavodny 

Love, Lust, Loss 

11


CHAPTER 1 

LOVE 

photograph by Steve Zavodny 

LOVE, LUST, LOSS | Love 

13

LOVE 


Distill 

Distill 

paradise 

down 

to 

a 

petal 

dropping 

from 

blossom 

to 

reflecting 

pool 

below 

and 

know 

how 

I 

dream 

of 

you. 


15

Devotion 

A swallow’s swooping shadows 

would not grace your tips and valleys 

more softly than my touch. 

The pure hum of my love vows 

surpass the clean shush 

of wind through pine. 

While God’s sun still burns, 

my fond heat will kiss your skin 

and light the dark with radiance. 

My love stands still, 

an iron fence protecting 

with no gate of inconstance 

whether you’re mine or not. 


You 

You planted a kiss upon my forehead, 

And branded my heart forever in love for you. 

You smiled at me, 

And set aglow the light that shows me the way. 

You touched me, 

And my nerves bound to yours as we became one. 

You closed with me, 

And your scent became the aroma of heaven. 

You knew me, 

And our progeny came like blessed sailors to home port, 

And we their captains. 

There is no place among this 

Where crying may hold sway 

Or split the day to night. 


17

Natural Music 

Chickadee’s dee-dee-dee 

mourning doves’ tandem coo 

and redwing blackbird’s trill 

cannot match the rhythm of you 

in the lift of your laughter 

and the sigh in your breath. 

Your music writes our operas four 

Even after they leave our door. 


Boy Ago 

Jason: 

during Summer let him swing. 

Sweet marigold’s bees horse and play, 

will jump and fly 

solely to entertain his eye. 

Sun tickles 

and never burns 

at two 

(and a little more). 


19

Daughters 

painting by Alyssa Timon 

In a space 

too easily reckoned, 

by measurements 

easily forgotten, 

a willow jumps 

from wisp to massive drape 

along the bank of the meadow brook 

where dinosaurs once strode to fame 

and little Nettie now swings with Jane. 

They shall take their time at foolery and games 

while eating, 

laughing 

and hiding from the rain, 

for we have sung them full of sound 

of what could be 

and will, 

to make feet light 

as they scamper up the hill. 


Kid 6 

Love like hammer against anvil 

struck your steel humming. 

You caught your vision 

in a dark wet night. 

Your locomotive swiveled 

in the round house. 

Now departing, 

I beg your beacon 

gleams out the tunnel intently. 


21

Mal at 12 

Oh, last of mine, 

and first of someone’s, 

you are the crack 

of the whip 

who wants so to be the handle. 

Yours are dreams 

to be made 

by driving stakes deep; 

loves 

to be held too dear 

but quietly so; 

the nest 

one day built 

against the tumult of your times, 

(not mine) a fortress. 

You are the restless 

at rest 

on the outside 

for just a bit longer. 


The Bargain 

If you ask, 

I shall be pillar 

to your water. 

If you ask, 

I shall be forgiveness 

as you err. 

If you ask, 

I shall be mason 

against your woes, 

and if you ask, 

I shall be fire 

to keep away the ice. 

And if you don’t, 

I shall go away 

to keep myself in peace, 

a glimmer of your reflection. 


23

Vision 

This morning your beauty 

chiseled 

from the first grains of light 

radiated 

from the comforter 

snuggled 

around your neck, 

to adorn 

my day. 


Discovery 

A boy’s treasure you 

under the sun glistens 

like quartz in a rolling stream, 

tastes like divinity 

on Christmas day, 

rushes through nerves 

like a gale through standing autumn corn. 

Your kiss beckoned spring to start again; 

withered roots to pulse again; 

bent willow to stand again; 

one man to be boy again 

in love. 


25

Grace Us 

The full moon dances 

where your face shines. 

The shadow of your breast 

flashes God’s masterwork. 

You were His gift 

to this petulant child, 

who seeks His grace anew. 


Flag Day 

From your beaches 

sometimes washed in 

tears, 

spilled from an ocean. 

of blue eyes, 

glimpsed beyond the crest 

of fluid mountains 

clouded in place above the still bay 

on each peninsula south 

up to the Meadow kissed with dew, 

D. Marie I love 

your geography 

and plant my flag in fealty 

for perpetuity 

if you’ll have me. 


27

Love Silence 

You need no eyes 

to read my words 

hung like Christmas bells 

suspended 

above our bed, 

leftovers from the night, 

their soft tinkle rung 

by lance-beams from a newborn sun. 


Our Ocean 

Your gull rides waves on 

the middle 

of my Pacific Ocean 

looking for the edge of 

my love. 

Limitless. 

A whoosh, oh God, of 

ocean breeze sweeps 

dune grasses each time 

you sigh 

on a cricket hummed July. 

Wind sail. 

No wave-stroked shore was 

ever loved more from the 

time of trilobites to the day 

our toes saw light under 

waving curtains 

in our seaside den. 

Love high. 

Love you. 

Never-ending. 


29

Magic Bird 

I found a bird in snow so slow, 

a Tanager left behind 

all frozen blond, 

death upon its breast. 

And so I cupped my hands beneath, 

and drew it up, 

my breath to spark 

its stilled heart to life. 

My kiss upon its wing, 

in circles of grateful joy, 

its whirling flight enrobing me, 

until we two were one. 


Listen Up 

This is myself speaking, 

with my head full of pigeons, 

as I put my glass eye between 

your 

breasts 

and listen 

as they start their own band 

with your heart smacking out the time. 


31

Wee Man #6: 

Wishing 

My love, 

a Pyrex cup full of light 

waits 

waiting for whichever wellman 

or miner 

wishes to be my guide 

down the wells 

and coal blackened mines 

of the agonies in your worlds. 

I will bring light there 

freely. 


Ring Song 

I am not young as you, 

and from my tarnished heart 

I strangle out shreds of love 

that you beguile 

into a blanket soft 

with your innocent caress. 

You weave the shroud 

‘round our day 

to seal out the night. 


33

Through to 

the other side 

Look me in the face dear, 

Try to stare me down, 

Have we really been so queer 

Doing what we have done? 

I find our old saw story 

Searing pages worldwide; 

Where many gave up glory 

To fury acidified. 

Most succumb and go away, 

Empty as a hollow glove 

Abandoned at a grave one day, 

Suspicious that they ever loved. 

Those few who survive, 

Once knocked back on their heels, 

End up more alive 

Bound tight in bands of steel. 

So look me in the face dear, 

And try to smile me down, 

For we really have no peer 

Who knows what we have won. 


Antique 

It is for your antiquity 

I make my garden with you. 

An ageless gift 

is your devotion 

sculpted in stone 

of classical perfection 

smoothed to graceful lines, 

adored still 

in our jagged times. 


35

First Light Vigil 

Morning light, 

like a press of eiderdown, 

rolls my gaze to the secure sea 

rising and falling 

within your slumbered breath; 

your chest the ship 

upon which I ride safely 

to the end of time. 

In your garden beyond the pane, 

butterflies melt to lay their spent wings 

in a carpet for your barefoot stroll 

among the dewy morning glaze. 

Your gentle steps will quiet my heart, 

for each return smoothes 

the path ahead. 

You rise, and my world flowers. 


Pirate Love 

or 

Shared Wealth 

Your breath a breeze 

across the bow 

turns my ship 

by memory alone 

to a fresher course, 

knowing how now 

the pirate’s cove needs treasure 

and will take it 

freely, 

willingly, 

lovingly, 

from this ship 

without bloodshed. 


37

Divine Talk 

My Lord said, 

“Let me just 

take off your clothes, 

put on my ballet 

slippers 

and dance 

all over your bare thorny body, 

through all your sucking railroad tunnels, 

tiptoeing through the secret crackling 

swamps, 

running 

hell bent for the sunshine 

up those mountains 

above timberline -- 

And when the children are gone, 

we shall do this more often,” 

said the Lord 

to his lover, 

my Mother Earth. 


Point to Point 

Wow your face, 

thank you, 

has finally arrived 

after 22 years 

of impossible, I swear, 

thinking 

that I’d never, 

let alone know, 

find it 

wherever it was, 

and even though 

I thought I knew, 

finally, 

sure I did, 

what we 

and it 

would be like, 

it was better! 

Surprise! 

What a 

Wowie! 

Gosh, 

your whip cream lips 

yes 

like a river 

of sun kisses 

pour soft heat 

high and low 

from brows to toes 

and in between 

where my heart 

melted vanilla ice cream 

you can 

suck up 

and swallow down 

oh past those lips 

inside you 

‘cause that’s where 

I wanna stay 

your heart 

for my blanket. 

Sigh! 

Your fingers 

tender electrodes 

plug in anytime 

unzip my masculinity 

anywhere 

they go 

rigor flies 

like a carnival toy 

whose elastic broke. 

I could never 

guess 

the words 

unspoken 

behind your touch. 

Suspicion is 

no one’s written them 

yet 

but they begin 

with trust 

and love. 


39


CHAPTER 1 

LUST 


LOVE, LUST, LOSS | Lust 

41

LUST 


Wanting 

Not unless I want to 

Would I 

Build this angle of repose 

Upon your lips 

And swim your curved back 

With this feverish skull of hands, 

Spiders of the mind 

Afloat. 


Would I 

Catch the nervous sparrows 

Of your fluttering voice 

In my ears 

As they go searching 

For my autumn seeds 

Concealed. 


Would I 

Make your hot summer sun 

Rise humidly 

With mouth yawned wide 

Over the night-rained morning woods 

Steaming. 

Wanting it, 


Would I. 


43

Pin Point Poetry 

or 

An Exercise in 

California 

Con 

Art 

I hear 

Your wails 

For love, 

“Boomba - de - Boom - Boom - Boom” 

But cannot go 

Until yourself shows through. 

So 

Boom! 

I’ve got you 

From the inside. 

Having been gunned down 

I hope 

You liked 

It. 


Friendly Neighbor 

Couch curled she nymphly fannied sat, 

my naughty neighbor, 

her washing eyes out the drizzling 

window 

see, 

raining, 

this is my one set day 

for mowing lonely hay. 



45

Passion 

At sun up, 

steam rising on the Amazon, 

I oared across your river, 

pulling on feathers 

to reach you. 

Following after 

along your path, 

pushing jungle aside, 

and my 

oh my 

pitter-pat 

eyes trailed after 

you like puppies. 

My shoulders hum at the 

vision. 

At dusk, 

still warm and wet, 

we lilt and wave like grasses 

grown to meet 

the closing breeze 

expectant of the end of day. 

Its caress renews. 

Tonight, yes, 

shut out the lights, my dear. 

Inhale ecstasy 

and drain the sky of stars. 

At high noon, 

oh, your touch 

fired up my spine 

and we blazed ‘til our embers 

glowed and sputtered 

side-by-side 

red at their core 

clothed only in blue ash. 

I boiled in the heat. 


Dark Night 

Thrilling to the raw umber 

Of your winter body 

Due to darken 

In the burnishing summer sun 

I elongated 

Await your necromancing nibble 

At the near-sighted eye 

Of yet a fonder heat. 


47

1904 

Dancing behind the turn-of-the-century 

Baseball 

Outfield 

Board 

Fence 

I wait, a patch-pantsed boy, knothole hungry for 

The 

Drilling 

Women. 

Auger-handed and smiling they singingly arrive 

Bundled 

Gibson 

Girl 

Beauties 

To take off their clothes, drill holes, 

And 

Show 

Me 

How 

To be. 


Callous Lover 

This beacon shaft of white, 

irrigation for growth 

from seedlings down to death, 

shines, 

rays, 

aye, illuminates 

the inner walls of rooms 

in pinks and reds 

seeking for the one worm’s den 

where nothing grows, 

having traveled from 

a heart of stone. 


49

Halloween 

Forest Prank 

The stretching pines 

Were laying whispered lashes 

Upon the back of fleeing October 

(Halloween) 

While we were lain 

Upon a cushion pushing 

Among the tall 

and stretching pillars of 

the rite 

(Halloween). 


Madelin 

Madelin Madelin Thousand Masks 

I have come 

To commence the intricate procedure 

To subdivide your clothing stuff. 

So that 

Wanting it, 

My loins 

Shake hands with 

Your loins 

And come out fighting. 


51

On Our Way 

The I-beam presence of myself within 

the swirling whirling 

of your everywhere leaves of thighs 

about the pivotal private jungled realm 

bores the black absolute 

of a quick demise 

to the buried sloth 

of my once insouciant life. 

The process of our curtained love 

gives the hangman of your youth 

the strength 

to pull 

and haul the sailing wind of breath 

from there within the heaving lungs of our sore love. 

