The Peloponnesian Wars

You may have a shattered vase,

but I have a red rotund rose:

love that is somewhat obese, but

better than anorexic lust that eats

its own head, like a macabre circus

that, with clowns tumbling from the

trapeze, swallows itself with vigor.

If I were crashing in the Andes,

would I be the food or would I be

the chef? No, I'd just devour Darwin,

and then God would be happy again,

and no monkeys would have brains.

The subject of monkey zombies merits

consideration. But not at this time,

because the pieces of your vase

have ancient paintings that portray

Odysseus engaging in BDSM with

the sirens. And my flower wants to

wilt, to return to the sadness it

represented in a past life as a seashell,

when Matthew Arnold put it to his ear,

inside his cozy study, and heard

Sophocles and retarded Spartan armies.

So when we crawl into the broad

battlefields of our bed, and re-enact

the Peloponnesian Wars for decades,

don't be surprised if I storm your

Parthenon and defile your gilded gods.

For I am Zeus, and you are Io, and

Hera is hunting for your heifer head.

So I'll shove the flowers into your vase,

and we can decorate a diner for eternity.

-10/29/10

Harvest

In the gloaming, you are grainy -

less like woodwork and

more like wheat.

You lull, and list, and luff, like seafields

fallow before frisked by my machines.

Yours is the smell of the midwest

- in the dusk of summer -

made manifest for the attempted harvest;

and oh, what seven years' famine

is carved by the sharpest scythe.

This spade, this plow, this pen, presumptuous

inventions, pretend to lend their edges

to a vain endeavor -

And still you lie like tender fields untamed;

I can only grasp you grain by grain.

~9/30/10

My Mona Lisa

I don't know why you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
but I am not beyond your mysteries.
"You can't understand a woman."
I've heard that one before.
But your secret is no different
than the secret of time, or space;
or the secret of life,
which you make with me
when we two are one.

Your secret is not in your face;
not from your deep, dark eyes,
as unfathomable as any stretch of ocean;
not from your whisper-filled lips
that may contain many secrets
(all of which I hope to hear);
and, no, not even from your nose,
though how it succeeds in fitting you so perfectly
may mystify me,
from time to time.

Many spy on the horizon,
as they do when looking for other answers:
they find your secret of life;
they find your secret of time
(but not how you make so much time
for one as me);
they find your secret of space
(but not how you make so much space
for love of me).
But to discover why you smile,
I will not search in typically masculine ways,
for then I would fail.

I search your heart, my darling,
and find only that to a gentle touch
and to a warm tear
it is always open.
I search your head, my love,
and find such a puzzle inside
that no secret could be found,
even by you;
and it is obvious by the tilt of your lips
and by the glint of your airbrush eyes
that you know very well why you smile.

And so, finally, I search your soul;
but only my soul can interpret yours,
and they speak in languages
far beyond our comprehension.
So let us set our souls free
to wander, and wind their way,
and intertwine
in the far reaches of the galaxy we share.

And still you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
and still I am mystified.
And so, I paint you.
I draw you out onto paper:
every line, every curve, every shade.
I draw not a photograph,
for photographs have tried to capture
the secret of your smile;
tried, and failed.
No, I draw a portrait of you
that is not perfect and not flawless,
just true.

And so I stare at you
to find your features,
to be the Columbus of this voyage;
the first man to understand the secret
of a woman's smile.
Maybe you smile for me -
or maybe I am vain - you smile not for me,
but for life, or for children,
or to look pretty, or for the poor,
or for money, or for the pink windowshades
in the background of the room.

I am at the point of resigning myself
to be yet another puzzled prince
when I see you,
your lips and your eyes and your nose and all.
Your secret, as grand
yet as simple as the secret of life -

you smile because I wonder why you smile.
Your secret is nothing more
than the secret of knowing
that you do not have a secret.
At least, no more than I do,
and we will find each others' secrets
in time.

My Mona Lisa,
I know why you smile,
and I smile too.

~04/2005

Bittersweet

The bitterness of your distance
fades a little every day;
each airplane that floats by
takes me miles and miles away.
This way, I'd go, I'd run, I'd hide,
but your eyes see past all the pride.
Though I will be invisible to you,
through and through I know I'll wait,
and savor each little taste you give me...
every one is bittersweet.
It's you and me,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I ran a marathon,
but it was all the wrong direction.
I dreamt I won the lottery,
but my wealth crushed the economy.
I woke and walked along the beach,
rainy sand on foreign feet;
looked and saw, to my surprise,
two sets of footprints on the horizon.

