Easter the stain twisted above
Fingers drumming at a time
only one
Singly
glass crusted
With yesterdays tears
Til tomorrow another.
We had fun not
Tonight
Then what'd you have to do
But then
We didn't have to
only to cry

the fallen angel satan
there we are
what separates us
is ...

on recklessness

Reading of recklessness, the idea that nothing bad will happen if we all, every one of us, were to write a poem. Right now. But if every one writes and no one reads then the point is? Poem making as another empty gesture we all can share in as equals. Like pornography. Yet there are always some more equal than others, and they are those who write of recklessness and tell that we all, every one of us, can up and write a poem without consequence. Or none of the bad ones. If we all, every one of us, were honest right now with who ever might be with us would there be no consequence? If a tree falls in the forest and all that. Crap. There is no sound that is not heard and no poem that is not read. If we write to amuse ourself then perhaps it is not so. But a poem is meant to be read. It is an honesty from places other than. A poem is two ways or it is not. We get little from writing but that it connects, communicates, goes beyond. Perhaps nothing bad happens if we all now, every one of us, writes a poem but then what is the point? Recklessness, yes, without regard but it is more on the others part, not ours

Language aspires in redolent
circles pulsating but never reaching the far
shores draped in willow and moss
The tension of words not spoken, fobidden,
matched only by that of the words we dared to speak.
No.
Never spoken but reduced to symbols depeted of power
some. Like a school of fish convulsed on a stony beach
tearing the protective film. We see they also bleed red.
Still there are some that escape, committed,
flying if only briefly before falling to a gravity
we did not see yet feared all the same.
The stillness of our anger subsides.
Another history unknown.
We have no other choice.
We have no other words.
We deny even these.

Choose your words. Carefully.
Chew your words.
Twenty times. They won't come out so wrong.
Then it was time to dress.
There was nothing. But skirts.
There are no metaphors. Without awareness.
I will not wear any thing. That bites. Today.
Tell me then. How
It is that we learn to. Start. For
getting how we
Remember

nothing else less

books of words like
hope is dying
others we can't yet sound
the meaning is keening above in the night
like the owl to the cat who in black
comes slinking in only after
roaring round the corner like
a bat out of hell
proverbially
and then
you come
riding through like a wind
through the mountain alps
and there
is one other
another
a solitary friend in shadows dusk
soldiering on
like a child's toys battered missing their color
to the craters and the dents of exploded artillery
with letters nonetheless
to write to those left behind where not
once written not
left is much more
is left
to roll on but always
the birds fly on their famous vees
no longer for victory or anything
of the sort
we are all
weirdly armed
on this night
for this night
the one after the one we remember
that never ends as though
it never was.
But still we know.

nother

Probably we won't ever ride an elephant again.
You can come and take notes.
Then you can remember us, remember for us, when we forget.
There is no past where we never lived in the first place.
The second place doesn't count.
Sometimes saying things to get a reaction but whose?
We have to quit doing things just cause they feel good.
We can't keep doing things just not to feel.
There is no good reason to call.
You don't really like any of this.
We don't either.
We have to keep our expectations low.
If we don't the others will help, will do it for us.
We are used to only this.
Sometimes it may seem like to be so much kitsch
The drama of what can only be imagined.
But I didn't really want to tell you.
None of us did.
Not that you really wanted to know
any way.