The wild dispersion 

from the ram-head worm 

liberates the electrical magnificence 

of the steppingstone universality 

of creation 

past us 

who supersede these rattling lives in death 

as space shall supersede the earth in death. 

On call, 

I remain 

The black absolute of your former jousting life. 


In Heat 

Looking for my Mrs. Robinson, 

I searched among the 

fire hoses, 

and, finding only 

a 

big 

red 

fire engine, 

I climbed aboard 

and took a 

screaminglong ride 

through the cold night 

to the hot fire. 


53

Woof 

woof Woof Swee 

tie 

see my bou nc ing 

Dogun fur 

l 

s p o n g i l y 

take note: 

the quic ker 

the dic ker themore thelights 

flic ker 

ker - woof ker - woof Bow wow wow wow 

lights 

o 

u 

t 

s 

w 

e 

e 

t 

i 

e 

. 


A Wood Removed 

I. In the shadow of the sullen woods, 

new white axe in hand, 

I bend to kiss the fuming ground, 

weary at my trod of feet, 

crying woe for 

the impertinent growth of trees 

between its swollen legs, 

waiting for the white axe blowing, 

nipping at the dark wood’s roots. 

II. In the shadow of the sullen woods, 

I raise up from the fuming ground, 

and turning, bend my axe, 

a-nipping at the growth of trees 

waiting, 

I come crashing, 

thunder from my willful axe 

splitting and a-flashing 

at the sinking sullen woods. 

III. In the bright light of the one-time woods, 

I sleep 

and the freed ground 

suckles me in my exhaustion. 


55

Sally, Oh, Sally 

Sally, with binary fields 

of kissability 

and butterfly fish for eyes, 

began our nocturnal scavenging 

with hoots and calls, 

trumpeting 

for the unobtrusive roots and tubers, 

‘til fastasahightonewhistle 

she runs 

to take a little ripe bit of me 

in 

to her buttress 

of a 

buttonbush 

below. 


Virgin 

The age of veins within my arms 

denies 

the windless lake 

of your glass belly 

unstirred 

by the dike-busting storm of spring, 

a rage transposed 

through the lightning rod connection 

rifled through your innocence 

by this humble sabotuer. 

I bowing in peace following 

my heathen construction within 

the chambers of your shady brow, 

hand-shakingly congratulate the burial 

of your blushing anticipation. 

Hello, the age of veins. 


57

Farming 

When I was young 

and you told me, 

I thought 

my yellow cats attacked 

your flower pots 

until I pulled out 

my American Heritage dictionary 

and read about how 

the old farmers 

used to plow 

and let 

the sweating storms 

and white-hot loud lightning 

lash the drooling furrows 

and 

make 

things 

grow. 


Played 

Don’t let him kid ya, sweetie. 

The white powder sweetness 

of your ham-hock thighs 

will bring you two together 

in lunacy 

eventually, 

but the momentary emulsion 

yields no solution 

if you plan to go a-gardening 

in the spot where nothing grows. 


59

Objective 

The object, 

my dear, 

is never to speak, so 

come join 

my secret garden 

in progress 

toward the establishment 

of bountiful well-being, 

unclothed, 

estimating my approach 

with sighs, 

yawning as a mouth does yawn 

with thighs. 


Wisdom 

Stool wise, 

I shall bed thee proper. 

Virgin wise, 

I shall bed thee never. 

Lover wise, 

I shall bed thee hidden. 

Marriage wise, 

I shall bed thee whenever. 

Summer wise, 

I have bed thee all 

Amid tall and whispering grasses. 


61

So New 

All thumbs of inexperience, 

my girl 

so new 

caresses me with two thumbs 

from above, 

learning fast, 

and 

dives 

into the congestive wars of love, 

peeking from the bunker 

for a quick shot 

of paradise. 


Derailed 

Enthralled by her precarious automation 

down, down spun under 

the stropping bullwhip loin, 

puffing the weight of a cloud, her lungs 

suspend the stiffening shoulder 

(waving its salt sea masculinity) 

while she loves under the lilting lawless wave, 

‘til, with burning lightning fired within, 

spread and free she lies, 

derailed by her precarious automation. 


63


CHAPTER 1 

LOSS 


LOVE, LUST, LOSS | Loss 

65

LOSS 


Cleopatra 

Cleopatra’s candles 

are like night 

against your long-legged light; 

a nightingale’s song 

mere baboon screech 

against your murmur in the dark. 

And yet my gifts 

are launched through other lives 

by this half a man, 

a man much less 

drawn dry under sizzling terror, 

roasted down 

to the crumb of a bone 

clenched by the reticent beast 

barring all from you. 


67

Fantasy Fix 

Toasted shell of you lost 

in the tractless, bone-strewn plains; 

I, 

toiling in the hills 

archeologizing. 

I cannot reach you 

so I send eagles 

to snare your wandering husk 

and lift you back to me. 

Delivered, 

I replace 

pooled weary tears 

with rubies, emeralds, 

diamonds, opals. 

All spaces filled, 

I raise this shell enriched 

against Father Sun 

who sets the stones ablaze. 

You glow 

beyond perfection 

for someone... 


Honesty Therapy 

May I sing 

to our frayed and dwindling bonds; 

I who come from time 

wheeling post-haste 

from pages written 

by those who have spent time 

to make the serpentine deductions 

to let us know post-haste 

oh, how to become a person 

of peace to ourselves 

and free 

of each other? 


69

Disintegration 

Another body 

Foreign body 

Larger than you ever were 

Perfect body 

Smoothest body 

Better than a husband’s be. 

Morning meeting we 

Lay in meadows 

Under summer’s buzzing sun 

Swimmers of the maiden streams 

Lover that my man should be. 

Ripening lifting 

Softness cresting 

Silent murmurs breezing ears 

Holding viewing unrenewing 

He can’t make love like thee. 

Another body 

Foreign body 

Larger than you ever were 

Perfect body 

Smoothest body 

Better than a wife’s could be. 

Morning meeting we 

Lay in meadows 

Under summer’s buzzing sun 

Swimmers of the maiden streams 

Lover that my wife should be. 

Ripening lifting 

Softness cresting 

Silent murmurs breezing ears 

Holding viewing unrenewing 

She can’t make love like thee. 



Celestial Rage 

Life’s a gamble (often said), 

so let me flap 

one last card of tears 

down upon the table 

(yours this time 

not mine) 

for the solemn, silent dead; 

your complaint left to rattle ‘round 

the vacancy of his empty wooden chair, 

a tantrum to the God unfair, 

omniscient scoundrel 

unworthy of embrace. 


71

Barmaid 1880 

I have not been to Nova Scotia. 

No, 

I have not been to Nova Scotia 

to see 

where you have gone 

to let your fertile seeds 

spawn their green fields of wheat 

and lay low the chastity of Halifax. 


Lost You 

On wings 

where do i go 

?up or 

down a clown 

to you like a bird 

i sight from above 

where i wanted 

and didn’t 

got. 


73

Wee Man #4: 

If at First 

Dark and stumpy, 

smelling like 

Smokey Bear’s last fought fire, 

some hillsides of his youth 

tried 

(with northern exposure) 

to grow new seedlings 

in the same old way: 

carving out fabled 

gurgling bouncing 

Coors clean 

silver mountain streams; 

spinning tales of black cats mousing 

or patch-eyed pirates 

afloat on midnight waves 

of adventure 

seeking 

love; 

and bringing out full moons of delight 

on bushy park benches 

and swingset trips to the stars 

but 

the sun only shines on the south slope 

now. 


Dry 

dry 

with harsh lips and rough eyes 

i communicate 

futility 

to my mirror lying 

before me flat 

with lipstick 

on her moist lips 

and lipstick red 

her only clothing 

not listening 

wanting 

and i screaming 

dumbly 

with harsh dry lips, rough eyes 

and servile hands 

our passion shall 

be futile 

now, 

tomorrow, 

and all times beyond 

this moment 

of electric life 

coming. 

photograph by Alyssa Timon 


75

Speechless 

To say what happens is a difficult thing, 

nay, impossible perhaps, 

when one loves the other and the other neither. 

For despising one buys self-hate 

under guilt 

for 

cruelty, 

rejection, 

acerbic words, 

secrets kept, 

lies told, 

an affair sloppily hidden. 

When one loves the other and the other neither, 

love waiting is not enough 

to draw off leaches from the other 

or burn away the guilt. 

Return to love waiting requires 

fatality of fantasy, 

apology deep, 

touch kind, 

longing for forgiveness (already granted), 

secrets told, 

lies confessed, 

affair abandoned. 

Love waiting says, 

“Come shoeless to me 

and I shall enfold thee 

in safety.” 


J. P.’s Poem 

Having come chirping 

out the red-walled cylinder, 

raising quick 

a black silk umbrella 

against 

the cold eyes of evil stars, 

I times long 

lost the weight of love 

with each new rising 

of the sun 

‘til I became so light 

with loneliness that please, 

before this breeze 

splats 

blasts 

puffs 

me away, 

grant enough just once 

to let me nestle 

under your paper wing 

and leave my sad white tears 

in your green womb 

boom 

boom 

booming 

on for posterity. 


77

Long time 

Before the wisp of a ghost’s cloak graces your shoulder, 

it should be my fingertips to push cloth aside, 

my warm breath to steal the cool away. 

Before fog shrouds the blue light of your eyes, 

they should wash over our world, 

mirror our pool of years in trust and love. 

Before the well dries, 

its waters should be plumbed innumerable 

in repetitive rites of rejuvenation. 

Before the hinges fuse, 

our waltz from youth 

must be replayed. 

Before there’s nothing left of me to give 

nor of you to receive, 

Before we go, we must come 

home 

to 

each 

other. 



The Wall 

Little girl, I stare 

at you 

with eyes big as marvelous, 

lips all set to swarm over you, 

and my tongue 

a soft knife spreading marmalade. 

My hands are a tangle 

of dandy worms 

that would dance and crawl 

on your geography 

but for this wall 

that always comes 

between us. 


79

Charcoal 

So spit fire now! 

(your self-absorbed yap) 

and I may rattle back 

a squawk or shout 

from habit of shaking 

the likes of you 

off my back. 

But I’m just a hack, 

mimic of another life 

once gone, 

come again 

conscious now, 

un then 

remembered now, 

abandoned when 

the first flames licked, 

as this 

inflamed Diablo incinerates 

to ashes us lost in dust 

or wave 

now food for roots 

or fishes. 


The Cabin 

Morningside’s hum 

with a distant creek 

rumble 

shakes my soul with a tremulous tilt, 

and reels my eyes 

to a wide-awake glaze 

when they reach into darkness 

to find not your warm hand 

or warm face 

and red cheek 

vibrating back with a union to meet 

in the oneness of singular love. 


81

Who Knew 

A wise few, 

mated at the soul 

will know why 

snow clouds claimed his sunrise, 

and sympathize, 

While those 

ill wed, 

would see the fool on coals 

where they reside beside, 

confusing heat with summer, 

And the fool, 

blistered by artificial bliss, 

since spring, 

in autumn, circles 

their love embers, 

an ash dancing 

on her remembered breath 

until death. 


Worn 

Narrowing down 

our love 

to a pi 

npo 

in 

t 

the 

thorns of pro 

tection hide your o 

paque nectar berries li 

ke knowledge of the future 

and slows the bloody picking in 

to gentle grace laced with the bleak 

fluid of our veins willing and due to per 

severe 

until your need is gone 

until my wounds are healed 

until we both are free. 


83

Depression 

Long time since 

come down on me 

i pray 


honey of happiness 

and fill my niche. 

Escape your winter 

thaw this spring 

pour down on me 

and fill my niche 


come down 

come down 

i pray 

i pray. 


Undying Love 

Sleep now 

is our cascade 

of love rain 

this slippery hot July. 

A Kentucky cricket throng 

sings praises. 

Sleep hence 

is our gift 

to spiders and worms 

underfoot, yet, 

we shall remember us 

long beyond 

the new morning. 

Finding 

will be the babes’ trick. 


85

For Marné in May 

Girl, you are a furtive wave 

dancing against my toes 

who beckons me to chase, 

“Find me now!” 

as you gather back 

to your mother swell 

too shy to stay long 

at my shore 

with its confusing carnival 

of screaming and cheering 

on the beach. 

You, tiny once, 

small now, 

a bearer of bubbles only, 

gales in time 

(I cannot thwart the winds) 

shall heave you 

into a storm of womanhood, 

bearing ships in your turn 

(big work) 

and sending wave letters 

to the shore. 

I shall be then 

as sand to wash upon: 

feet gone 

to clay. 


