of my toes pressed to the molding,
my forehead and nose scrunched to the paneling,
my eyes scan grainy wood and cross eyed,
I only see a blurry
what has placed me vertically prone against
not the events in time, but my reactions to
They have thrust me into this horrible position
where I can no longer view the whole
the entire room before, from every angle postured;
no self inflicted, painful sorrow will keep
me here for long,
since life's too short and I shall not spend
flat against this sanded
So bored, I can't even take a step backward,
no clear vision, forward now as this room
cannot show me the way..
no glass, not even a window
at last can fade away
beyond the imagined view of bright horizons.
Clearly I belong outside;
God, I hope there is
a door in this wall.
in the rye
in a field of rye,
there stands a ladder
the hope of tomorrow,
and you descend
from the clouds of doubt,
made more aware
by this device's unevenly placed stairs,
you climb down them
being a bit
your hands cannot be held;
I, holding on,
looking up, am helpless
to guarantee your grip
that might keep you
safely on the ladder
till earth is reached.
peering up at you,
I see the tension in your knees,
the ever-slight quivering of your calves,
showing me you are so unsure
where the next rung might be.
half way down,
you tilt your head,
glancing over your shoulder,
you call out:
"If I slip and fall, I'll crash into
you and surely hurt us both."
I, of course, am invisible .....
as it should be;
so through me pass your words
to someone below.
"I'll be here for you if you wish,"
"trust your steps...be confident."
He winks directly at me, and,
still looking up, he whispers
so only I can hear,
"Or, should she fall,
I'll catch her in the rye."
song of myself
i sing to myself without permission
songs of silence
penrod and sam
ps i love you
i sing the body e-mail
songs of parting
i sing off key
songs of drum taps, blow bugles, blow
rock around the clock
rock of ages
i sing no more
soft, sweet , gentle zephyr to your rhythmed
across a woodland where branches have sung
their mysterious breezes into the chosen ears
of your desired, needed reception.
softly, sweetly, gently do i shower your awaiting
not with reprobation but with misty hope-sprays
of a golden day...out of the dreamful knell
bathe i you in moistened blessedness
of a passion-filled cloud of loving rain.
or am i to you
a hurricane, uninvited on to common shores
of weariness, of sameness, and do the breezes
live only as gale force winds,
unweathering your unforecasted, unaware depths...
unfulfilled deep inlets where your undeveloped
is now pounded by some out-of-control, unknowing
a deluge of irreverent dreams may be drenching
the daisy tips of your proclaimed felicity;
and who is to say if it really is or is not
that funnels my unbound lover into
a haunting, brooding memory cave
barely protected from a self-created storm?
the fairy of lustrous feelings
to be of the former, gentler season,
so that april rains may yield
the pleasure droplets i wish to shower upon
they're intended, my water nymph, for goodness
i can only languish in your softness
knowing i'm that zephyr that is
visiting your soul
re-visiting your heart
and carrying you off
to a radiant-laden bed of tranquility,
that is willed,
oh by my past with you...
billowed by my passion for you
pillowed by my love of you
i saw a
with a Munich
tee shirt on.
i asked him what's
with Munich, he said
i don't know,
some athletes got killed?
a Jewish boy with
tee shirt on,
and asked him
it was the
olympics , Jews died.
the games went on.
On the other side of a whispering morning,
Teeth itching and my tongue asleep,
Im in a subliminal hangover.
My childhood serves up a memory, unasked,
From the rides at Asbury Park
To the utilities and railroads which were
All I could ever buy.
And I lied about liking being short, too.
Elections and awards, they all drip from the
Glistening fragments like an autograph of
"Best of luck at Indiana University."
Here's to the English teacher and his rye
I didn't lie about liking kids.
Amalgamated, consolidated philosophies
From the page to the soul, like politics
They ooze through the cracks in the earth.
A distorted legacy out of focus,
This ballet of honesty,
Twirls on the rim of a champagne glass
Left from the party.
And they never tell lies, right?
Old age will still come knocking,
Ill here faint music on my door harp
As one door closes and another opens.
It was just another evening with the gang
Uninspired time caught in my stream of unconsciousness,
And who's gonna clean up the mess they all
Lying around here last night?
As I sit in my bubble bath, I take
and disdainfully and carelessly submerge it
'neath the foamy white.
It cannot breathe for long, and the escaping,
surfacing bubbles finally stop.
So time's negative, arrogant prophet is dead.
As I begin to wash, I grope with both my hands
in a half-desperate search to find
It was here when I started my bath...elusive,
yet large enough to see.
Could it be, that in the frantic time it took to drown
what I feared the most,
that my positive aromatic promise had melted away?
Now I'm left to watch these moistened air-domes fizzle
It is only a matter of time before the water will evaporate
So I tip the metal key of endlessness with one
big toe and watch it all drain.....
Now alone in my own coffin's residue,
I dare not touch the