I think I know what life is for,
and yet I cannot live for that.
I'm forced to wear a different hat
when weather changes are extreme;
otherwise, I'd grow too poor
to realize a distant dream.

The dream is of a frozen sea
that suddenly begins to melt —
violent tremors soon are felt
by starving souls aboard a ship,
who gasp in wonder when they see
an island grow beneath the ship.

So while I'm freezing I must eat
and wear the hat that warms my head.
I must commit my days to bread
to keep my strength, my vision clear
upon the ground below my feet,
which may be far, or may be near.

Aldous the cockatiel lives in a cage,
and loves it -- he’s comfortable there, and vague
enough to sleep while a man would linger

nearby, free, uneasy, watching the fingers
enwrap themselves in invisible knots,
tighter, tighter, with every sweep of the clock.

Even after the trying and succeeding,
after the unflagging effort, and after
the flagging effort to make another effort,
and finally, after the culmination,
we are still alone.

                                Not that we cannot
choose to be alone, but that we cannot
choose not to be, for if we proceed as if
we did, we find the trying and succeeding
designed to fail.

I apologize
For making half-rhymes
It’s a habit I can’t break no matter how I tries

Hope you pardon me
When you hear me sing
Like a scratchy vinyl record or a gagging geek

I’m so sorry for
How I play guitar
Got no rhythm when I strum and fingers fumble chords

All apologies
For my deficiencies
Please excuse me while I flush my latest masterpiece

The apple rumbled down the aisle
          and stopped beside a boot.
The groom beheld its crimson glow
          and stooped to get the fruit.

The bride could not resist a bite
          when tempted by the groom.
The juice ran down her comely face
          like nectar on a bloom.

The groom ate of the fruit as well
          in solidarity
with her with whom he vowed to share
          the knowledge from the tree.

The guests did cheer but did not hear
          the serpent's sneering hiss.
The apple soon would take its toll
          beginning with a kiss.

You may be forty-five today,
          But still look twenty-one;
And even when you’re eighty-five,
          You’ll be the only one.

I live my life to hear your laugh
          And see your smiling eyes;
If I could gift wrap happiness,
          You’d get a big surprise.

Each day and week and month and year,
          My love for you goes on;
And it won’t stop no matter what,
          Not even when I’m gone.

She said she wanted to be a writer;
he felt the heat of the fire —
the struck match of deja vu,
the long-unoccupied unlit room,
the dusty shelves of books and manuscripts.

He could’ve touched flame to paper;
instead, he lit a fire,
hoping she was born to be
exactly what she longed to be:
Daddy's girl forever, only better.

There's something square about a city block
that boxes the mind in concrete, brick, steel,
iron, wood, and stone, as if one could not
look in or out, or dream or dare to live
upon a liquid sphere of blue and green.

Those blue jays came around again today,
making such a racket they woke Jim up.
He didn’t mind, though -- he had nowhere to go
today anyway; he had nothing to do.
So he stayed in bed awhile listening
to their blue bravado and feeling alone.

He thought about how once upon a time,
he would’ve played the scarecrow, loud and mean.
But now he kind of liked their morning visits.
Today, for example, after finally
dragging his body out of bed somehow
and making himself a *** of coffee,
he pulled a chair up to the window where
he could watch and listen, silent, unseen.

Smoking and sipping, he passed a blue day
until they flew away. Then he felt sad
again for being white, earthbound, and human.

The man who died
in the Bornean jungle
dropped his mind
in a nylon pack.

“Call me mad,
but here I am.
Don’t expect me
home again.”

It carefully drifted
down the river
he’d labored up
a learned explorer.

“Children -- love --
wife too ...
Mud -- bugs --
headhunters --”

He did us honor if
only because
he said what he could
from where he was.

They abound where we loathe:
in impassable bogs,
chronic shadows, lingering fogs,
and matter decayed.

Others thrive where we live:
on our lawns and our pets,
in our homes — our food gets
eaten, but not missed.

Some infect our machines:
our programs and apps;
our code and mind maps;
our digital dreams.

And sometimes they grow in our heads:
in electrical nests,
sticky webs, hot threads,
and muffled echoes.

Out in the lanes where laughs not Mirth,
          Where maggots thrive 'mid offal fogs,
A mongrel ***** wreaked lethal birth
          Unto a host of puppy dogs.