CHAPTER 2 

NO COMMENT 


NO COMMENT 

87

NO COMMENT 


A Joke 

Ha, ha, ha, ha, HEEEyaaaaahhhh! 

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, HOOOoooo! 

Time ratchets on 

t’ leave me gapin’ 

wit’ all ‘a youse 

as we trod stupit’ly 

snagged on duh cogged chain 

rollin’ us so nonchalant 

along duh way 

dat each an’ ev’ry mannequin afore 

has flapped his rattlin’ gait along, 

sneerin’ at duh clatta’ 

of his ancestuh’s bones, 

believin’ ‘is pathetic mediocrity 

makes ‘im betta’ d’an ‘is gramps. 

Get dis! 

We’s all pathetic, 

an dere ain’t no way 

to step off 

duh chain. 


NO COMMENT 

89

DICHOTOMY 

America, 

my favorite musical, 

I play you over and over 

and each 

time I 

do 

I think of your 

Grand Canyons and 

Allegheny green mountains, 

dark with trees and smoke filled eyes, 

flowing brooks of love 

so 

full 

of soft, white fish and 

hoping maybe 

(since I’m at your borders) 

you’ll let me in to stay; 

to be your citizen 

and soldier 

helping you to win wars 

win wars 

wars 

Yeah! Win them all. 


War Debt 

They died about a year ago 

in screaming wrath of childbirth 

(silent to my ears on the Somme) 

as I fought wars on foreign soil 

commanded by the state house dome. 

I thundered flame on children’s bones, 

and splintered nations with the rest, 

and trod the face of Earth in mud, 

while she and he climbed in the tomb 

exploding shells had dug for me. 

NO COMMENT 

91

‘Nam 

The president sat, 

a dangerous piece of radium 

in a sightless lead box, 

at his desk 

somewhere 

where my rancid breath 

could not reach him 

to make him smell 

my battlefield, 

mired in bloodthirsty worms. 


Battlefield 

Promise lies swollen 

under the buzzing sun. 

Hovering souls wave like smoke, 

guessing who 

their fathers might have been, 

and cry for mothers 

gone dry. 

Corpse man in the mud, 

your eye is open. 

Can’t you see 

the fly 

crawl up your nose? 

Blow him away 

like the shell 

that spat your side to red rain. 

Earth, you swallow 

blood and ash, 

fresh-ground flesh, 

and bellowed tears 

that fertilize the flowers 

of our history. 

NO COMMENT 

93

A Wish from Home 

for Warriors Away 

If my hands were quick enough, 

I’d snatch the bullet 

tearing 

and sighing 

as it roars through 

desert air 

intent on killing you, 

deflating us all 

until we twist back 

upon each other, 

browned and slimed 

like outer leaves 

of a cabbage left out 

on a summer counter 

while I was away 

on 

vacation. 


Compassion? 

Refugee, 

we hear only damp wind shushing 

when 

your cries play 

like an empty swing rocking 

in a breeze 

on a fresh Spring 

day 

away in the future 

when we all are 

new again, and 

these times are dust. 

NO COMMENT 

95

Apotheosis of Life 

Hear my oratorio of 

sympathy 

on the death of those few 

or many 

(it really doesn’t matter) 

as I spin a collective 

artifice of woe 

for you (all) to weep 

upon. 

And we agree 

on the apotheosis of life 

that lives just behind my lips 

and echoes across the airwaves 

overrun soon 

by truth 

of crusades and gluttony, 

and my boot upon 

the ants. 



Stone Feelings 

Stone in the road 

knows not 

whether rain from clouds 

or blood sprayed by bullets 

drops on its back; 

hears not 

our martial steps drumming 

or our human thunder; 

if we lie in grass 

to rest or to die; 

cares not 

recoils not 

at the beast in our breast, 

swelling wrath beyond comprehending; 

tastes not 

how we devour and feel good, 

as we make others fall down; 

and sees not 

myopic war flinging dust 

against God’s Providence, 

and winning. 

NO COMMENT 

97

Palestinian Ode 

Vultures swirl, 

moaning as crows 

picking over this land 

blown free 

of grass and trees. 

I am the gentle father, 

of those who once knew grace, 

and of the rabid boy, 

who only knew bullets, 

and now is dust. 

Oh war, 

‘though you pull a flower 

from the center of my garden, 

Time shall raise others ‘round. 

Exhaustion is the fertilizer. 

I am civilization in rags, 

Waiting. 


Oblivious 

Kansas son, 

God over fair meadows, 

at midday come in 

to lay aside 

your soiled shirt 

like ghost pictures 

from morning. 

Eat now, 

and later coax 

raccoon cities of corn 

up from the soiled heart of Earth. 

(as if 

anyone will notice) 

Your bare clay 

feet rooted stand 

apart unknown by 

the 44th & Broadway bistro bunch 

munching chips 

and laughing. 

(as if you knew) 

NO COMMENT 

99

Family of Man 

It used to be 

a fat man was the stranger, 

an oddity in the crowd 

the phone was at home 

waiting for us to come back and listen 

a neighbor was a friend, 

and there was time to talk 

the man who watched children play 

chuckled at their antics and nothing more 

farmers lived for us and them, 

their soil was rich and food was tasty 

books were read, 

and kept our hands warm holding them 

TV wasn’t, and then when it was 

yet again wasn’t by 11:00 p.m. 

It used to be 

no one lied, 

until the door was closed in Eden. 


Birth 

Swimming dumb 

those first strokes to light, 

I, the sponge soaked in parental force, 

bellowed 

from life’s cliff 

in hunger from the start; 

and, answered in storms 

from that coast’s lashing seas surrounding, 

had I read the icy hail 

of tears to come, 

I should have stayed behind. 

NO COMMENT 

101

Abusing Storm 

He is of earth. 

A once fertile pasture 

baked brown by years 

of midsummer drought; 

a crisp wasteland now 

gathered under 

a billowing thunderhead flashing and scowling 

like a father’s final judgment 

swelling to explode in wrath 

whipping down 

the throb of joy, 

the promise of love, 

in waves until its last lash 

sighs into the shrunken sponge 

of a cowed back 

with whispered accusations 

that he’s just a man of clay. 


All Over 

Do not chatter 

of your soft free willow days, 

and how each quest 

soared as a gull in trade wind breeze; 

bragging that each deep wood 

kindled no fear of endlessness, 

but lay coursed with soft paths and fairy guides 

where wild flowers prayed at the waysides. 

Chant, 

chant not how all lay wide 

for you, 

for I would do it all – ALL again 

had I 

but more time to spend. 


NO COMMENT 

103

Rat’s Prayer 

Give me a lever to Mars 

that i might 

(puff ) 

wedge it 

against the Earth 

(groan) 

freezing day and night 

(pant) 

long enough 

to 

catch 

up. 



Burn Out 

For tall houses, 

for spacious, sun-drenched lawns, 

I strive because I know how, 

not because I wish. 

A tattered rock could be my pillow now, 

so far down the path 

scant time remains 

for comfort. 

NO COMMENT 

105

Brink 

I am beaten 

I am lazy 

I don’t care 

I want to quit 

Go away 

Leave me alone 

I’m afraid 

I can’t keep living 

Give me a gun 

One bang 

And it’s over 

For me 

But just begun 

For you 

So I’ll stay 

Come here 

Hold me 

Forgive me 

Love me 

I must find strength 

and cunning. 


Locked 

You, Dear, 

whose desire stands cold 

as a 

crystal chrysalis hung high 

too much 

tight against the storm, 

learn, Dear, 

(you will) 

winds kiss 

and summer’s soft 

cyclones beat with feathers 

only when you 

build your wall 

from a composition of clouds. 

NO COMMENT 

107

Over 

Like the spent petals 

of a wild rose 

floating 

into 

the 

protection 

of 

the 

brambles 

below, 

we will leave the place of our last blooming. 


Lull 

Sitting, 

I by myself 

sit, 

another sun setting out, 

in my one room 

camp; 

cluttered 

in thoughtless arrangement 

by my thoughtless emotions 

(whitefaced, point-eared dandies) 

who have brought me here 

by myself, 

now, 

not always so. 

NO COMMENT 

109

To Mecca 

My neighbor friend and I, 

on holiday curious, 

longed to hear the pranging music, 

drink the fragrant air, 

and see glaring white lights 

above the wet streets 

of Mecca… 

found, 

reflected up from below our heels, 

off flowing blood bubbling 

in the gutters, 

a gruesome sheen borne upon 

an appreciation furious. 



Ms. Nature 

Mother of Lamb, 

Mother of Unicorn, 

Step forth from your nest 

In eternity, 

And see all eyes 

Turned up to you. 

Without you, life how much 

Would cease to be 

From worm through tree 

to we 

and thee. 

NO COMMENT 

111

Opposing wishes: 

Antietam 

I throw myself at you for a cause 

that is not love 

but their passion 

forcing my passion 

for life to be 

the guide behind my eye 

flex of my finger 

howl in my throat 

to bullet and scare you into submission 

if my time lets me 

do and hear it 

and once more 

return to my passion 

that is love 

for her who pulls 

water from the well 

of me 

to raise us both. 


Bah, Humbug 

Winter I wonder 

why who needs you? 

Bugs struck dumb with numb? 

Frostbitten birds cast south? 

And ground gone stiff? 

Trees shock solid? 

Who lives by 

frozen stone-breath sinking 

to mate with snow? 

It is no kiss you give. 

It is no love I take. 


NO COMMENT 

113

Standing Fast 

“There are never storms enough 

To blow my ship off course,” 

of course 

bellowed the captain 

of the schooner 

lying beached on its side 

on a sandy shore 

with him bound fast 

by hands 

to the wheel, 

stuck fast in boots 

nailed to the wooden deck 

in permanent pose 

of the man in charge 

in line with the masts 

all cantilevered over in empty air 

over a sea of sand 

where his hat lay, 

rocking in the wind, 

gulls chortling above. 


Futile Glow 

Ah, Morning! Welcome back! 

It’s good to see you again, 

as you pour your promising light 

into my hands, 

in the still dawn. 

Is it you who promise 

a flood of peace, 

but then forsake us 

to brute terror, 

bloodshed 

and anarchy, 

or are we unable 

to hold your perfect light 

in our cracked, seeping vessels, 

hands charred by perpetual sin? 

NO COMMENT 

115

Heat 

God, 

Electricity, 

Master Energy, 

will you 

glow 

really 

at the end 

as Tibetans say 

or sear me 

for my infidelity? 



Legacy 

Sweet Blackman, could we say 

you are like a chocolate sundae 

(the biggest) 

since we have eaten you and loved it 

for three hundred years, getting fat 

and proud 

as the longest night of the year? 

How do we wipe 

our mouths clean? 

Will you do it 

for us 

with patient 

humanity? 

NO COMMENT 

117

Little Boy 

Ignored among the giants, oiled bellies basting, 

baking breasts, and bottoms red, 

He has filled his bucket with sand, 

a boy on the beach. 

On that four-season beach, he searched and searches 

for more than just the crystal grains, 

tacking to salt and sweat, 

a little boy gathers sand. 

Sifting swirling grains, broken shards of weathered rock, 

white brown tan and black, 

when diamonds lie pick-and-shovel deep, 

a little boy forever gathers sand. 


Wolf at Night 

Hated, hunted beast 

howling; 

scratch and yowl at the moon, 

beat the Earth’s breast 

with that lurid scream. 

Proclaim how you give teeth and snarl 

claw and crush 

to gentle woodland prey. 

You liberate hearts. 

Are you crowing over bloody victories? 

Or do you ask us, 

“Love me though 

I do despicable things.” 

NO COMMENT 

119

Snow Fence 

Wire and rough hewn slats 

stand against the winter wind 

and snow, 

placed steadfast by a farmer 

along the long lane leading 

from the man-made state route 

to his white farmhouse 

centered among 

all his Nebraska lands, 

to trip the wind, 

drag down the rushing flakes 

that rip by 

tearing slivers away, 

smoothing edges 

of rough hewn slats, 

heaping more against their 

windward side 

saving the lane from oblivion 

while disappearing almost all 

beneath a weight so cold 

the slats lean down 

nearly lost, 

nearly flat, 

until spring, 

cracked and worn, 

so many severed at the base. 

Their season done, 

the farmer takes them 

quietly to the burn pile 

knowing he will, 

when time comes, 

place a new generation against 

the next season of cold wind. 


Inequity Allegory 

Some leaves cling through autumn, ‘til spring, 

pleading their worth; 

chattering for redemption 

and another season, 

tarnished leftovers crisply waving 

wondering 

when 

their withered glue will hatch them 

down among spent comrades 

who caught sun alongside 

last spring and summer too 

boasting of their emerald hue. 

