basement room

in the blue glow,
your face a round sweet poem that cannot be expressed
full and shifting, wings of a night bird folding over eyes
fluttering of the heart
and the heat and the velvet and damp
O, the rotation of the day and the night
O, the tides of the dark and the breaking of light

ten years away, and ten years close,
as close as a coin in a fist
grip firm or uncertain, now is now is now is
now

isn't that everything
isn't that everything

now is now, and you sigh and curl and sleep
and away from you, I dream and travel and take flight
above the trees and low houses I skim, my way
an arrow to your way, to be loosed upon the world, to
travel to the heart of the heart of the world
to plunge deep into the beating mess of it
with you

isn't that everything

final gig (this lame poem)

a spinning light
like a spinning star
boys in the band
girls at the bar

the smell of beer
the smell of piss
the nights with you
I haven't missed

the smell of stars
the smell of us
I miss you most
when I'm on the bus

the weight of dreams
the weight of you
the heaviness
of what is through

I cooked your meals
I made your bed
you washed my clothes
you kissed my head

I got sad
I moved away
so many things
I couldn't say...

and this lame poem
is just for you
and all the things
that we went through

some things were great
some things were rough
and this lame poem
is not enough

broken plate

Sweet sweetness
you call to me, then let me be.
All I am is yours, what's yours is me.
we circle and spin, let each other out, and in;
end it, begin it, upend it, chargrin it.
You know who you are, and what you can do.
The fragments, the lightness, they come shining through.

wanting

five directions and
one broad smile opening all of the doors
in impatient haste, desire brimming behind
the rim of that sharks mouth, friendly hunger
gnawing and moving strange and unexpected
like an alien child within

we have the face of the dreaming computer, beautiful
in its mindlessness-- and we have the philosophy of sound,
galaxies of music,
birdcages cut open--
this breaking open, this undoing
carries me over,

carries me over

another one for coal

I say to myself:

rise up, dreamer
and engage in the sticky realities and
preservative-free joys of this wholesome life

reach through the window to that distant smile
swim with salamanders, hands outreached below the clear water

begin something
painting in colours forgotten, landscapes yet unseen
form and undulate, glow and press
against the grain of what you thought
you wished you had

but this:
the beyond beautiful,
the bigger unknown

so much better than any fading
fragrant dream
so much better than an imagined past:

this unfolding future.

realia

it's light in the room, from the gloaming rolling in the window
until I turn on the light, and then the dark is resigned to be
what it was all along

different here, unconnected from my recent past
and unconnected from my past past... this is not me.
not my family. but is. unwashed things, dusty corners
piles of secrets and papers and stubby pencils

what I think is
whatever it is I think I see
becomes what I do see;

maybe the darkness was still glowing
despite the lamp in the bedroom

the falling night's
light remaining blue and dim
not darkness at all

old vs. new

it smells of toast and cat piss here;
we linger and malign.
we wage the wars, but stow the fear-
raise the flags, and hide the signs.