After Hopper

More than the startling light that woke you from sleep,
ink eyes dominate, stare across the border. One thought
from the illuminated bed, in an apartment of understanding,
perfection is the art of being. Neither idle nor
consciously seeking, you warm to reptilian equilibrium,
body toned by ten thousand trips from kitchen to table.
As hard as the journey, you glide past every thankless face,
every kick and punch of outrageous fortune, knowing seldom
does good ever win. Sunshine may disguise loss,
but you accept darkness,
rich as a Raven's iridescence.
Without friend or lover,
you've battled illusion,
sitting upright in the moment, 
already past dull brick apartments
and lapis lazuli sky.

Plea for Epiphany

In the stay,
in the pause,
in the denial of action, I burn
silent, uncertain at sunset
on the side of my bed,
waiting.

Below my window, days
pass like rush hours,
pedestrians shuffle nine to five.
Remembrance of words not spoken.
Even a stuttered 'I love you'
might have made
a difference. Instead,
this is it.

Palace of Wisdom? Excess leads to
more High Life, Maker's Mark,
chaser of Blake, Schopenhauer on the side.
Bliss lasts only
till Charon's drop
on those smoldering shores
of desolation.

Once again tricked.
Once again fooled
by Bacchus and his pards.
Not the music of the Nightingale.
It's the tune of Silence,
the Fugue of a man
who refuses to die
unto himself.

Song of Ramses II

I've never believed the hype,

the burning lies

like the sizzle of bloody beef,

side of greasy fries.

It's enough to turn you

into a pool of silvery-blue fluid

under the car

after gaskets bust

and the days pulverize you

into sub-human dust.

I've given it all, bargained,

begged, bled crimson. Now,

I want green - Conifer, Pine, Spruce,

meandering Absinthe tinted rivers,

forgetfulness

like Lethe.

Give it to those Greeks

for naming a river to Hell.

I've felt it in my heart,

known it in my mind,

but what say the Soul?

Mad-Hatted, holy, little hobo,

freakish clown of Coney Island Cloud Cuckoo Land.

Your Side Show Barker boss, this world,

will pimp you out until you're carried off,

laid out like a Tupac for all to see.


So...


Interrupt life,

Lady Soul,

roll your hips slow,

rock stars between your thighs,

the Milky Way floods with gooey juices,

your moans drone over midnight.

Glisten, Desert of Delight, dying lovers

sniff your perfumed Oasis,

hang their tongues to taste the air like lust-struck lions

waiting for the day

when black birds burn in sunset

and I turn cadaver

still hard in my coffin,

satisfied,

fulfilled,

a Pharaoh

borne on a solar bark

to the Valley

of the Kings

Dinner Time

There's almost silence

at the graves of

Wounded Knee.  Wind-blown beads

on deer-skin shoe-strings

clink against broken

Thunderbird bottles.

Bud cans tumble

across dead dried grass.

Townie high school kids, bored

in history class, left them, homage

to something the young, liberal teacher

said in whispered tones. He’s on the Principal’s

shit-list again, not much liked by most

parents, too, who, in private, still say,

the only good ones, are dead ones.

Can you image? It ain’t right,

but who made the wrong?

Kids say, not us - we played

no part. Besides,

dinner’s waiting at home.

Meatloaf. Let's go.

It would be

a shame if it

got cold.

The Immigrant

I don't know your hunger-scape,
your have and nots, what you
need, the hive you inhabit. You
might as well buzz about
in strange fields, making secret honey
I'll never taste. You exist
having loved, been kissed, having lost,
now rejected because you're in the way,
take up space, took a seat on the bus before
the lady with the Barbara Bush teased back hair
could sit down first. You're as welcome as
a Starling at a bird bath, a plague as old as
burgundy blood waters, falling frogs, showers of
rock and fire. Still misunderstood, sentenced
without trial like the little fat kid in third grade
I called friend. Went to his house after school
thinking the others weren't looking,
and the next day,
when they asked,
before the recess bells
chimed three times,
I denied
I did.

Premonition

Once, in the sweep of prairie,

they heard the wind, the eternal one’s scratchy voice

whisper through dried blades, rattle

desiccated husks. They waited for red skies,

rocks to speak long shadows, black words telling them

the days are short, you must go

south to the shelter of Cottonwoods and Willows,

on the banks of the river that flows lazy

like the tail of a grazing pony.

At night, the star’s bright music

directed the heart’s quiet drum beat

under sky bears,

Standing Rock to Rosebud,

Orion showered arrows
across the Milky Way, 

a sign,
birch skinned beasts

will be heaped upon the earth

like piles of dung,

shape-shifters,
not bear, buffalo, pronghorn, wolf,
never satisfied, always hungry,
always wanting more.
'Who are they?', one asked.
'When will they come?'
The Sky Reader turned
her eyes to Taurus,
cackled at the glow of Pleiades.
'Make Death your friend.
The only thing certain
is the coming
of snow.'

Christmas Party

I toasted you
with an empty cup
which unto itself
was almost
too much.