Now aged into a second spring, 

having dodged rain 

fought wind, 

reflected heat 

and borne snow, 

a leaf means something 

at least for one season 

their paper whine implores. 

But launch they will 

to dress the grip 

of collectors down under 

whose grave philosophies 

unravel joy; 

who bartered gloves of kid 

for claws 

to gather pleading leaves. 

NO COMMENT 

121

The Well 

The well 

that used to fill 

so well, 

it’s young brim shimmering, 

no longer swells 

from the dark 

to the rim. 

Shored up with stone 

each year a layer new 

is laid down 

to make it strong. 

Now so deep 

no light meets water, 

nor water its earth to quench, 

earth dried hard as stone, 

stone holding water 

left alone. 


Responsibility 

Who’s her cause of screaming? 

she screams 

wise 

to know 

its someone 

anyone 

somewhere, 

a maniacal 

expert psychic adulterer 

who’s absent from her mirror, 

staring out her eyes, 

burning in her straight jacket. 

NO COMMENT 

123

Mr. Binger 


In Due Consideration of: 

The blaring, bulbous lust 

of her wonder voice, 

The powdered pallor 

of her shuddering skin 

(waves piling upon the rocky shore), 

The rumpled down 

of her scatter rug face, 

The caffeine twitch 

of her sunshine morning hands 

rustling on her bed of steel, 

Of her cellophane orange and snake pit hair 

sifting ‘round the neck nape there, 

And the pygmy space in her welcoming heart 

lodged so deep in her 

eggplant bodied 

core, 

And of you, Mr. Binger, 

In your frail, quail-feather coat 

And mustachioed neat nibbler lip; 

Tell me, Mr. Binger, 

Do you still of an evening ding her? 


Schism 

Though fire dwells in ice 

today 

and eyes dart 

like a hare away 

before the hounds; 

though thought runs heedless 

to union without dignity, 

and his presence hangs in vapors, 

admonish not her heart 

swollen tender 

by affection 

for Anyone. 

NO COMMENT 

125

Love Lessons 5 

Sweets, 

in a minute, 

I may say 

I love you 

prematurely 

yes, 

but in the nick 

of time 

to save you 

from your history 

and to 

bury me 

in 

mine. 

I love you 

though I 

bore 

you 

and you bored 

bite 

back. 

My dear, 

lower down 

your low voltage heart 

and take a charge from mine 

and hope that neither halt again 

as they did 

once upon a time. 


Who was it showed me 

Where the schoolmarm 

among all the rest 

who taught me love whipped 

like her sharp willow switch? 

When man gives up his right to cry, 

and I as man 

shall cry no more, 

then death 

in all its stillness 

shall have my heart. 


Presidentess 

Trying to seduce the first 

woman president of the 

U.S.A., 

being the cabin boy, 

I was informed by black 

telephone 

not hot-line red, 

that work comes first. 

So now I know 

what a lousy lover work is. 

NO COMMENT 

127

Humanity? 

Insatiable crew 

On the Ship of Fools 

Pulling in fish on starboard, 

Spilling their guts to port, 

You know it’s best to stop 

But can’t, 

But can’t, 

‘Cause it’s in your blood, 

It’s in your will 

To kill and kill and kill, kill, kill. 


Mountains 

How 

like 

a mountain range 

life can be: 

Never even, 

smooth, 

or placid, 

but filled with 

beguiling cascades 

that trill 

vigilance to sleep 

along the crumbling cliff walk 

where Anyone may 

tumbledown 

to smash 

upon the rocks. 

Awaken then, 

lick your wounds. 

All crippled 

still love 

in their own way. 

NO COMMENT 

129

Womb Wish 

I will be 

King or pauper, 

father or wretch, 

philanthropist or thief, 

lover or pimp, 

doctor or murderer, 

Priest or pedophile, 

but for a swig of Satan’s wine 

or a beacon’s glow from God. 


Wee Man #3: 

Vicar 

Instructor from god 

(your run-of-the-mill 

electromagnetic energy) 

is the too-many-word-filled mouth 

of the Wee Man, 

breaking silence 

with nag and command, 

vociferous wind. 

Bah! 

Pathetic pastor put 

him 

in the leather 

tag-along 

kid’s marble pouch 

of forgetfulness. 

NO COMMENT 

131


Taxi Ride 

God’s taxi, 

this church, 

(a half-way house ‘tween youth and grave) 

graced with snow 

and scented with 

cadaverous sighs, 

blind eyed 

heaven’s youth 

does time impenitent 

before the robed cabbie 

naming off the sights 

speeding by 

along the way to 

the 

air 

port. 


Unholy Prayer 

Churches! God, 

I love them all! 

They’re vacuums 

pulling on the happy chaff. 

Praise the Lord, 

who sweeps the world clean 

so there’s less in my way 

when I walk free. 


NO COMMENT 

133


CHAPTER 3 

PHOTOS FROM ID 


Photos from ID 

135

PHOTOS FROM ID 


Year 25 

Two manti 

preying; 

really only one, 

the mother-to-be 

female, 

upon the momentary father, 

the other, 

began to devour him, 

leg and shoulder, neck and head, 

one quarter gone, 

when wind, 

stunned by the sun, 

stumbled 

over the devouress, 

puffing her down 

among the lower 

branches, 

and him forsaken 

had three-fourths left 

to go 

and no head 

for direction. 



137

Look and See 

Gallant Fox bolts 

before the baying hounds. 

Brown grasses crackle 

before his orange flame 

burning for the sanctity 

of the river dell. 


Ode to e.e. 

Suppose the sun 

who 

pops up every morning from (godknowswhere) 

all goldandyellow 

decided (smilingandwarm) 

to give us whatfor! 

and 

being a balloon 

and very hot 

meltedBurst anddisappeared 

and left us all in darkness. 

Whatthen, 

huh? 


139

Squirrelly cad 

Slipping unseen, 

in his frogskin coat 

and furry coonskin cap, 

from the fatigued, hunt-swept 

woods, 

(he left them dripping sweat) 

and having withdrawn 

his hot sun of searching, 

he brought his skein 

of murdered squirrels 

to the town square 

and, 

entering the contest, 

won the title 

of 

The Great 

Master Trapper. 


Antarctic Expiration 

Those rock-stiff match-scratched hands 

fumbling through the snow 

for the blackheaded sizzling hope 

of life, 

ran molelishly beneath the snow 

as the unborn son 

of the last ditch fire 

sighed 

for rest 

as he fell in sleep 

beneath the fever blister cold. 


141

Rescued 

In the overflowing 

red brick down any town street firehouse 

of grinning 

rocking-chaired and pipe-pussed firemen, 

the false alarm of our love 

closed the latch 

over that sly elf, Fatality, 

before the lolling firemen 

got back their wits, 

boots, 

and chains, 

and trains of red trucks whined 

for traction on the streets, 

before they clanked suspenders fast 

and roared in the guise of mirth 

to our salvation. 


Peaceful Slumber? 

Though this scorpion be moonlit, 

reflecting warmth 

in her curled wand, 

I find it hard to fear 

her diminutive spit of poison 

unless, 

of course, 

I should be sleeping 

and she would sting me in the night. 


143

Bound Forever 

The back-and-forth slap of the wind, 

dressed in maniacal snowflakes, 

rattles tan-gray cornstalks 

against the dry, hard cob, 

rigid on a frozen stalk 

stiff against the push 

and shove 

of changing seasons. 


Baked 

Tumbling into 

the molasses pool of the sun 

The boys and girls and voluptuous mothers 

Of that freaking tide 

Stain brown 

as they swim 

In the sweltering stream of summer 

Which rages to an ocean 

of longing 

Beneath their leather 

white 

winter faces. 


145

The Proposal 

Or 

Lake Talk 

You, swan, 

there 

paddling; 

stay among my lily pads 

a while longer, 

and grace the blossoms 

grown to meet you 

until they wilt, 

until they die, 

stay a while gliding there. 



Toad 

Admire the ulcered toad 

(Doubly ugly for his bounce) 

Asleep in his precision, 

Unimpeachable and genuine. 

No questions asked. 

No errors made. 

A toad be a toad, 

Has warts, 

And ugliness 

Down to his toadish toes. 


147

Alpine Melody 

Speak of the mountain in Winter 

whose young winds 

wind down 

singing through the crags, 

“Have peace with one another,” 

pushing snow 

(a trillion twinkles) 

with delight 

upon our village below; 

its rushing hushing 

each transient madness 

to leave us wishing: 

how can it not be always so? 


Gone South 

Coagulated now 

the old man sits 

and hums 

(an electric raisin 

in the basting sun) 

mentally void 

with a distant comprehension 

of the yapping children’s 

crying dog 

jumping 

in the tufted nudity 

of his barren yard. 


149

Ancient Love 

The four quiet men 

sat 

while (which 

no one believed could ever happen) 

the dinosaurs of old came 

rumbling and swaying, 

their prehistoric 

marsh-slimed sides heaving, 

down between the eye-open walls 

of gaping city streets 

in Paris 

to kneel 

and kiss in swallowing 

the four drowsy men, 

one of whom 

had one eye 

open 

and saw the teeth of love descending. 


Backwoods Birthing 

Whispering winded, 

cricket hummed and bullfrog mounted, 

in her stilted shack, 

bare-bulbed 

and back-woods hidden, 

with an automobiling tire scream 

(unanesthetized) 

her quivering flanks give way 

to the warped compulsion 

of the instantaneous deflation, 

the singular spaghetti man; 

her slippery-sided child-boy. 



151

Caught by Surprise 

When the first spring day (pogo-like) jumps 

Into the whistle-stop station of the morning, 

Squealing its steelwheels 

into reverse 

And smoking (squashing 

Children’s track-top pennies with glee 

hee 

hee 

hee) 

Tostop Intime Andnotmiss 

The moment of delivery, 

All the fools 

And wherever-you-want-it tumbledown baggage 

Wrangle themselves free 

To lie whispily twisted 

Like winter’s last gasp snow drifts 

On the wildflower grown 

and rabbit-ear-tickled 

platform of this day, 

Until the egg yolk sun 

From the downtown saloon of summer 

Brings mellow Yellow drinks 

Of charcoal filtered 

Peace and pleasure aged in wood 

for 

all. 


Vehicular Eyes 

I have pulled up next to you. 

In silence, 

through the glass, 

I see your sounds. 

You see my sights; 

and now I have caught you, 

old one, 

but will not chastise you, 

for we are even now, 

for just this while. 

We will start from go 

to follow down this road 

expecting each to turn away 

next instant 

our faces 

or our vehicles of travel. 

You were singing when I saw you. 

Now you stare; 

I’ve stopped your song. 

So let me listen 

to your wordless mind 

stretched with song 

but not my life. 

And now the light is green. 

We saw each other, 

I pray, in peace 

before we go 

go go go go 

go. 


153

Free Danger 

I sitting bare-arsed 

Straw-hatted 

On the lion’s tongue prior 

to engulfment 

Before the shimmering teeth 

(bars before my hungry eyes) chewing 

At the navel dead center 

Of your affections, 

Sister Freedom 

I love you 

Because your love is rifle fast 

And on my side. 


Scramble 

Skittering down the humpback driveway, 

master-pulled and digging in, 

Doggie came with feet aligned 

for duty to his bowels – salut! 

His leashed looks elongating 

the anguished hoots 

of his owl-faced 

and sweaty eyed leash-leader, 

they 

hurrying, 

surpassed only by 

the skittering turdies 

flung on down the humpback way. 


155

Boring 

I am clown much less today; 

I play my fiddle best 

in second chair. 

But I do twang well 

when the leader says 

“Band play!” 

So I play my lazy tune 

in second chair 

to put the band to sleep 

to put the hall 

town 

world to sleep 

to put my queen to sleep, 

alas. 


DC Trauma 

Sobbing on the bench 

at water’s edge 

at cherry blossom time, 

sobbing in terror 

of the ghosts crawling 

from a child’s toy box scorched by fire, 

the gun will jump 

from his briefcase 

excising his heart 

without pain 

when he wants it 

so badly 

to pacify his history. 


157

Upset 

In the squirming flight 

of a frightened midnight moth 

this airborne worm 

burns its paper wings 

as it curls and dives 

about these campfire candles 

aglow like love 

but dancing madly 

in a wild bonfire of jealousy. 


Wee Man #7: 

Enlightenment 

What should I see? 

