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Adorn This Wall

With the tips
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

Who knows
what has placed me vertically prone against this wall...
not the events in time, but my reactions to them.
They have thrust me into this horrible position
where I can no longer view the whole

I've seen
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 it
flat against this sanded

So bored, I can't even take a step backward, achieving perspective...
no clear vision, forward now as this room of doom
cannot show me the way..
no glass, not even a window

My pain
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
attached to
leaning against
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
with me.
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," says he;
"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."



a song of myself
  willie wonka
  walt whitman
  wife, woman
i sing to myself without permission

songs of silence
  penrod and sam
  paul simon
  ps i love you
i sing the body e-mail

songs of parting
  mickey mouse
  marilyn monroe
  meter made
i sing off key

songs of drum taps, blow bugles, blow
  rock-a-bye baby
  rock around the clock
  rock of ages
i sing no more


april zephyr

be i a
soft, sweet , gentle zephyr to your rhythmed soul
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 skin
not with reprobation but with misty hope-sprays
of a golden day...out of the dreamful knell of dryness.

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 terrain
is now pounded by some out-of-control, unknowing air-burst?

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 a tornado
that funnels my unbound lover into
a haunting, brooding memory cave
barely protected from a self-created storm?
implore i
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 you;
they're intended, my water nymph, for goodness only.
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,
of peace
that is willed,
oh by my past with you...
billowed by my passion for you
pillowed by my love of you


Munich Tee Shirt

i saw a
gentile boy
with a Munich
tee shirt on.
i asked him what's
with Munich, he said
i don't know,
some athletes got killed?
i saw
a Jewish boy with
the Munich
tee shirt on,
and asked him
the same
he said
it was the
olympics , Jews died.

the games went on.


Politically Incorrect Party

On the other side of a whispering morning,
Teeth itching and my tongue asleep,
I’m 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 fireplace mantle,
Glistening fragments like an autograph of pain:
"Best of luck at Indiana University."
Here's to the English teacher and his rye toast,
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,
I’ll 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 left
Lying around here last night?



Bathtub Philosophy

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 away.
It is only a matter of time before the water will evaporate
into space...

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