September 24, 2015

True happiness we are told, consists  getting out of oneself, but the point is not only to get out- you must stay out; and to stay out you must have some absorbing errand.”

-Henry James, from “Roderick Hudson”


Too wretched still/ 2 week without coastal sunsets

To wreath Night’s long door/  I long for

The right time alone  & wait &

As I wait/ I’ll eliminate/ obvious suspects

Crowding my space I’ve longed for/

To my credit the thing about editing out

All the non essential/ It’s Everywhere/

A lot easy to pivot w/pen  then slice there/

I can stick to plans/

Mic down the music some  & blinds slats/

I’ll recede that

Loveleaking hand off a needy cat and/

Speaking of love, lean forward & force

A poem to her.











near the end
purple clouds stir & near
mis-en-scene set, I’ll be blocking the shot
readying my stand-ins
cueing my soundtrack
I’ll need special effects to capture the light
to be faithful to the script
years ride past alongside our precious bond/
then one moment  one light courses through  brighter than  other rays onto…
she had signed off  (often)   onto a missive
(I leaned forward & forced  this life
To really read)







“The woman I’m thinking of, she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine, she’s in my mind.
I hear her callin’.

See the lonely boy, out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay.
Can’t relate to joy, he tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say.”

— from Neil Young’s ‘Out On The Weekend’


November 13, 2012

Walking, mostly in clockwork close meter,

Warmer ghosts  from my former  features;

All the roles, All the resume’,

Falling in line,  just the crew to rescue me.

Faded as sad old soldiers,

Vain fantasies say old glories.

Again, always, They had  heaved it all in a chest.

Again, always, they had heaved in their chest

& took it to heart.


I’ll call it for you  my own VFW

hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,

We’ll share lies, & libations.

I’ll wear my  mightier  pen.

I’ll share  sham wisdom  wide open.

But first, false memories in verse.

& what’s worst,  I’ll con, & confide  open.





“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”

—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”






“Every hero  becomes a bore,  at last.”  -Ralph Waldo Emerson









picasso  is said to have said

“Art  is the lie that tells the truth”.

seems  if he did, seems valid.


(Though  some tries  along these lines

can only shine  sly & slippery lies)


a verypretty good joke

& lucky for our sake

Actually  the accidental times

us  fog & smoke machines make

bonfire smoke signals  rhyme an

unreasonably  sound  Beauty.

we’re  without a net nor warm blanket.


September 14, 2012


“The blind man loves you with his eyes, the deaf man with his music.  The hospital, the battlefield, the torture room, serve you with numberless petitions. On this most ordinary night, so bearable, so plentiful in grave distractions, touch this worthless ink, this work of shame. Inform me from the great height of your beauty.”

-Leonard Cohen, “Petitions” from Death Of A Ladies Man


July 31, 2012


It’s a mistake  to say  “Kafkaesque”/

and misspeak   it to describe/

a lousy hour at the car dealership/

or persisting, yesterday,/

until a credit card company pawn/

on the phone  might see it yr way./

They’d be  devoid of a  worried/

meandering  aloneness  on effin foggy cobblestone

Prague shadows & all their surreally  uneven  angles/

Debilitated,  as some delirium is the case/

&  one is  encased in  one  sensational  frustration.






“Bless your uneasiness as a sign that there is still life in you.”  -Dag Hammarskjold



.                                                                                                     (years ago)


July 21, 2012

“It is the function of art to renew our perception.  What we are familiar with  we cease to see.

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.”