Having been careful not to, 

I climb into the 

laboratory centrifuge tube, 

a cultured matter 

seeking separation under 

the spinning of electromagnetic 

forces 

at the heart 

of the motor 

shocking 

to be stripped of culture, 

and find what matters. 


159

London Fog 

Mother whispers to the world, 

“I can take you all away 

still, 

though you should scratch my skin 

with highways, 

urinate on me from factories, 

and raise carbuncular citied rashes 

on my skin.” 


Her damp breath whispers this 

when abusing fog sequesters me, 

and all our towers 

are surely swept away 

though I stand where buses used to roam. 

I am left 

alone 

to plead forgiveness. 


1859 Photo 

Frontier farm fatality, 

worn thin 

as an old leather belt 

driving the steam thresher, 

steam fagged out, 

left his cadaver cantilevered 

on the kitchen table, 

awaiting the drunken photographer 

summoned 

to immortalize the sober scene 

for the mortalized sobbing family; 

ignorant flies humming numbly 

dog watching, wonder sniffing 

the breeze 

of dust swirling transience. 


161

The Orange 

Psst! 

Come here and look a minute. 

There upon the ground 

It lies upon its side 

And points a nippled face at us 

To say 

Come peel my amply bulging hide. 

And see another dangling there, 

I almost beg a breath of air 

To strip its twig 

And bring it bouncing down to us. 

Doubtless their taste is fine 

Behind the fleshy bubbled skin. 


Christmas Snow 

Like so many paper cutouts, 

spilled in joy by God’s children, 

snow swings down 

(pixies on the stiff, cold air) 

chattering loudly 

(or so it seems) 

against the still arms 

of the slumbering oak 

ash 

and maple tree, 

taking rest 

on the fallen leaves 

swept away to forgetfulness 

by the magic white. 

(A holiday draught of dreams) 


163

St. Catherine’s Monastery 

or 

Monk Heads 

See you, 

they are all the same; 

peel back the skin 

with eternity 

and gaze upon their sameness. 

Feel you 

amid the pile 

how each mind was like the other, 

and each hollow eye 

was blind to it, 

and hailed the confusion 

of superiority. 

Hear you 

no bottomless mouth 

can intone the cadence 

with its black breath 

of how one word is greater. 

Smell you 

among this heap 

of monk bones dust; 

the scent on one side of the mountain 

recalls the breezes of the other 

filled with the must of perpetuity. 

Taste you 

nothing; 

for the flavor of their lives is gone. 


St. Catherine’s 

Monastery or 

Monk Heads 



165


CHAPTER 4 

1970s NYC 


1970s NYC 

167

1970s NYC 


NYC Underbelly #1 

Russian Doll 

Effortlessly bending, 

handily piercing 

the tangled and corroding trash, 

mercifully trapped 

in 

the 

big 

trash 

can, 

Bartholomew stands 

bent, 

the 

big 

trash 

man, 

mercifully trapped 

in 

the 

big 

city 

can, 

whose buildings stand tall 

in 

the 

big 

trash 

land. 


1970s NYC 

169


His Mrs. 

Jellious-breasted Bartholomew’s baby 

rocks undead as a nodding guard 

beneath the squirm of the city square 

below the glass-eyed city walls 

seeking tongue-hungry a meaning for life. 

The melancholy madam lives 

scumming through life on poverty waves. 





Wrecked 

I sat for years 

watching 

the New York City freighttrain 

S. quirting 

O. ff the tracks of sense 

S. quealing 

toward the brick wall of my mind 

smashing 

through the fortress of my soul 

welding 

to the granite of my brain 

leaving 

me henceforth 

smoking. 

1970s NYC 

171



Existence 

Radio 

Rasping its sterile sound 

Around the absent-minded 

Direction 

Of thunderclapping 

Citified man wrap- 

Ping my ears in a cochleal fuzz 

Perpetual buzz 

Aroma rich sandified air 

Smell the grit 

Of the munchable breeze. 



Subway 

The mechanical mole 

threads the nervous underbelly 

along the intestinal tract 

below the building-nippled city 

rushing through bacterial swill 

quaking the innards 

and shuddering 

the pencil-cracked 

packed concrete 

steaming 

below the heat 

of the Mayoral Vision, 

our only rolling prison. 


1970s NYC 

173


Tin Cup 

The BMT handrail tin cup man, 

clacking 

for the sunlight in your veins, 

had never asked his mother 

who so long sang 

for the sunlight in his veins 

if songs will do the holding, 

if songs will make the sunshine bright. 

The metal of his few-coined cup 

jingles in the clasp 

of a gelatin hand outstretched 

quaking. 





Drugged 

Pieced together 

as a Frankenstinian mind, 

a small boy wanders 

into Adulthood, 

yawning, 

because he's done it all before 

at speed. 

1970s NYC 

175



Bathtub 

Gasping on water 

warping his life 

to make the desolate turn 

toward death, 

a heroin-yellowed 

vision 

of his vibrating image 

darkened on the bathtub floor 

intrigued the limpid mind 

and keeper 

of his weighty lungs 

just before this human bobber 

soddenly tugged 

at the drunken counterpart 

of life 

passing underwater 

through the incandescently 

peeling tenement W.C. 



Overdose 

And the beat goes on 

as the meticulous addict-master 

nominates his vein canal 

and interjects a freaking fluid 

between mind and its nobility 

persuading thus 

the bodily sponge 

to constipate and oversleep 

the rhythm 

of his hearty life. 


1970s NYC 

177


The Perpetual 

Businessman 

The intentional holiday festoons 

of his bone-bleached beached 

island 

wipe the mud man’s 

gargoylish edi-face soapily 

free of a millionaire’s drudge, 

supplying membranous permanence 

to the stagnant quality 

of his corrupted peace. 




Prayer Before the Macy’s 

Widow Creche 

Jesus, damn you’re cute, 

with that sticky-outy straw stuck all over 

them damn swaddlin’ clothes. 

Hey, you know what’s in store for you, man? 

It ain’t gonna be pretty. 

But it’ll be magic! 

Along the way, makin’ the blind see, 

the crippled walk, 

the dead live, 

and a couple of flippin’ fish into a banquet for thousands? 

You were the best! 

You taught us to be above the animals 

but not everybody heard, 

and they been fightin’ 

among their selves ever since. 

But you the leader, man! 

You studied up 

on what the prophets wanted, 

and you did it – pulled it off; 

all them signs! 

Ridin’ in on the donkey – now that really got ‘em. 

Everybody swooned – well almost everybody. 

The Romans took notice 

and they wondered. 

The Jews were just hacked though; 

1970s NYC 

179

jealous as all get out. 

Sold you down the river, they did. 

But you showed ‘em in the end. 

Dad split their temple, 

and brought it right down, HA! 

Take that, Bozos! 

But damn, man! 

Why did you have to put yourself through that agony? 

I cry and feel sick each time I think about it. 

You had our hearts and heads without dat, man! 

You didn’t have to. 

We believed, 

those who got what you said. 

We woulda followed for years, 

and did, don’t ya see? 

It’s been going on for two-thousand years. 

You didn’t have to get stripped, whipped, 

nailed and stabbed! 

God, we loved you! Still do! 

You have our confidence. 

You are the greatest con man. 




End 

And the (last gasp) Golden Hand 

came up 

squeezing the (last beat) Busted Heart 

into forced ejaculation 

of its garnet glistening worth 

within the copper wire canopy of 

green 

corroding 

air 

weaving from the smokestack 

of the greatest (urine) nation. 

1970s NYC 

181


CHAPTER 5 

EUPHORIA-MELANCHOLIA 


Euphoria-Melancholia 

183

EUPHORIA-MELANCHOLIA 


Leukemia 

Death finds this boy 

shopping for music 

and dreaming 

of Christmas gifts 

to give 

and get. 

Death takes this boy 

unaware 

before his melody 

winds down 

to muffled cries 

of regret. 


185

Furious Moon 

I had longed to move away 

from the hiss and crackle 

of the serpent’s lie, 

to rebel against its smoldering flame, 

clouding vision, 

choking mind, 

hiding dawn. 

I had longed to move away 

from night, 

afraid to die 

half convention and half lie, 

bound by the serpent ‘twined 

upon my strangled soul. 

So sought I the full moon’s rage, 

reflected fury of the sun, 

and by the deluge of its light, 

stilled the hiss and crackle, 

sent fire to smoke 

dissolved the serpent’s twine. 

Gracious is the fury of the moon. 


Houseman 

Even the rock house, 

three generations thick, 

wind-lashed on the bluff 

says, “Goodbye,” 

as frost peels each stone away 

sending chill creeping in 

where mortar once had 

held the cold at bay. 

Weather seeps in 

filling corners first 

with winter’s rush 

and comes one veiled day 

to swirl ash beneath 

a last long fire 

beating up the flue. 

A man within 

feeds flames futilely 

‘til all wood is burned 

and standing he must sit 

and sitting he must lie 

and lying he must swirl 

beneath the long fire 

beating up the flue 

before the seeping chill. 


187

Progression 

My young men and ladies 

Shall have their dreams, 

Shall have their loves, 

Shall have their schemes, 

And never let their hearts go freer. 

My men and ladies, 

Throwing their pulses together 

Beyond the woven gates of skirts, 

Shall only tear their wings 

At the end of the boiling flight. 

My old men and scanty ladies, 

Falling upon each other for the last time, 

Wet each other’s backs with tears of longing 

For the days 

When green sun burned long and gay 

And bones did not fear a coming joust with earth. 


Cycle 

I On came 

the magic Osterizer Death 

dissolving time away from her 

to liquefy 

her patent impulse, 

joining 

many in a conglomerate whirr 

confusing life with lives exiled, 

removing 

her selected warmth from me. 

II And on came 

the magic Apprentice Life 

damply arrayed 

in naked flamboyancy 

squealing forth the splashing sounds 

of a princess eager 

for the Oster crown. 


189

Hiroshima 

Changeling 

Within 

are fogs and dust 

suspended in 

luminescence 

from sunlight 

shining through my skin. 

Climb in 

and see 

there’s naught 

but gentle sparkling 

dust left 

inside of me. 


Lost Youth 

You can’t raise Tripp’s blood up 

from out the soil where it has gone 

like so much rain 

into the mother sponge. 

Bring your lips down instead 

and kiss the life lost there. 



191

Tiptoe Queen #2: 

Directions 

The bumper pool dancer 

unscrewing 

twirls down tunnels of 

various 

direction 

pleading “None be endless, 

let me sail 

on my racing sloop will 

out the end of a trombone bell” 

spins 

the Tiptoe Queen crying. 


Circus Tale 

Unreachable she now, 

he then, 

calamity blew down, 

a witless wind, 

blowing the cover off 

their souls 

bubbling up 

in truculent depravity 

laid down abusedly 

by roaring, sneers and swipes. 

Safely unreachable, scarred 

lioness and lion locked lie 

in their cages 

protected from reachable love. 


193

Brotherhood 

Mortality is our sad brotherhood 

that peels generations down, 

exfoliating layered ages 

to dust upon the ground 

amid buttercups watered by tears 

from forlorn bleeding hearts 

deaf to the angels’ cheers. 


Anger 

Who places honor 

on this diseased monk 

infected with rage, 

subtly spreading contagion 

to your mallow will 

unjustly, 

undeservedly, 

unsolicited? 

Flatterers or fools, 

you swing affection on a string, 

and it tangles in my hair! 

I caught must reflect your 

beaming! 

(Thank God.) 


195

Floor Allegory 

There is a spot of soil upon this floor, 

a stain set down years ago 

that tarnishes the beauty of the wood 

we laid working side-by-side as a team of lovers 

bent on laying a solid floor for our naked feet. 

So how now do we fix this stain soaked deep? 

A coat of paint just will not do, 

for eventually it would wear through, 

and there before our eyes 

the stain would glower up 

old shapes of what had died. 

Shall we then not look down ever again? 

Out of sight is out of mind they say. 

But out of sight perpetuates a lie 

that the stain is gone when it’s there each day. 

And how would we manage littler spills upon the floor 

(when stooping to mop them up reveals the dreaded blot)? 

They must be cleaned, and quickly too, 

lest they become another stain clear through. 

Shall we bare the surface of the floor, 

and stain it equal to the tarnished place? 

That would surely block the view, 

and help us forget where blight was laid. 

Yet a broadened change of hue 

would only slap our hearts and minds 

with recollections of the stain left behind. 

No, I believe the only way to cure the stain, 


working side-by-side as a team of lovers once again, 

is to tear away the old wood floor, 

(a handy bonfire it will make) 

and lay some solid tile there; 

strong ceramic glazed and glowing, 

impervious to soil, 

and reflective of our smiles pleased 

from hard work done well 

on our hands and knees. 


