death and others

1

poplars,

winter.

a deep bare death reaches out

from the ground, a stretching tree.

when I go down in stone when

the cobbles click a cold red robin

will perch upon my stone

2

resist, tame:

kissers, fighters,

banshees, licenses,

skillets, the angry,

beauty in a ditch, country clubs,

and all that does not warrior

its way toward darkness.

3

to be whiteblooded

is to rely on every

thing, except the heart.

sufferin'

I don't mean to sound creepy, kid,

but it's not long I can last here, being in a bed,

knowing you're out there.

A haze comes over me like I've looked too long at a snake. Hypocrites

hate sickness, or claim to. Thinking of you lowers a throb into the folds

around my slit of a cunt, makes me push three fingers through thick hair into a fruit-like mush of myself, where something perfect rises

and hulks. To solve this: humping down on the side of your leg,

or pressing my cool whole curvy body against your side.

I want what you promise,

I want your infinitesimal strokes,

I want your adjustments,

I want to fuck sensitive, fuck wise,

for you, fully clothed, to turn your head toward my ear and slur,

describe the way you store yourself.

I would grip down for that, I would be good for that. I would not fight then,

just continually unwind and be fully body.

Only seeing to the mind I've glimpsed would I be fully body.

the rational ass

I tell you, violet, I love to be led

by the muzzle. Tugged along nosewise,

by your two fingers, it's heaven and a half.

I love me being dragged into meadows hee-hawing to be shot,

otherwise I'd have split down the middle about it,

I'd have bitten my way out of it.

NICE DAY

so tidy, tame,
the lawn's terrific.
Bugs go down a blade.
In ordered rows,
the push of sprouted things
beside the shade.

ON SIN

my lesson is to keep a nit,
to let it feed--
then bury it.

another clerihew for the road

Adam and Eve
had no one to deceive.
They found a bunch of apples worth a tryin',
'til one got Eden by a lion.

Consensual

Chris, look.
We both want a picnic,
but first we have to get out of this field.

Why fight? We both know
you bit the wrong animal.
The venom's been circulated:
you are beloved.

A hollow's been thumbed.
When I speak your name
it brings a bird,
a thrum.

In truth, you are not present
except as my present gift to myself.
I think you, too, should take me
and look for yourself.

New York/Central Park

A terse man leans
from his child’s frown.

A little dog leaves
and a bench is clear.

Clouds in blobs.

The pain impresses me.
In fact a line rises from me.

In time my body will lessen.
The remains of the day will be the total
of what I’ve chosen to count.