Six guileless hounds were spewed in Hell,
          The dowager vaporing, dead.
Five unlicked pups heaved blind and fell
          Until but one might Being wed.

Then I, bereft of Pride's respect,
          My spirit cold spurned to this sty,
Touched humble fur -- O dim reject!
          For me his spark refused to die!

It matters not how mixed his blood,
          How flea-infected be his skin,
I now command this canine stud;
          I am the master of Chien.

The husband of the mother is presumed
          to be the father of the child.
We think it best that one man should be doomed
          to bear the risk the seed is wild.

A house is never cleaner
than when unoccupied,

with tables, couches, beds
removed and all inside
accessible to brush,
broom, mop, and vacuum
cleaner.

               No resident
had known a cleaner
room.

I'm planning on plotting a novel about
A ravishing beauty, a former boy scout,
Her longing for him, his passion for her,
And the love they made forever and ever.

Or how about a detective, jaded
By betrayal, loneliness, and faded
Memories of something about a woman
And a time when he’d felt almost human?

Or what if I write about damsels and knights,
Or giants and dwarves and elves in fights
With assorted villains and torturers,
Like dragons, magicians, and sorcerers?

Or maybe the world would relish a tale
Of invasions on a galactic scale
That threaten the earth with annihilation
Till superheroes deliver salvation.

But whether the myriad books I might write
Would even be read or might kindle delight
Is academic, unless I proceed,
From start to finish, to do the deed.

Sending letters to the world at the world hurled;
Not sure why try why have to try.
Unsolicited pseudonymous --
A battle cry hi bye before we die.

Writing stories on the wall any wall scrawl;
Casting songs through the air electric air prayer.
Poets novelists artists lyricists --
All who dare care dare lay it bare.

A billion letters in the mail in the mail fail --
Addressed to anyone read by none no one.
Dear so and so let me tell you so:
The number no one none is no fun one.

through an icy windshield white panoramas,
cubic landscapes witH crystalline fractures
breaking off revealing blackness and rude
eyes glEaming lustily in the darkness.

whining in the windows, crying in the wind
when you roll the window down, whEel bearings
wailing like prometheus enduring
somehow the uneNdurable.

the cold
smell of unfamiliar territory.
the taste of carbon monoxiDe and fear.

          wheels locking -- steel
          crunching -- lungs
          releasing one last
          breath --

We’re tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat.

We’d sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a frigid doom.
Why chase the wind when we can turn and face it?
Why measure time by the mirror in our room,
when we can follow earth, sun, stars and moon?

The logs in the fireplace glow hot tonight
With hisses and pops and the smell of firelight.
He lies on the rug, thinking, If she were here;
She sits on the couch, far away, though near.

The appeal of the fire no longer exists
For her, with him; she’d just as soon sit
Alone and imagine a different place,
A different fire, and a different face.

Fire is fire, he thought, sad to think
It would die by morning, when he would slink
Out alone in the daylight, distracted
By the heat of the sunlight, refracted.

Today I launched out of Venice and trolled
the Wagon Wheel with jigs and pigs
in the cuts and pockets of the dead-end marsh
canals, caught my limit of monster bass,
came home tired, cleaned the fish and stuffed
the filets in the freezer.

Once I'd grab handfuls of earth
out the worm garden that grew in the yard,
stuff the squirming dirt in a can, pick
a cane pole from behind the shed and walk
down Orleans Avenue to the City Park
lagoons and fish till dark.

The water was black and deep then, swimming
with bream and cats and sac-au-lait, brimming
always with the possibility of a green
flash, the phenomenal churn, yank and splash
of a monster bass erupting like a green
god out of black water.

One windless evening the bass started biting
just before sunset as I glided along
the bayou in a pirogue with a ******
of the paddle here and there for direction.

I was casting a topwater up against
the bank among the cypress trunks and stumps
and overhanging limbs and shrubs and twitching
and popping the bait until the fish struck.

To see and hear and feel the violent burst
of each strike and to set the hook firmly
in each jaw and each battle kept me out
until the mosquitoes and the gator came.

At first a bumpy head at least a foot wide
and three feet long with big shiny black eyes
inched toward the pirogue and me as if we
were just what he had in mind for dinner.