197

Ummm… 

Die tomorrow? 

Deny me why 

a pleasure of today, 

your hay 

drop-knocked 

by rain quivering 

‘round the flagpole base, 

pennant stately furiously 

flapping 

from 

a doom storm brewing? 

Or stay inside drying, 

watching, 

joy by 

race by 

on down wind pushed by 

a doom storm brewing? 

My thoughts clandestine then 

dreamt ecstasy; 

parched 

now 

wither 

with 

me. 


Wee Man #5: 

The Supplicant 

Wishing only that 

a directive from my blowing 

tongue 

should make a billowing in your 

wind-hungry sail of a will, 

I remain 

your 

Henry IX, 

Wee Man the Uncountable 

in my crown of red velvet 

and tin tinkle bells 

with scepter of candy cane stripes. 


199

Breath of Distance 

I would like to see you young again 

from behind 

in morning 

when you have not seen me for who I am 

but who you thought 

before deception 

(or so you claim) 

brought views intolerable. 


standing on a glowing ocean dune 

wind gliding on your flowered skirt 

shadows absent of the thicker years; 

I far back to be unseen 

a passerby 

in admiration wishing 

yet urged by the wise breeze 

to drift back into the maw of town. 



where I could drift 

and you stand fast 

a vacancy between 

long before our passion crashed 

from love to foamed malignity. 


Ode to ‘68 (In Disguise) 

We saying 

our evening of questionable 

capability 

being over, 

leaves us blushing, 

wondering 

what freight-train-over-head-rumbling 

apprehension 

had the power 

to spill the tower 

and leave us babbling 

from terrors 

doomed to the impotency 

of lost civility? 


201

Grandfather 

Gulls buoyed above signify 

the ocean’s rest to sanctify 

my grandfather, 

letting me drum my voice 

against his ears gone ash, 

my peristaltic phrasings let him know 

and let him know 




the sun was more than morning bright 

before his eyes shut out its light. 


Worthless 

As charismatic 

as a leppered dwarf 

sealed in an alabaster block 

painted flat black and 

buried out of sight 

in a pasture mined 

with cow pies, 

I evaporate 

from your mind. 


203

Dandelion Man 

The dandelion man 

(in brief ) 

grew quick from a nub 

against the wind and rain, 

and fighting, 

felt his head 

turn fragile white 

to be swept away 

from a wrinkled stalk. 


Mind 

Beware what swims 

at the nerve ends 

within, 

blocked from the light 

by the skull lost in night. 

Wait, 

and the fresh dew 

of a new vision 

will glisten in the cave 

at first light. 


205

Addiction 

In your high place Lady, 

your mister robs my pockets, 

carves away a bit 

(tiny chunk) 

of your soul 

where flies now lie 

in youth 

feasting on the wealth of love that 

used to fill that space (tiny chink). 

Lady, your mister leaves tracks 

of white dust 

that be 

our 

ashes. 


Ned & Nellie 

Ned said to Nellie, 

“I do not play with you enough 

but look away at coming war 

and sink 

and sink 

and sink 

to melancholy. 

The stake of fear in me has wounded you 

when rather should I 

have draped garlands upon our bed. 

Can you forgive me, 

and grant us bliss again through talk 

and laughter, 

play, 

and quiet love all day? 


207

Conception 

Calm, 

kissproof at the first, 

I play at your mouth, 

skinning down the cool 

of the leaf-clattered autumnal dusk, 

humbly laboring. 

Holy serpents plaguing nightfall, 

bid we farewell to upright stance, 

and 

crawl 

credit poor toward chrysalis wealth, 

warming flanks through 

jumbled fabric and 

consumptive meadows. 

We hurry 

down life’s corridor 

until we climb the pinnacle to 

explosion, 

vaulting time 

in scrambled disarray, 

to order 

one 

petrified, 

elongated second of heritage, 

engraving life 

with the ornateness of paradise. 


Tarnished 

“There will be other summers,” 

Mabel said to me, 

(Yes, there may be 

I acknowledged feebly) 

“when poison in my head 

no longer taints my lusty dreams.” 

( Just venom in your heart 

de-sheens our radiant love scenes.) 

“and I will see the knight of nights 

polished, buffed again, and clean.” 


209

Cold End 

Walking out 

on this night of terrors dark, 

cold winds blue down 

the fire in his cheeks, 

and stroke away 

the screaming heralds 

from his ears 

‘til both be lost 

in the chill whisper 

of passion’s demise. 

Clear ice 

spreads broad 

over Summer’s 

vibrant pond. 


Coma 

Have you met an angel there? 

Discoursed soft in silence kept? 

How were you anointed so? 

Eager man from neophyte to sage, 

on white cotton in silence flow 

through simplicity to sagacity. 

Wake and show us how to hold 

emptiness 

teach us how to guard our time; 

to plum the well of love; 

and cross the shadowed chasm 

of despair. 

Ryan silent 

brave sleeper, 

gift giver 

of love, 

you have tilled 

the soil of souls. 


211

Urban Escapee 

Selfish man! 

(forester extraordinaire) 

Happy wanderer, 

held by the traffic 

of catapulting salmon, 

night’s owl-boss 

scolding your lantern, 

escaped the predatory strife 

and collective wits 

of glistening ants. 

Oh, you, 

un-lose yourself 

from among the leaves and twigs! 

Come back! 

Contend, 

and be sad with us. 


Against All Odds 

Green grasses, 

grown stiff 

and strong that 

freshest of early springs, 

perished 

in an autumn blaze set 

as two campers tired slept. 

The fertile meadow met demise. 

Years later, 

scorched shrubs and trees 

renewing 

to the yearning 

of the sun, 

throbbing life again 

against cyclic palpitations 

pushed 

the new green grasses 

up, 

and Nature stirred 

to move her hands 

in applause, 

for it was winter. 

Green grasses 

grow against all odds. 


213

Visiting at Love’s End 

The sun today 

has buried itself in mud 

so that all who clothed themselves 

in barbed wire 

may let the painful armor 

uncurl 

unseen 

in this night of needing 

where the black moon 

remains 

to illuminate 

their affections. 


Melting 

When it happens, 

spiders die beneath the skullcap. 

Their webs go up in flame. 

The fire and pulse of light 

burns away the lies. 

The bottled heat 

melts waxen eyes 

to tears, 

and he cries. 


215

Starbuck Away 

Going sailing. 

Going whaling. 

Going sailing and whaling both together, 

I curly-haired black and blue-eyed go 

down the town its veins of streets 

to meet 

the vessels at the quays 

on this day, 

before 

fluff-bellied gulls 

ruffle their down 

as their vulture eyes 

chant unspoken songs of China 

to 

me. 


CHAPTER 6 

BEYOND 40 


Beyond 40 

217

BEYOND 40 


Daughter 

I am 

a slow stream narrow, 

and you 

the flat stone thrown 

skipping 

across my surface. 

Sometimes I see you. 

Sometimes you bounce 

against my surface. 

Too soon 

we end 

our touch-and-splash game, 

and you find 

the opposite bank, 

and I flow away 

looking back 

where your ripple 

used to be. 


Beyond 40 

219

Arguments 

Swallowed 

went each one counted 

registered 

ticked away 

on the abacus of lines 

about my eyes, 

flowing 

as alpine rivers 

in chills 

over our downstream waltz. 

A death of vows by drowning. 


Long Roll 

Long rolls drum 

in my age of veins, 

rumbling from familiarity 

through causeways circuited to fatality. 

Each beat moves the mystery 

past merit to mediocrity, 

pounding out why red deeds lay congealed, 

in cans concealed in the basement store. 

I running before the last surge sounds 

at each quick turn of the circuit seek 

a course astern the howling worms teeth 

back to where brave eulogies root. 

Shall there be more pulse and time 

with courage, wit and skill 

to slay shabby biography 

and plant an oak upon its hill? 

Beyond 40 

221

Parched 

This well gone dry 

needs rains 

to come down upon it 

and fill it 

to overflowing 

so that 

it may bring 

moist lips of love 

to lands surrounding 

where only cacti thrive, 

spines taunting 

a molten steel sky ignited 

by a negligent god, 

forgetting his children 

are wet inside, 

survive and thrive 

on more than apples. 


The Keeping Room 

From your high young tree, 

Wild Man come down. 

The wind and howl 

of your melancholy descent 

exploding dry twigs 

(crisp leaves scurry to flight) 

shames the storms 

I send 

to warn 

of winter’s stillness. 

Come down 

into my keeping room 

where others slip 

from flesh 

to dust. 


Beyond 40 

223

It’s a Carnival 

Carnival day dawned 

bright and clear as a clown’s eye; 

bunting fluttering a-beckoning 

over its portal gate. 

We children grew to love that day 

through donkey rides 

and tilt-a-whirls, 

marksmanship and fishing for pearls. 

Some were strong enough 

to ring the bell 

and chide the devil’s house 

tangled corridors of fear. 

Others met him with their screams 

and sought to find 

the ending light; 

a promise of peace alluring. 

Yes, we children grew to love that day 

taking sight of ourselves 

in warped and swollen mirrors, 

future-flections that came to be. 


We were jazz dancers, 

gorged now like rats 

warped and swollen 

on carnival waste. 

Aw heck, it’s just a long day filled 

with cheap thrills 

before we go home 

for the longer night. 


Cereal Bowl 

I in a bowl 

must seem to be 

not free 

to slosh about and play. 

I and cornflakes 

going soft 

with aged warming milk 

at prey, 

prepping us you see 

to mush 

for a golden spoon 

to take away. 

Beyond 40 

225

The Mirror 

Tell me who Where-is-he went, 

for I’m to find the man 

of glass; 

brittle, 

prone 

to crack 

in heat 

and dark, 

a crisp illusion 

who’s left is right; 

looking back backwards, 

conjuring confusion, 

for what we see 

isn’t, 

must be. 


Closet Cure 

It’s dark 

inside the closet 

filled with 

rusting muskrat traps, 

your dusty wedding veil, 

the binding pin 

returned, 

stolen-by-night 

lane change signs 

pointing 

the wrong way; 

a box of children lost, 

another of children past, 

with nary a whisk broom 

to be found. 

And so the door 

is closed 

to keep 

the dark 

from coming out 

to unshine 

on this day. 

Beyond 40 

227

Lost and Found 

What architect dreamed and drew 

a boy like me 

with a girl like you 

facing north, 

facing south, 

on opposite sides of the city, 

beyond the looping “el,” 

satchelized and searching 

through greasy streets smothered 

in bellowing vendors’ calls: 

“Take me, buy me, use me!” 

all for the price of time? 

What architect napped 

while his blueprint faded 

in broad day away 

and a brush of soot 

turned the eyes 

and a coat of grime 

tarnished the sheen 

(of those seekers he dreamed and drew) 

and set them reeling. 

Curse the architect who woke 

at night 

and drew them dusty down entwined 

before switching off 

his workbench light. 


Truth? 

He longs to move 

from this dry feast 

and leave the wily creatures 

alone to swill their final drops of wine 

and crack with snarled voices 

lies to hold tomorrow still. 

He longs to move 

but will not grieve 

should some last sip 

stun the drinkers dumb 

and sponge the air all free of lies, 

lies that burned his face and skin, 

that scorched his throat 

and burnished his loves with soot. 

Beyond 40 

229

Wardrobes 

This tall, antique wardrobe 

Has a musty smell 

With thick, rich wood of darkened rose 

Graced by nicks and wear 

Of years gone by, 

Showing stately character flawed 

Through heavy use. 

Hinges murmur from old agonies. 

It stands ready still. 

So old. 

So familiar. 

This new wardrobe 

Of equal breadth and height 

Has a fresh wood scent 

But stands with simpler form 

Unencumbered by age’s blight. 

It’s lustrous finish lacks a scratch; 

Supple hinges whisper promise 

Of years to pass before a squeal. 

It stands ready now. 

So new. 

So unfathomable. 

I shall use the older one 

And leave the other for my son. 


Cold and Done 

Let him live clean 

and safe 

he wants to live clean 

and safe 

no touch, no soil 

actions straight and clear 

what’s expected only 

an automaton running off springs 

the same and predictable 

no shock to anyone 

especially me 

so safely simple 

boring 

trustworthy 

something that can be left behind 

without fear abandoned 

a self fulfilling prophecy 

of wallpaper in place 

uncomplaining 

steady, bland and ignored 

easy to leave behind 

as has been done before 

always 

when you go out the door 

mindless of what 

no longer makes a fuss 

and deserves no more 

nor wants 

any more. 

