...2:39 in the morning...

we can't do this:

no matter where we are:

we can be here:

instantaneously:

if necessary:

and if something did:

go wrong:

we wouldn't be notified:

because nobody knows:

we're here:

we're here:

but it is useless:

we might as well:

be at home:

ready to spring:

to attention:

to the upright:

position:

of the rest:

who walk with us:

at 2:39 in the morning:

if necessary:

...prayer and praise...

the softest side of the skin is unseen

the last wisp of hair glimmers without the sun

foreseen only in the distant detail

we look closer and closer at the clock

and hope it will stay still

no arm moving forward

or back to a false belief

but right here

and seemingly now

this will all be part of the cycle

just like the dismissal of cells

that appear as skin

when we fold our hands together

we pray that they cannot ever

separate or lose the other

this is not what we get

when we praise one another

when it is undue

this is what we get

when we finally get

what it is

that takes us over

...scurry...

are these squirrels

in my ceiling

or in my head

or is my head

the ceiling

I am thinking of?

...to rest...

the shrouded

to rest

eternally

in the warmth

of the soil

and in the warmth

of the wife's return

to the husband

like the child

to the womb

or the lover

to the embrace.





(in memory of Ann Nagel)

...2/22/08...

at long last

we have white

and piles of it

and prior to

the plow's first

salt and pepper

mow the dog

is pouncing around

like a mini-horse

and naturally

without a change

in aperture

or setting

or lighting

we have the perfect

contrast:

black black dog

on white white snow

(shutter closing

slow)

...illness in flux...

with each wave

you go in and out

of real and unreal

and question the nightmare

as if it were actual



that fear in your eyes

is the fear in your head

and that fever that

comes and goes

is as real as the needle



that they use to settle

the stomach or spasm

this illness in flux

and will be for a few

more days

...like everyday...

I love you

and miss

you so much

it hurts

to say

I love you

and miss

you so much

...miss piggy...

you used to

call yourself

miss piggy


everytime

you belched

while playing


scrabble

and tallied

triple word score


I need

miss piggy

back today


a belch

is a sign

of satiation


that's all any

of us wants

right now

...damn it...

just got

shut out

for MMJ

tickets

damn it

this feels

like the old

days

who's got my extra

...semi-final...

This is in Australia:

women in short skirts

hit yellow balls really hard

and my father is the poet

this isn't bizzaro realm

it is perfect karma, yet anti-spiritual

I can't decide

which stroke produces

the loudest grunts

two hands or one

and I can't figure out

which is hotter

watching tennis

or writing a poem

about it (not just making

a dumb ass joke)

injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere


--Martin Luther King, Jr.

...1 Mil Press Con...

check out the new disc recorded in lovely Bloomfield, NJ...

http://www.archive.org/details/1MilPressConference

...with the dogs...

Size matters when fear exists:

Take Noah and the cat:

Take Noah and the dog:

Please don't take them:

He crawls to the claws:

The fear only lives in the feline:

He shys from canine:

This is a learned trait:

How can he fill his boat:

If he doesn't get along:

with the dogs:

I would hate to see them:

Miss the boat:

Him, too.

...first post...

welcome to the new year

dog who comes to town

sad and wet and boney

hopefully this will be

yours as it is ours

and you will be

forever warm

and in the right place

at the right time

...american health cares...

the clouds must part

today they must do

as you say with vehemence

this too I shall do

because we cannot take this

beating any longer

like the dripping water

torture or the time test

and sweaty fists clenched

with fear and anger

coffee and starvation


except for us


no one cares

even the ones

who are paid

so handsomely

to do so

...singing in the snain...

singing along

to La Cucaracha

with new hope

I almost fishtale

off the bridge

thinking the snain

was just passing

through the grate

...tv news kills the romantic in Seattle...

the new ones

were darker even though

you don't think so

dreary is what you called

them but they were rainy

this has to do with locale

the fact that you mentioned

turning on a tv

which I never thought

was an option for you

was your downfall

and the reason

for this aggressive stance

(welcome to our world)

all poems are political

...sleep fight...

as soon as

I hit you

I wake up

...conjugations of conjunctivitis...

not the flight

but the battle

not in the hardest stone

nothing like this

and the bloodshot

worsened with withered hours

and the pins and needles

worked the cornea

(the tributary image

reappears in the once-white

of the eyes, creeping

and creek-like)

until the drops were

administered and I saw again

what you saw

when we got back

home and lit up

the office desk lamps

and wrote about

how irony blesses

us with coincidence

and illness seeps

through the thin thin

walls like the wind

(more ironic that chronic)

...thousands of feet overhead...

the white lawn speckled

with dead brown leaves

and branches veining,

creeping into shapes

similar to tributaries

and rivers

from thousands of feet

overhead,

we sit warm toasted

by the radiant heat

and the pulse of a square light

that singes the hairs

on both of our arms

telling us that we must

move around more

or we will miss

the little features

we used to watch

of each other like

little television episodes.

It snowed to white

and I still do not know

what the small

of your back tastes

like today.

There's no punch like

or catch phrase here.

This is just the age

of the docudrama.