I dropped my rod and thought I’d better paddle
fast and hard before Wally got too close
but Wally sensed panic and to my horror
I saw the swish of his tail fifteen feet back.

The gator accelerated smooth and quick
and locked its gaze upon the very spot
the paddle broke water to push me away
as the jaws snapped shut and cracked it in half.

I slid away watching as the gator shook
its monstrous head free of the broken splinter
and I realized now he’d be coming again
for me down the bayou with half a paddle.

The pirogue rocked on the wave Wally made
during all the commotion and sure enough
he came again stalking the little boat
now stalled and adrift so I had to act fast.

I untied and lifted my stringer of bass
gasping and wet like a shiny green fleece
and hefted and hurled it aiming precisely
at the slashing jaws of the reptile beast.

The gator struck at the fish with a splash
of his big toothy head and chomped down on three
huge bass and swallowed them whole in one gulp
then snapped up three more that were still on the string.

So Wally was happy for now as the sun
went down and I wondered how to get back
to the dock half a mile away in the dark
with Wally nearby and perhaps hungry yet.

Then I got an idea and picked up my rod
and cast the old topwater past Wally’s head
and chugged it back popping in front of his face
where soon he attacked it and hooked himself good.

Wally went down with a **** and a swirl
and made such a wave I grabbed the boat rail
with one hand while holding onto the rod
which bent almost double as the line stretched tight.

The pirogue took off like a rocket boat
as Wally swam up the bayou to flee
the pressure and drag and the alien hook
underwater and then on top with me.

In no time I neared the dock in the dark
and slackened the line until Wally shook free
then glided right up to the dock and *******
and got out fishless but at least in one piece.

The children's photographs hang statically
from mobile threads training in the wind
of time and memory, flashing faces

smiling frozen in the blink of the eye
of mind as it focused at a time within
memory, impelling eternity

toward me now as spaces stretch between
the real trees grass sand and gulf
and places where the real faces move.

When the waitresses walked out I fired
them all and hired three new ones the same day.
Trained them, too. Now I keep a HELP WANTED sign
in the window all the time -- to let them know
I can replace them at the drop of a hat.
I get about five applications a week,
and I keep them in a file for a year.

I don’t take no crap from no whining females,
especially during a rush. Their kids
call them, husbands call them, boyfriends, mothers --
how could I believe her kid got run over
by a car? Sounded too much like a scheme
to me, to get out of working the rush.

She says, “I’m going anyway, you *******.”
I say, “You go and you’re fired.” She wanted
to hit me, I think -- a man with that look
on his face would've hit me, but these women
play *****. Mary says, “You can’t fire her for that!”
I say, “Like hell I can’t!” Then Jennifer
butts in, “We’ll walk out if you do,” she says.
“The same goes for you too,” I say. “Try me.”

They tried me, but I showed them. I’d close down
before I’d let a bunch of ******* sass
me like that. I work hard for my privilege.

That I can blame ice for freezing my fire,
night for eclipsing my day,
wind for eroding my mountain,
or worms for eating my leaves,
I don’t suppose.

That I’m frozen, dark, flat, and barren,
I won’t deny.

That I can hope for a sudden spark,
a ray of dawn,
an eruption,
or a sprout
is all I ask.

This nameless potted specimen
          appears about to die.
Perhaps the wilted, browning stem
          (thank God it cannot cry)

is starving for a richer soil,
          or just a larger ***.
(A plant needs little room to toil,
          but even less to rot.)

Perhaps the shriveled leaves need light
          uncut by mini-blinds,
or air that’s not conditioned quite
          so centrally by minds

averse to nature’s crude extremes
          (the spice of a plant’s life).
And what bird’s song, like human screams,
          cuts through roots like a knife?

To say “I love you” is equivalent
to saying I breathe air.

                                         Such sustenance
as I derive from oxygen devolves
so liberally, so reflexively upon me,
yet, were I deprived of atmosphere,
the words “I breathe” would not avail to fill
my lungs with what they need, nor would the words
“I am a fish” convert my lungs to gills.

Ethereal by nature, not by choice,
I’m bound to love you notwithstanding my voice.

I could sell water purifiers
and do some people good
by straining out carcinogens
that might get in their blood.

I could sell encyclopedias
and help nice families out
with everything they need to know
or care to learn about.

I could sell fancy automobiles
to people moving up
so they can ride in luxury
and never have to stop.