Beyond 40 

231

Safety Check 

Roaring by 

red eyes agog, 

screaming with impatience, 

I stop to see 

if I’m the choice 

today. 

But no, 

my corpse-a-future motors off 

the other way 

free 

for one more day. 


Winterman 

Winterman, 

yearn you now 

for softness, over bone? 

With ice about, 

how rushes your stream? 

Inside, 

do shadows love your heart? 

Winterman, 

on this day of cold, 

snow missiles match 

your white of chin 

and 

I 

fear the wearing 

of your overcoat. 


Beyond 40 

233

Winter Hike 

Winter leaf, 

summer’s skeleton, 

scratches along 

behind 

borne on the 

exhausted exhalation 

of a year’s breath, 

as I ahead 

still strive up 

my mountain this 

chill winter 

uncaught. 


One Away 

Spooning up, 

up here 

in Maine, 

he is deaf to 

male moose mauling 

each other to death, 

coast crumbling 

under a tidal crash, 

forest gore gushing 

from the coyote’s jaw. 

Not even wails from 

Washington, 

Wall Street 

or the dying 

washer woman 

next door 

reach his peaceful ear. 

He only hears 

a sobbing siren 

wafting from 

a Florida ambulance 

charging up the coast 

that 

took one day 

his Louise 

away. 

Beyond 40 

235

Lucy 

Lucy by the marsh didn’t know, 

but Crusaders did, 

that life was thin 

like a sparrow babe’s shell 

before the wind, 

very thin, 

very thin, 

a crushable thing. 

Who can list the names 

of crusader soldiers brave? 

Oh, they’re lost, 

deeds done, 

shells gone, 

before the wind. 

Armor thick, 

lives so thin go 

to stories without hum 

unheard unless 

a wind tells us: 

Whoooshhh, “life is thin.” 

A love, a joy, a glory fire, 

burned once dies away 

to ash among the grass 

near where 

two sparrow shells lie. 

Once a flare, it matters none 

to no one 

but the sticks consumed, 

for dust will be the larger end 

of stone or raucous flame. 


Parenthood 

-- or -- 

Pin the tail on the donkey 

Untutored hands strike indelibly 

unintentionally 

branding blindly 

the donkey on the wall. 

Years of eyes put out, 

tongue slashed, 

mind pierced 

‘til its wits leak out, 

lets the image of this donkey 

hang against the wall, 

limp and lost, 

having lost its bray, 

aimlessly flapping in the breeze 

come in from the window 

on a warm spring day, 

branded everywhere by 

tales and needles; 

festering 

in an empty house. 

Beyond 40 

237

Night Chatter 

Asked the man, 

“Spattered fingerpaint of night sky, 

anyone up there can tell me why 

a downslope man 

drags dreams along? 

Oh say, worms, burrowed below the headstone, 

is it worth the stay 

bashing and gnashing 

‘til the Cool Hand smooths my earth?” 

Said the spattered sky, 

“Only if the skiff you’re in 

rocks on the belly of a gentle bay 

where her eyes glisten from every wave.” 

Said the worms, 

“And only if you two 

are a one so tight 

we cannot chew the bond.” 

“If so, then drag and go 

‘til the Cool Hand lays you down,” 

sang a chorus of stars and trees. 


Grandma Wanda 

What did you tell me, 

plump with flesh and blood? 

Your lecture hall was kitchen 

and chalk a wooden spoon, 

eloquence stained your aprons. 

“Stick to it,” whispered wrists 

turning oranges hollow in succession 

on a fluted glass bowl. 

“Age builds deeper love. 

Care shows it. Listening gives it,” 

loud eyes said, 

“and there’s no world 

outside where fools dance 

that can match the sanity here.” 

“And one day you will be me, 

center of the realm, anchor of the name, 

for time is thin as paper, 

memory rigid as a dream, 

your push a passing fog 

swept aside by swirling steam.” 

Beyond 40 

239

Hedgerow 

Buried in this dying hedgerow 

are faces full of crying; 

caught in snares 

of gaunt grey twigs, 

brown, crisp beards 

of dying leaves 

adorn gaping mouths 

crossed in terror 

lest love not 

fall in and be consumed 

this time 

as I pass by 

the hedgerow 

of my younger days. 



The Beckoning of 

9-11-2001 

Come. 

It’s left to us now, 

with frivolity swept away. 

It’s left to us now 

the complex act of love; 

our resurrection against sadness, 

our construction against collapse, 

our joined skins moist armor 

against disaster hovering 

beyond our bedchamber door. 

There can be no insurrection against love 

‘though states succumb to war. 

Constant is the seed and core 

of pulsing humanity 

and inhumanity 

in our union 

and in their union 

so to repopulate the Earth 

with sanity 

and with insanity 

we believe 

and they know. 

Beyond 40 

241

Cynical Futilist 

Individualist 

Nursery school showed us skeletons inside 

to teach how flesh was hung outside, 

to make our picture for all to see 

(“better than a classic tapestry”) 

couldn’t fool me. 

Tommy dolted on the facts. 

(he would) 

Patsy giggled and hardly knew. 

(she would) 

I wondered how the hinges held; 

what type of door had let us in; 

what type of door would let us out. 


CHAPTER 7 

GRANDPA SPEAKING 


Grandpa Speaking 

243

GRANDPA SPEAKING 



“If you give me a second, 

Boy, 

and I wring my brain 

like a wet washcloth, 

There 

will come a flood 

of memories of longer days that 

Must 

have been longer, 

because it takes so much longer to 

Have 

a laugh build, burst, and bubble away 

than it does to shed a tear that’s 

Been 

flung out on the bullwhip of snapped emotions. 

I’m sure there’s at least 

One 

good old time of joy. 

Just let me wring the last 

Raindrop 

from this brain and then we’ll just 

set ‘em up and look ‘em over and see which 

Of 

them is best at making us 

laugh now - again - when we need 

Happiness 

on this day of bad weather 

when I don’t like being shut 

In 

and when my right ankle squeals again 

from the dancing axe. I thought it was 

All 


245

over for walking. But the doc 

had mortared up much worse than 

This 

and we thought 

it would mend up fine over 

Time, 

but it pains on bad days. Still, don’t be 

impatient; just give me another second, 

Please?” 




In the Wake: 

A Neighbor’s Narrative 

She loved that fence 

with its white gate. 

Asked me to build it, 

she did, 

and I did. 

White pickets, 

endless soldiers guarding our sanctuary 

with their friendly dull spears, 

For this was where 

we kept ourselves, 

Her love for me 

and mine for her, 

Wedding us more tightly than anyone could know. 

Took us a long time of dancing and parading 

around with other folks, 

before we saw what we had. 

Each of us got lost, 

Befuddled on the straight path parents lay 

through the forest 

for their kids to find the way. 

Kept us apart for awhile. 

Then we found us, 

like suddenly lifting a rock 

and finding the worm of love 

Still there 

guarding the gem of your heart 

for someone to find. 

And she did mine 

and I did hers. 

We’d seen them before, 


247

those gems, you know, 

but couldn’t believe they were real 

‘cause nothing 

had ever shined so bright and true. 

So we put ‘em under a rock. 

Then, like special things put in special places, 

we lost track of them 

and the rock 

for quite too long a time. 

If they weren’t true gems, 

the bugs would eat ‘em anyway. 

But those gems were too hard 

and bright and true 

for bugs 

and decay 

to take away. 

So we brought ‘em home 

here to our cottage 

and put ‘em on the mantle for all to see 

who had the eyes to see 

as we had seen. 

Wood rots, you know; 

balsa fast, 

pine slower, 

maple hardly at all at first 

but then it’ll go too. 

And all three did. 

But glorious gems stay forever, 

And she was my gem, 

sure enough! 

And what’s so lucky about it all 

is that I was her gem – 

Should say “is” and “am” though, 

For we know our gems mated 

into one great big diamond 

we’ll always know to find. 

She’s out looking for it now. 


I walked her to the gate in our picket fence, 

I cradled her face in my hands, 

let her through 

where pickets curve down 

like a hammock cradling. 

her soft cheeks felt 

one last time, 

her never-say-die smile 

branded in my eyes. 

“Goodbye,” I said. “I love you.” 

“I know. See you soon, sweetie.” 

“You bet.” 

Then she went to find that diamond 

and I closed the gate 

for a short time more. 

In the Wake: A 

Neighbor’s Narrative 



249

Passed 

At this age, 

Mother’s touch, 

first love puppy, 

Summer’s warmth, 

supple fingers, 

blushing cheeks, 

beauty in the mirror, 

your affection, 

and 

the kiss of dreams 

are over. 


No 

Your cane crouches 

ashamed 

in the corner 

for having taken you 

into eternity. 

I bury it behind 

the open door, 

an unwelcome intruder 

into my living space 

of green deeds, 

blue longing, and 

red visions 

dropped, 

poured, 

splashed 

down to bind 

black canvas yearning. 


251

Farewell Love 

“It’s 

one of my great pleasures 

that brings at last 

Most 

depth and richness to my life, 

and I never thought it 

Likely 

to be surrounded by 

little grandchildren. 

I’ll 

love you with abandon 

in my gray fuzzy way, 

Never 

letting you know the butterflies 

of joy swirling inside my tummy. 

Get 

close to me now 

oh, rascals mine 

To 

hear my grandpa’s heart sing 

an aria of longing; 

See 

my eyes x-ray your play 

into what’s left of my mind. 

You 

should stay free, gay, un-tormented 

innocent of horror, 

Old 

stale agonies fed from one age 

to another unrealized. 

My 

progeny will know joy and peace 

as long as I can smooth the way. 

Children, 

oh play to the end of days!” 


Sons & Daughters 

Not like a worm, no, 

nor a bird in frost, 

will you leave so quick. 

But you will walk 

when I cannot 

and mate into a future 

I will know not. 

So I’ll leave my hat 

upon the wall 

for you to see 

come next fall, 

when you return 

to see your mum 

with whom 

we were so very young. 

Our longing is no fantasy 

and 

love the true reality. 


253

Evaporation 

Forlorn Mountain pond 

at meadow’s edge 

(collecting water fruit 

from an ancient seep) 

succumbed. 

Hot wind from Sedona 

like a boiling mob 

out for a kill, 

drove the pool 

to vapor. 


Over There 

Out south the farm 

has birthed jagged domes, 

a milieu of suburban homes 

swum up against a beaver dam 

of old woods 

that liked to scare the cows 

back to their field. 

In that woods fights still the father 

of all trees. 

It’s a sight to behold 

bound in vines 

that tugged the sapling down. 

But it grew 

humping along the ground 

until it finally rose up 

vines persistent yanking on it 

but rose with it 

and that tree grew all lumpy and bulging 

like a fat man 

pushing out beyond his belt 

and suspenders, 

suspenders that tell of elegance and constraint, 

success and pain, 

belts of natural woody vines. 

Children could swing on ‘em, and do. 

Mothers watch and laugh and don’t care much 

unless the tree should topple 

and turn to firewood 

or dust. 

Late now in that tree’s life 


255

it’s beat the vines 

and reached the light; 

grown straight up higher than vines can grow 

clean, clear and full of leaf, 

hundred feet high or so. 

Nothing’s quite more compelling 

as sky’s true light 

for straightening out a trunk. 

Someone should put a beacon on its crown, 

but folks still watch 

the bound and twisted base. 

Fascinatin’ tree. 


Smothered 

On a shaded porch adopted, 

Indian Summer stultifies a thin gray man 

with imperceptible pulse 

watching, rocking 

as a cattail in a gentle wind, 

at the end of his season 

buffeted but still firm 

against a final blast of disintegration 

yet to come. 

Raucous kids, dogs, stroller couples 

and single oldsters (the last of his own) 

flow down the street, 

he seeing, him unseen 

away from consideration. 

His dim, cracked orb, 

runs melancholy film this Indian Summer 

in Technicolor 

swollen with 

comfort and agony, 

a passion play passing 

through regretful eyes 

populated by characters out of time, 

he, as one of the lowest 

and one of the highest, 

sees again, 

sitting, 

stoppered by woe, 

life nudged on through habit. 


257

Let Freedom Ring 

When there warn’t nothin’ 

but injuns 

and the bay beckoned 

we come 

firs’ one boat, then ‘nother 

starved & died 

loved & praised God; 

whittled a village from the woods, 

clawed food from shallow, stony soil 

and waited out the bitin’ winds 

t’ go forth 

and claim our place 

of freedom 

apart 

from highborn lords 

callous and un-callused, 

born a’ know-nothin’ sluts’ comfort 

what cooked our generations 

‘til we slipped out 

them lords’ hot, black pans 

of dark centuries, 

void of human spirit, 

like half done bacon. 