The bite and sting of pesky thoughts;
where's the peace of eastern men?
I'm not religious, but if I believed,
the laws of nature would have to bend.
And I drive the same monotonous route
day by day, and lacking you.
Through and through you know I'll take
and savor each little taste you give me...
every one is bittersweet.
It's still you and me,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I climbed the tallest mountain,
but still couldn't reach to touch the sun.
I dreamt I swam across the ocean,
and in the middle you were floating
like an island, a lonely planet...
sleepless nights with airplanes landing.
I couldn't hear above their roar;
I yelled for you 'til my throat was hoarse.

* * * * *

And so I stir, spoon in coffee,
wondering when to lift and taste.
Bittersweet we may always be,
and if I find that that's the case,
I may nod and go, or hide, or stay,
but you'll have to fix things any way.
This is what's inside of you,
this battle waged inside of you,
and each taste you choose to give me,
every one is bittersweet.
It is you and me, yes,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I played the perfect song,
and forgot it when I paused too long.
I dreamt I drove, or maybe flew,
but crashed along my way to you.
I woke and walked along the street,
ghetto trash on foreign feet;
looked and saw no signs of life,
all alone in the night.
So I kept on walking down the street,
singing, "you and me, we're bittersweet."
"You and me...it's bittersweet."

~06/2006

Half Right

You're no private school;
there's tradition in all the rules.
If only it were easy,
like one less head, an empty seat, but
I've got voices that follow me.
They talk to me,
condescendingly.

You're no math exam;
I can't study my way into being a man,
or cheat inside of any class,

because this is only fail or pass.

I've got voices that condemn me:
they're temporary,
as is my sanity.

You're no flag salute;
I sing anthems in a tie and suit,
but they don't mean a thing
if I don't believe in what I sing.
I've got lyrics that betray me,
as if they hate me.
They hate me.

You're a book to read,
half of which I'll never see.
You're a voice in me,
half of which I'll never hear.

~06/2007

Translations

While we lie together under the bed,
hiding from each other,
trying to race ahead;
I open my mouth and there's no question,
but is there an answer?
Guess it depends on how far we run...
how far we'll run.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

While we hibernate, thinking of winter,
deciphering each other
and becoming the symbols;
I feel that I have something to prove,
but I can't decide what,
so I'll leave that up to you...
I'll leave it up to you.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

Your kiss, it's a moment's breadth,
a lion's roar, a joker's jest,
and I can't decide what to do with it.
Your eyes betray that they want to win,
and if I gave you the opportunity,
would you pass it up?
Would you defeat me?

So while we smile in our seclusion,
we seek conclusions to these tales.
We're well aware they have no beginnings,
and happy to try though we know we'll fail.
Come with me, speak in tongues...
we'll find our own translations.

~10/2007

The Lost Wolf

I searched all my life
for reasons; they were hidden.
I've been thanked, loved, beaten,
but not forgiven.
"Blessed are they that are not afraid,"
and as I look at you, I know,
here I'm weak, here you're brave.

I judged with a fist
and a stony face, and gavel;
I babbled on like a lawyer,
but you welcomed my drivel.
And with an open heart, you let me in,
accepted back to where I belong.
No-one else knows where I've been.

I loved like a lost wolf:
your bitemarks, my rack of lamb.
Full moon is come, there's no infection;
my love, oh, you still stand.
And with your hand you do absolve me,
tame the beast, so he believes
that all else is raindrops;
you're the sea.

~01/2008

Mangled Web

"What a mangled web we weave," you say,
and I agree. I down drugs
to deceive my demons; when you speak
you slur your esses. So I try to break
the bubbles in our brains as they leap away
and laugh at me, but I don't hallucinate -

I just watch the world weave itself into
new knots. I always thought I was the thread,
but now I know that I'm the needle...
and you're the thimble. Our heads wobble.
Our bubbles' mettle bursts with treble trembling,
and you say, "unprick me now, you bastard!"

But I will puncture you until my pattern is
sewn into your web, or until you can wiggle
yourself free. "A mangled web indeed,"
I thought I heard you say. But then again,
the bubbles in our brains were made to dissipate,
and we trapped them much too late.


~09/09 - 04/10

Harmony

You and I,
suddenly removed
from our clothes,
in harmony turn away,
like swimmers in a pool.
Synchronized smiles -
red exertion fades -
we flounder in the water.


