In the capitol
how little we care
and little we spy.
There's no reciprocal,
no quid pro quo,
no imminent requital,
nowise needs to go, see.
Born out of balance
and at a distance,
nary know, unaware.

It wasn't true
til you heard news of it,
out in the greater empire.
We're let do all the better,
practice our praxis,
but still not know the half of it.
This time, it outlasts other
cycles and its nice to be still
for just a minute.

The occupation
families asunder
cities cindered
bought for my clarity
and maybe, too,
marks the throes
of collapse.

Getting later into life
and still ever find that spark
that led giants into skies
and sailors to the brink
me n' mine to step, forsooth

When rasps are retired
finer things laid cabinet
rousty holes let loose to trash
while the tilds go on to yield,
I'll drown books, I'll hang hats

For now snipping corners
on the page, from the flaggon
Now looms a starry 'stellation
—a good omen perhaps—
alights now on me lap.

...'til they cease to be beautiful."

I think the thing that's Beautiful,
resplendent once and then splayed
anesthetized on the table, under scalpel,
before surgeon, proves atomic—
you can't dissect this thing of Beauty,
exhaust the nature's held, muses lost,
you can't touch it,
you could only cut yourself in haste,
or Otherwise make a model
in sorry mimicry
on some adjacent bench,
gaudy gawky gauche
and then, yes, (I guess)
it ceases to be beautiful.

Hello, I seem to be here still,
do you remain to be out there?
I’ll brush my teeth knowing
that we’re gonna make a go of it.
I touch myself dreaming
of all the places I’m gonna make you.

We’re living in a special case,
subset of an upset time and space.
Fire, was it, or pomegranate
that broke the spell you cast?
Gave up the garden if It’d make it last.

Sorry, why’s I speak is why’s I’m I,
so you ought to talk sometimes.
I’ll ***** my ears hoping
that where we’re the same might be enough,
I tell myself living
with all choices I made without you.

We’re living in a special case,
subset of an upset time and space.
Fire, was it, or pomegranate?
Whatever the cause, the way is flawed.
We’re living in a human race,
if you think you can do better,
well, you’re wrong!

And when I decide to show my face again…
I’m a child of…
I’ve seen miles of love,
my body’s made of blood.
I’m a child of God,
my body’s made of mud.

I’d like for you and I to reconcile
if only one more—
Time is not the catch n’
Space ain’t the constraint.
I gotta hunch it’s in the
changes that we all make.

Go up'n roast on a glacier,
Make a trip of it, Monsieur—
I'll personally see your bags will be waiting,
the kindling's got, mosquitoes smashed,
and site taken.
Go at the right time
and can keep humans
far away enough
as to look like ants.

Rising sun nips the tops
and chills expressed out of the basin
like a sorta sigh.

What at home's only closing up shop,
wiping counters, resetting for action
sweeping between aisles—

up here's watching coals die and sun-up,
the whole scene subside then set in.
Dynamic night stretching miles.

Then glorious Day
and its weight on painstaken paths,
all worthwhile.

We are soft souls blown
‘round with everything,
we are sifted sands
and treated grasses.
We plug ourselves
into cars and wait for destinations;
And still:
Violins ******* make people cry
(the tremolo stings your spine into shivers)

And that gives me something
you might call hope
for my age-bracket.
This has been somewhat of
a spiritual undertaking for me.
The roads of the interstate carry me
out of my reality
and into another consciousness.
Extended driving (the heavy tremolando).
I'm blue-glassed eyes and
I am ultraviolet light
and I open the car window
to exhale a lung of smoke
into the dustbowl.
Well, hell;
It's California.

The heights that burn brightly,
burn high holy in mind,
can they lead us to live rightly,
find us lovers realized?

No one touches me deeper than I can myself,
yet I prevail that there’s someone else.
When with open heart, wallet and bed
we take in people and bare deepest parts,
and still remain strange,
separate yet entwined.

Dead alone at some ripe age,
pray make sure to cover my grave
with mozzarella, amaranths, salame, daisies, sauce
and all my imperfect lovers
weeping in rivers, and eating
a pizza with all the wrong toppings.

Might I learn Love in whist,
from back over all my false starts,
could it teach me to be happy,
to stand by for a time?