So here we stick our hope 

sprung from the first dead 

restin’ deep on their rock pilla’s 

who tried an’ died an’ struggled free. 

We brew now an elixir for eternity: 

Liberty, 

from the sweat of brows 

behind the rump of mules 

and give it to all who will drink. 

Dare not t’ break my goblet, 

for I will go t’ the dirt 

t’ save my draught. 



Bronze Giants 

No bronze giant I 

stand awed before 

Stanley, Stuyvesant, Sherman on horse, 

Jefferson eye-to-eye 

(we of the same high), 

and Deghewanus hiding 

in Letchworth’s woods. 

I so brief shall disappear; 

my deeds in air 

leave no dent on history, 

my mark a period 

at the end of a footnote 

at the bottom of the first page 

passed by by 

new readers eager 

to learn 

what comes next. 


259

Lessons 

I am a damn 

holding back eight decades and more 

of great, triumphant living fish 

and stinking dead mackerel 

in my turgid water. 

I harvested 

glorious blooms, 

and lost them 

on shrill needles of reproach 

brayed by my enslaved mule. 

I carved the cogs 

and turned the wheels, 

ran and lost, jumped and won, 

slept, sighed 

and slowly died. 

Oh, Yes! I learned, 

but never taught, and 

so lie a thief 

among the selfish damned. 


Sinners All 

God was a small man, 

don’t you know. 

Gripped tight an atom 

at the back of his jaw 

and bit us all into existence. 

Blew out the universe 

like a tire gone bad, 

spat utter chaos 

from the back of his mouth 

in a guttural cough 

(glad to have us gone). 

God’s sputum we are 

made in his image they say, 

our pastors and prophets past; 

Sinners all! 

Hey! 

We like Him? 

We Sinners all? 

So must He be, 

curse Him. 

And that explains the fall. 


261

Incarnation 

If ever I see the light, 

I will die, and 

I will be born 

again, 

and I shall bow down 

before me 

and be 

thankful. 


Autumn Storm 

A most sinister darkness rattles 

trees without this house 

and bones within, 

it’s storm brewing 

but not yet here. 

Where shall I go? 

Where shall you go 

when the brew comes to you? 

Do we race across the lawn 

and down the hill 

all the way to the next county 

where a warm, dry day 

may still let us play? 

Or do we slip quietly down 

into the basement 

to wait, 

eyes open upon the ceiling bulbs, 

and see 

if the storm shuts off 

our electricity? 


263

Old 

The Sun blares all to whiteness 

and strikes my body into activity, 

but allows the snow to cling to all 

and stay 

to confuse my path, 

its deepness tugging 

at a growing stillness 

in my steps 

in my bones. 

This winter is the reason, 

and like the winter 

I have lost 

my most colorful autumn season. 


Despair 

Gray headed me 

plugged full of vacancy 

from life done heavy, 

the fuel of love wasted 

in a fire of lies 

leaving shattered cinders, 

clogging my hollow pit. 

Pulse abates. 

Mind locks. 

Nothing left but a mouth 

full of silence 

to speak to the darkened door. 

How do I say, 

“Take me through?” 



265

Black Sheets 

Is it warm or cool 

to lie down between black sheets 

and disappear from view? 

What is there left to hear 

when we’ve no one left to meet, 

and others tend the stew? 

Sleep beyond rest stills the fear; 

a certain sigh stills the beat, 

and dreams at last are new. 

It is no fool 

who lies down between black sheets 

when the days become so few. 


The Circle 

I will let this body 

fall away from me now, 

and let my pure peeled light 

rush through the next stage of antiquity 

so that 

it might still have time 

to brighten your womb; 

so that I might be born of you. 


267

The Wait 

Waiting for the inevitable. 

Waiting for Godot? 

Watching out the window. 

Watching for the end. 

There is no poetry in this. 

No sun. 

No wind. 

No rain. 

Just horizon’s edge. 


Mud Room 

It’s been a long winter, 

and so I hang 

my frayed 

and musty coat 

out of sight 

where the children coming 

will not see it and 

will forget its scent 

in the dewy air 

of their Springtime; 

their earthy footprints 

overlaying mine 

on the mudroom floor. 



269

Index 

A 

Abusing Storm 102 

Addiction 206 

Against All Odds 213 

A Joke 89 

All Over 103 

Alpine Melody 148 

Ancient Love 150 

Anger 195 

Antarctic Expiration 141 

Antique 35 

Apotheosis of Life 96 

Arguments 220 

Autumn Storm 263 

A Wish from Home for Warriors Away 94 

A Wood Removed 55 

B 

Backwoods Birthing 151 

Bah, Humbug 113 

Baked 145 

Barmaid 1880 72 

Battlefield 93 

Birth 101 

Black Sheets 266 

Boring 156 

Bound Forever 144 

Boy Ago 19 

Breath of Distance 200 

Brink 106 

Bronze Giants 259 

Brotherhood 194 

Burn Out 105 

C 

Callous Lover 49 

Caught by Surprise 152 

Celestial Rage 71 

Cereal Bowl 225 

Charcoal 80 

Christmas Snow 163 

Circus Tale 193 

Cleopatra 67 

Closet Cure 227 

Cold and Done 231 

Cold End 210 

Coma 211 

Compassion? 95 

Conception 208 

Cycle 189 

Cynical Futilist Individualist 242 

D 

Dandelion Man 204 

Dark Night 47 

Daughter 219 

Daughters 20 

DC Trauma 157 

Depression 84 

Derailed 63 

Despair 265 

Devotion 16 

Dichotomy 90 

Discovery 25 

Disintegration 70 

Distill 15 

Divine Talk 38 

Dry 75 

E 

Evaporation 254 

F 

Family of Man 100 

Fantasy Fix 68 

Farewell Love 252 

Farming 58 

First Light Vigil 36 

Flag Day 27 

Floor Allegory 196 

For Marné in May 86 

Free Danger 154 

Friendly Neighbor 45 


Furious Moon 186 

Futile Glow 115 

G 

Gone South 149 

Grace Us 26 

Grandfather 202 

Grandma Wanda 239 

Grandpa Speaking 245 

H 

Halloween Forest Prank 50 

Heat 116 

Hedgerow 240 

Hiroshima Changeling 190 

Honesty Therapy 69 

Houseman 187 

Humanity? 128 

I 

Incarnation 262 

Inequity Allegory 121 

In Heat 53 

In the Wake: A Neighbor’s Narrative 247 

It’s a Carnival 224 

J 

J. P.’s Poem 77 

K 

Kid 6 21 

L 

Legacy 117 

Lessons 260 

Let Freedom Ring 258 

Leukemia 185 

Listen Up 31 

Little Boy 118 

Locked 107 

London Fog 160 

Long Roll 221 

Long Time 78 

Look and See 138 

Lost and Found 228 

Lost You 73 

Lost Youth 191 

Love Lessons 5 126 

Love Silence 28 

Lucy 236 

Lull 109 

M 

Madelin 51 

Magic Bird 30 

Mal at 12 22 

Melting 215 

Mind 205 

Mountains 129 

Mr. Binger 124 

Ms. Nature 111 

Mud Room 269 

N 

‘Nam 92 

Natural Music 18 

Ned & Nellie 207 

Night Chatter 238 

No 251 

Numbers 

1859 Photo 161 

1904 48 

NYC Underbelly #1 Russian Doll 169 

NYC Underbelly #2 His Mrs. 170 

NYC Underbelly #3 Wrecked 171 

NYC Underbelly #4 Existence 172 

NYC Underbelly #5 Subway 173 

NYC Underbelly #6 Tin Cup 174 

NYC Underbelly #7 Drugged 175 

NYC Underbelly #8 Bathtub 176 

NYC Underbelly #9 Overdose 177 

NYC Underbelly #10 The Perpetual 

Businessman 178 

NYC Underbelly #11 Prayer Before the 

Macy’s Widow Creche 179 

NYC Underbelly #12 End 181 

INDEX 

271

O 

Objective 60 

Oblivious 99 

Ode to ‘68 (In Disguise) 201 

Ode to e.e. 139 

Old 264 

One Away 235 

On Our Way 52 

Opposing wishes: Antietam 112 

Our Ocean 29 

Over 108 

Over There 255 

P 

Palestinian Ode 98 

Parched 222 

Parenthood -- or -- Pin the tail on the donkey 237 

Passed 250 

Passion 46 

Peaceful Slumber? 143 

Pin Point Poetry or An Exercise in California 

Con Art 44 

Pirate Love or Shared Wealth 37 

Played 59 

Point to Point 39 

Presidentess 127 

Progression 188 

R 

Rat’s Prayer 104 

Rescued 142 

Responsibility 123 

Ring Song 33 

S 

Safety Check 232 

Sally, Oh, Sally 56 

Schism 125 

Scramble 155 

Sinners All 261 

Smothered 257 

Snow Fence 120 

So New 62 

Sons & Daughters 253 

Speechless 76 

Squirrelly 140 

Standing Fast 114 

Starbuck Away 216 

St. Catherine’s Monastery or Monk Heads 164 

Stone Feelings 97 

T 

Tarnished 209 

Taxi Ride 132 

The Bargain 23 

The Beckoning of 9-11-2001 241 

The Cabin 81 

The Circle 267 

The Keeping Room 223 

The Mirror 226 

The Orange 162 

The Proposal Or Lake Talk 146 

The Wait 268 

The Wall 79 

The Well 122 

Through to the other side 34 

Tiptoe Queen #2: Directions 192 

Toad 147 

To Mecca 110 

Truth? 229 

U 

Ummm… 198 

Undying Love 85 

Unholy Prayer 133 

Upset 158 

Urban Escapee 212 

V 

Vehicular Eyes 153 

Virgin 57 

Vision 24 

Visiting at Love’s End 214 


W 

Wanting 43 

War Debt 91 

Wardrobes 230 

Wee Man #3: Vicar 131 

Wee Man #4: If at First 74 

Wee Man #5: The Supplicant 199 

Wee Man #6: Wishing 32 

Wee Man #7: Enlightenment 159 

Who Knew 82 

Winter Hike 234 

Winterman 233 

Wisdom 61 

Wolf at Night 119 

Womb Wish 130 

Woof 54 

Worn 83 

Worthless 203 

Y 

Year 25 137 

You 17 

INDEX 

273

illustration credits 

Cover Iowa Twin Farmers Photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 1 Beach Walker Title page photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 11 LOVE LUST LOSS photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 13 Love title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 20 Daughters painting by Alyssa Timon 

p. 41 Lust title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 45 Friendly Neighbor painting by Alyssa Timon 

p. 65 Loss title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 70 Disintegration painting by Alyssa Timon 

p. 75 Dry photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 79 The Wall photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 87 NO COMMENT title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 89 A Joke photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 96 Apotheosis of Life photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 103 All Over photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 104 Rat’s Prayer photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 110 To Mecca photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 113 Bah, Humbug photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 116 Heat photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 124 Mr. Binger photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 126 Love Lessons 5 photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 132 Taxi Ride photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 133 Unholy Prayer photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 135 PHOTOS FROM ID title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 137 Year 25 photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 146 The Proposal or lake talk photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 151 Backwoods Birthing photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 160 London Fog photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 165 St. Catherine’s Monastery or Monk Heads photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 167 1970s NYC title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 169 NYC Underbelly #1 Russian Doll photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 170 NYC Underbelly #2 His Mrs photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 171 NYC Underbelly #3 Wrecked photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 172 NYC Underbelly #4 Existence photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 173 NYC Underbelly #5 Subway photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 174 NYC Underbelly #6 Tin Cup photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 175 NYC Underbelly #7 Drugged photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 176 NYC Underbelly #8 Bathtub photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 177 NYC Underbelly #9 Overdose photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 178 NYC Underbelly #10 The Perpetual Businessman photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 181 NYC Underbelly #12 End photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 183 EUPHORIA-MELANCHOLIA title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 191 Lost Youth photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 200 Breath of Distance photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 217 BEYOND 40 title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 219 Daughter photograph by Alyssa Timon 

p. 223 The Keeping Room photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 224 It’s a Carnival photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 233 Winterman photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 240 Hedgerow photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 243 GRANDPA SPEAKING title page photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 246 Grandpa Speaking photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 249 In the Wake: A Neighbor’s Narrative photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 258 Let Freedom Ring photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 265 Despair photograph by Steve Zavodny 

p. 269 Mud Room photograph by Steve Zavodny 

Back cover Mountain lake sunset photograph by Steve Zavodny

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