– Anais Nin




(from 2007, years ago, for laughs, we always require laughter)




I own my own muse
uncannily, I can amuse me
it’s fairly common knowledge,I think, that some Irish may
consider a spot of poteen and a pint at the end of a well-spent day…
God’s pay for a day’s good work. Earned.
when I get home from work, mornings, I spill a half swallow of irish whiskey in my glass, turn to look out the back window,raise my glass some, and To the sunrise’s orange and yellows, To the trees & water
I’ll whisper “yes, here’s to ya,then”.Coupla nights back, I noticed there was just half a swallow in the bottle I might savor in the next morning after work, and get the empty bottle out to the recyclable bin before the early truck. Before I headed off to work
the night before though, it was apparent that my sweet & neat mate, thinking logically that the bottle was another empty to go out, the night before, took it out.
the next morning, after getting out all the rest of the trash out to the front that needed to go,walking the 30 yards back up my broken driveway to the house, I stopped. I smiled, then started laughing as I walked back to the road, all the time thinking of the imaginary guy across the street, opening his blinds for the sunrise, slippers & robe, looking out and seeing the real life guy across the street walking out to the road, lifting the top up, and reaching deep down into the bin, pulling out a bottle, unscrewing the top and tipping it back for that last swallow.

Haute Couture

July 12, 2012


“..If I touch/ Near the fire/ The unpalpable ash..”

-Pablo Neruda  (7/12/04-9/23/73)  from  “If You Forget Me”








I wonder when one day

We’ll pocket our passions

They’ll fasten  in look-see  neck  lockets

Soon it’ll seem right

To wear…She’ll share hers in sunlight

Fashion  will see to it  we


Undress off our soft  underthings

And  show  softer

Bold  and  tender



April 30, 2012

“There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say “It is yet more difficult than you thought.” This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.” ― Wendell Berry
                     C  L  I  P

I’ve dreamt  and forget..

I only kept

One excerpt, one clip

I took back

Here to look back to


You could see down

To two  in the water,

Not drowned.

You could see that down there

That they were freely moving.



We ride out on

That river of grasses,

That  for a while now

Made for miles

Between us.


We’d ride out on

The one door, the one

We always want open

We’d ride one door

Still open

Wide to a wide world.




.                                                                                              (from ago,  & still)

Of Kingdom Came

March 24, 2012

“She call me just to talk/She’s my lover  she’s a friend of mine/..and I get trouble with my breathing/she says boys don’t know anything/but I know what I want/I want everything/And she was made in Heaven/Heaven’s in my world…”

Mark Knopfler,Dire Straits, from “Expresso Love”

“I’m in Heaven/I’m in Heaven/I’m in Heaven/ When you smile”

Van Morrison, from “Jackie Wilson Said”



When you took me back to the turnpike
    aparting   already   curving
I signalled to you  in your car
in my dome light,
blew you a kiss, so steady,  away
intending  it  to sing
“I’m a little in love today”
.                                        from 9/06


-Wislawa Szymborska  (7/2/1923-2/1/2012) RIP
                                                   Nobel Prize for Literature 1996

.Both are convinced

that a sudden surge of emotion bound

them together.

Beautiful is such a certainty,

but uncertainty is more beautiful.

Because they didn’t know each other

earlier, they suppose that

nothing was happening between them.

What of the streets, stairways and


where they could have passed each other

long ago?

I’d like to ask them

whether they remember– perhaps in a

revolving door

ever being face to face?

an “excuse me” in a crowd

or a voice “wrong number” in the receiver.

But I know their answer:

no, they don’t remember.

They’d be greatly astonished

to learn that for a long time

chance had been playing with them.

Not yet wholly ready

to transform into fate for them

it approached them, then backed off,

stood in their way

and, suppressing a giggle,

jumped to the side.


There were signs, signals:
but what of it if they were illegible.
 Perhaps three years ago,
 or last Tuesday
 did a certain leaflet fly
 from shoulder to shoulder?
There was something lost and picked up.
 Who knows but what it was a ball
 in the bushes of childhood.
There were doorknobs and bells
 on which earlier
 touch piled on touch.
 Bags beside each other in the luggage room.
 Perhaps they had the same dream on a certain night,
 suddenly erased after waking.
Every beginning
 is but a continuation,
 and the book of events
is never more than half open.
.(this poem inspired a brilliant cinematic ruby,

Kieslowski’s “RED” )