Or I could give away these lines
to children yet unborn,
who may or may not give a ****,*
whom I will not have known.

They struck at all the world
expecting it to cringe
in fear of purest hatred
wrought in a name: Allah.

But Allah loves the world
and favors many names,
so Jihad She declared
on jihad in Her name.

An insurance agent named Johnny B. Blank
Ran a run-down debit on the poor West Bank.
In the hardest of times he endeavored to be
The number one man in the company.

"I'd prefer not to say what's become of my pay,"
He stood up and spoke at a meeting one day.
"But I hereby intend to reverse this trend --
To triple my paycheck before the year's end."

“Good luck, Johnny Blank," someone said with a smirk,
"But the fact is, the West Bank is all out of work."
Johnny looked at his colleague, spoke steady and clear:
"I'll be number one by the end of the year."

From that day on, Johnny Blank was possessed,
Making pitch after pitch with fanatical zest.
But no matter how hard he'd push and persuade,
He'd hear the sad song of the oil trade:

"The rigs are shut down and the boats are asleep;
It's not worth their while because oil's too cheap.
My husband and brother, my nephew and son
Have all been laid off. As for money, there's none."

So Johnny would leave, but would not overlook
To write down their names in his prospect book.
And always he did the best he could do,
And always the list of his prospects grew.

Then at last the economy started to change;
The price had gone up in the oil exchange.
Business was booming as none had foreseen
From Buras to Boutte and in between.

And Johnny B. Blank was on top of the world
As dozens of pages of prospects unfurled;
He'd written their names when they couldn't afford,
But now they had money, and how it poured!

In the last few months of that famous year,
Johnny B. Blank secured his career.
He tripled his pay for a job well done,
And true to his word, he became number one.

If someone reads these lines I'll be surprised
if I'm alive. And if I'm dead, at least
you'll be alive, and perhaps you'll be surprised
to hear a dead man laughing, live.

And if the seed should take, what then?
Two souls would replicate, but one
would find itself, the other lose
itself in mystic legacy.

The lawyer casts an artificial worm
along the bank of a City Park lagoon
as the sun goes down upon another day
of casting among digests and reporters
for cases to support a point of law,
and bounces the bait among submerged cover
until the unmistakable tap transmits
through her bones the signal to set the hook

and before she can think it reflex sets hard
as lawyer and fish struggle in shock against
each other, the bass running with the line,
the lawyer lost for the moment in the trial
of instinct versus passion, reason, tech,
the triumph of one predator’s success.

“I’m getting another car,” said Michael.
He zipped and snapped his shorts.
He looked out at the lake.
The waves splashed up the steps.

Margaret said nothing.
He turned to her.

She sat in *******,
holding her shorts,
glaring at him.
“Another new car?”

“No, I don’t want the note.”
He looked out at the lake.
“I’m getting a used car.”
The waves rolled down the steps.

She slipped into the shorts,
lifting her ****,
pulling them up.

“Don’t worry,” said Michael.
“I’ll find one with lots of leg room.
It won’t change anything between us.”
The waves splashed up the steps.

“We’ll see,” said Margaret.

They looked out at the lake.
The waves rolled down the steps.

We cannot create
heaven or earth —
nor must we,
for these are given.

But waters encroach,
fish float,
beasts perish,
and humans fall prey
to darkness.

So we must write,
must write just
to let there be,
let there be light!

Loving her was like the claim
of a blade of grass to light --
from a seed in a dark, dark womb
of earth

               to the birth
of a will with one purpose:
to break ground,
to crack mountains
that block out light.

We sat at the edge and watched the wind
and talked of things we thought about,
safe for the moment beyond the world’s stare,
secure in a love we dared to share
in spite of those who harbored doubt,
heedless of those who called love sin.

We haunted a place where ghosts depend
on outcast lovers to cheer them up,
for surely ghosts could understand
the fiery force at our command,
while they were cold, with empty cups,
as ours overflowed with life again.

But even the living succumb to true love,
and after a while, the world came to us.

It’s hard to define the word love,
But it’s easy to know when you’re in it.
I’ve got a feeling higher than the heavens above,
And I swear babe it’s growing every minute.

I’m longing to be with you day and night
With a longing that’s different and new.
It’s getting so strong, it’s blinding my sight
Because all I can see now is you.