~05/04

Metaphormosis

Oh, my spine is weak, so
trim me close into a quire and
I will sing a story all for you -
closer to quarto than you know.
If you sew me with a steady hand,
know that I will buck; for
if I shall be bound, it will be
for Gothic myths and fantasies,
and not to your fairy tales.
And if you shall bind me, it will be
with ropes and bedposts, and
not to your sadistic soul.

You see, I don't cut down trees to read,
but find papyrus in the reeds
and weed it out to sow the seeds.
We all sew with seeds, fertilizing our fevers
until we can harvest them and
make passion with violence; so
if I shall be planted, it will be
on my dastardly ass and never
in your garden.
And if I shall be tilled, wait until
I am ripe and red, for then and only then
will I be fertile.


~09/09

Hay Fever

You were asleep in your dark barn,
honey, and dreaming of the son, so -
I filtered through the slats -
and lit up the lonely stalls -
and you looked directly at me, so
like an eclipse I blinded you.

We tumbled through the hills of hay,
honey, hunting halfheartedly for -
a needle, a thimble, a rag -
to wipe away your lazy eyes -
we were wishing wantonly that we
would not be pricked.

And then we heard the evening crickets,
honey, and knew the day was done, so -
I grew from the ground - like Narcissus -
whispering, where is your dark barn and
where are your needles nesting now?
why did you never sneeze?


-4/8/10

Nine Out Of Ten

I'm no surgeon, but I could
carve your finger off with a scalpel,
if you were too afraid.
Like the man who sawed his hand off
so he wouldn't starve, but
your boulder crushes you by choice.
Perhaps I could even gnaw it off,
if I weren't so hungry.
Hydrochloric acid wouldn't be so bad;
a slight stinging and then - voila!
I'd cut mine off to match, and
we could step together down this trail,
hand in mutilated hand, one
limb short of a tree, one
digit short of a decimal system.

~02-10-10

Tierra del Fuego

Alive like a car,
cold coffee on the dashboard.
It's gonna be a long night, like
Chile in the winter.
A land lit up, the reflection of fire:
Tierra del Fuego en fuego sin agua,
the most volatile place you can
visit, if you never bloom in my head.
You're not a cactus; you need
water, or coffee, and even then
I've never seen a flower kiss the
darkness without cringing.

Dead like a star,
whose spark never quite reaches
my engine. If we stay still, we
travel at chaotic speeds -
all relative, of course - but there is
an order to our route that says,
"keep driving." Into the land of fire,
the long night, the vast and violent barren
blackness that breeds life. One sprout,
dancing in the dirt, kissed by
a narrative that needs two writers.

-02-09-10

Rubber Band

I stretch a rubber band to
the breaking point.
This is me, I say to you.
Should I be a slingshot, projecting
pebbles into your pond?
Or are you already rippled?
I could be a cog to your wheel,
and we could crank this
into gear.
Or I could snap, with sudden
calamity, and...no! you say,
I will not snap.
Your kisses, your caresses, your massages
will ease the tension, and
Before long we will master the machine;
we will turn slowly;
we will manufacture galaxies.

-02-14-10

Ode to the Clitoris

lay down sally you bettah slow
yo mustang down down inuh earlier
song, ooo baybee said oooo, youre
tha pianer woman, im tha rockit
boy of summer thaz turn on me, turn me
closah, tiny danceh n yo lectric boobs n mohair
soot wah ditty, ditty dum, ditty doo sweet
chile o my, carolinee, baybee james, home alabamy,

charma kameleon, you cum n go, oh
mama mia, mama mia, letter go offa tha
rails on uh crayzee train wit layla n cocaine, you
got tha good vibrations, dun need no education, if
you was a bullfrog youd be no frien o my
slowride, tek it eezee, tha soun o your wheels
drives you crayzee bout tha sharp dressd man, maam,

shaykit up baybee, twistin shout shout let it all
grow whur mah rosemaree wakes me up before
you go go show yo funkee strong fightin crimson
n clover n over n over n over n over tha floodin
down in texas, safe n warm in l.a. wit peena
coladas, you lak dem peena coladas I put tha
lime in tha cokenut jus fo you.

~04/09

Socks

I think I’d like you best
wearing nothing but socks,
tiptoeing across the cold linoleum
to return with a blueberry muffin
that we baked the night before,
and spreading yourself over me,
a napkin, a tarpaulin, a sail…
while I enunciate warm weather words
of wonderful fantasy lands,
C.S. Lewis in one hand, the other
tiptoeing over your hip, exploring
the hollow near the bone, dancing
to a hushed duet.

-03/03/09