Abounding in beauty within and without,
You’re a goddess of goodness and grace.
If I was a baby, I’d cry and I’d pout
Till I rested my eyes on your face.

I’m unworthy of you, but lucky for me,
You picked me instead of another.
I am what I am, but with you there may be
A better me to discover.

And best of all, you’re a truehearted friend;
What more could a boy ever need?
My love for you will never end,
But will grow like a flowering seed.

There’s no way to say everything I’m feeling,
But I just thought I’d give you a clue
About one little fact I find hard concealing —
I’m in love, so in love, with you.

So I’ll say it again and again, I’m in love;
I’m in love, so in love, with you.
With you I’m in love, so in love, I’m in love;
I’m in love, so in love, with you.

I love you, true, but no fine words can say
how much I do. It’s more than that -- more
than simple terms can express, more even
than simile or metaphor could capture
had I Shakespeare’s wit and pen. But I’ll try:

Because of you I’m the luckiest of men.
Whatever made me love you at the start
was my good fortune, and has intensified.
The trials we’ve survived now make me smile
to think how we survived them with each other,
and how all adversity diminished
and diminishes still in your presence.

I love you, I know, because when, as now,
we’re apart, I can’t be happy unless
I talk with you, silently, here in my heart,
and know you’re there, and know you’ll be there, and know
that heartbeat is the sound of what we are.

Melville's voyages among the South Seas
truly commenced with his treatment by pen
of those friendly tribes he cherished no less
than the not less primitive hordes at home.

But those who embarked on his ship of the sea
repudiated his ship of the mind
as it sailed for frontiers never beheld
in pursuit of the whale and immortal time.

He stirs,
discerns a thought and
flinches,
wrenches to see
the clock-
face

throbs
with gaping charges --
he crumples,
shivers,
swears
beneath a breath.

Then,
in time,
he concedes his plight,
sheds his cover,
and ventures into a universe
of blindness and numbness and
music

resounds
with singing forces --
and he rests there
and beholds
the harmony

fades
into the noise
of missing class.

You can see the moon
as well as I
from where you are.

Perhaps I can stretch my arm
up to the wandering crescent
and grasp it firmly
to swing myself
across the meager gulf.

I'll lightly drop
into the lap of your land,
before the moonlit vision
of your loveliness.

Two kinds of people
are those who need somebody,
and those who need somebody
to need them.

One who needs somebody
can satisfy this need
either with someone who needs them,
or with someone who needs them
to need them.

But the need of one
who needs someone to need them
can be satisfied only by one
who needs them, and not
by someone else who needs someone
to need them.

Those who need someone to need them
can never need each other,
because it’s the need someone else
has for them they need,

and they never need anyone
for themself, but only
for that person’s need for someone
who, like themself, needs that need.

The salesman at the door
is looking for a need;
if he doesn't find one,
he weaponizes greed.

No need to be rude
to this simple working man
who satisfies desires
in everyone he can.

Just let him know you're happy
with everything you've got,
and he'll be on his way
to someone who is not.

At once he feels the magnetic tug upon
His bones muscles nerves & fingertips.

Aflame she glows, her ice blue eyes ablaze
Amid the fire of her hair & lips.

Proximity mere bends space-time & light --
Captivated, into orbit he slips.

I may be just a partying sort of guy,
But that’s the sort of guy I wanna be.
I intend to go down laughing when I die.

I like the ladies, that I won’t deny.
I give them what they want, and they like me
Because I’m such a partying sort of guy.

I make love, sleep, wake up, and then get high.
My days and nights are filled with revelry.
I know I’ll go down laughing when I die.

I wear the finest clothing I can buy
And drive the fastest car you’ve ever seen
To prove I’m quite a partying sort of guy.

I never get depressed, I never cry,
But those who do have all my sympathy.
I’d rather go down laughing when I die.

So why are some committed to the lie
That life is hard? They must love misery.
Myself, I’ll be a partying sort of guy
Until I go down laughing, when I die.

Dare to handle fire and burn --
It will not run away.
Dare to grasp it, it will turn
To meet you and to play.

Pet the pretty, sensuous cat;
She purrs as you approach.
As your hand descends to pat --
Claws repel your broach.

When you invade another's space,
Expecting to be loved,
Watch your back -- it's not the face
In which the knife is shoved.