i couldn’t find

you didn’t tell,
and, hell, i didn’t care —
except you teased
my launch to mars,
called it ‘kiddy kar’,
like i’d stolen mercury
and misaligned your star. yah,
i’m impossible.

you reinvented your history,
like a last month’s christmas tree,
bangling oggles, stretched out wooble:
wooden wingless wigs on trump’s fedora —
i implore ya not to get too hip intensitied,
cause mr. leprosy has got your back.

and, i’m so mellow here in porkland,
watching pigs roll down the feathered hill —
chilling with the leprechauns and demons,
such a fright. and, nights are wizard,
with each drop from fremont bridge
into the frigid willy-met: splash of skum
presents on stage the final biosphere,
and we’re rejected for the future
we’ve just passed.

you didn’t kiss, and, well,
i wouldn’t tell you how to shoot;
your girl’s a fool for masturbating when
you’re raving in the rust belt far and gone;
getaway, to contemplate the station
guide in some small world of plasma space —
learn things we thought we thought were worthless: grin and glow.

if i must pick apart the slivers of my memory,
pinch each punctured line and redefine
what’s life or art; what kept us far away —
replace the sadness meat of history, of you and me,
with something smileable to play me while you’re
puking in the bar.

i didn’t tell you how so beautiful you looked last night;
i forgot to bring the orchid for your wedding gown —
i’ve often felt i should adore you more, to be polite,
but, polite’s what the clown tripped over, leaving town.


so, would you would you hesitate to play?
all the things in store you’ve heard of —
things you’d like to do, the most?

we’d whisper
inside whispers,
night and day, and charge on amex,
rooms of cashew ginger peanut butter french fries,
spread on toast.

and, arthur rubinstein would sing our brand new birthday,
tatting on the keys — no mystery here, it’s only play.

the fold and fold of fingers bending years inside
beside themselves; fleeting rushes kissing loving….
wrapped inside time’s feathered gown;
let’s dance a double curve back through
our history… instead of faking moments: time don’t pay.
and, make a song we’ll sing again, invent a ghost gray Saturday to hide inside
between ourselves.

you’d sing a song to wake up sleepy willow trees,
you’d tap dance on the floor of xanadu. and, all the while,
where would you could you with the other girl who’s listening,
who’d stop your pitter-patter with a smile, and you’d be gone.

soda springs




paint rags 13 all around
tree twigs
are breaking —

gray sticks split
in copse
and furrow,
random twigs.

guide us
through this desert…
glide between them,
happy to obey.

once, lip to lip,
i talked beyond
believable —
lands of mound
and dune: red
desert sands.

so many white-splashed
cross these river boulders —
twigs and stickers
wedge between
the granite breaks,
into each rock,
red-root [dik].


i’m tired and i want

i’m tired and i want,
and what i want
isn’t what i know,
but i’ll write
and talk about things,
and i don’t know
but i’ll say to you
how much i cannot say
and you’ll ask why,
when all i know is must
and my body must defend
itself against the death
of empty space.

i ride past the dead,
my horse veering,
so receptive
to other

i look up
into the vaquero’s eyes, how you
flick the reins
with moody hands.


you come into the room







you come into the room,

and i must pretend i am not part

of you —

see you here,

and all the chairs, tables,

rickety legs are you,

i cannot touch the world.

cannot place my hand

upon your chest,

your cheek,

rub across your brow;

place the crown of laurel.


light is yours,

perhaps that’s why

these shadows over

light must be my

own quick dread —

fear you’ll leave


i see enough of you,

to see at all.




  1. 23.03












not allowed

to even be,

i ride through forests, child

of trees, my first steps


treading on dead

leaf and seed.


have you,

do you see me riding,

even hear my horse’s echos,

strong dark root

of kock and seed. you laugh

and slice me,

pale knife.


have you heard

it? peasant

tale of naked youth,

a tree, the smell of horse,

the sense of oddity? peasants

hide behind dead trees.


i ride

to the land of mirror —

i need to reach you,

stretch out

langor, shall i touch

you? green leaf vigor —

beauty of this city.


naked youths


hand on hand, glass


i wonder

if you know

my name?

they sing

of fire stretched out

of water

memory of trees.



heart like a boy









rounded thingheart like a boy,

i dream i fly

to the spire of island —

ride beating flanks

to land on green sable,

rub the birthstone —

          red stone smooth,

burnt ember —

reach to you,

i fear your eyes,

my curiosity.


you hand me

a golden rope,

i do not know

how it could be…

boy piss-stream

beads on lilies

how we have bodies —

edge of


point of splendor.


press the rope to me,

dry wheat straw,

hidden ember… dream

of lips, your

salt-dry fingers.



  1. 27.03





understudy sm







— “you’re sort of our muse.”


water in water,

light in light —

water descend,

water will rise.


i lay on the floor,

square cold tile,

water is rising.


Am the floor,

sheen on green tile,

water cover me: arms

to arms, cover me —

held in green water.


i am light,

but cannot shine —


skin, all beneath

green glaze,

dim radiance

for your

curious eyes.




shadow faceroot to spine,

ponderous steam

of dirt and pig.


blood thin root

drain Here, Now,

Know, boy,

from possibility.


beautiful fruit:

piss stream of acorn…

fruit of mind,







he is beautiful,

this tree,

this endless oak

of eternity.




[red ochre]

i don’t know,
but you’re like
the clarity
of water — beaker
of translucency,
transparent to the pines
and hills of my tuscan
vision: your renaissance eyes —
da vinci
figure in red
chalk — drawn
before he broke
the glass
of water.
like water,
you bend
the elements
of my vision —
two echos
off red river

or, so reality —
as i might
know reality;
red clarity of my
image of you
this sunset evening,
far from
where you talk
with friends,
the empty glass
upon your lips.


[cobalt blue]

far away from you,
there is a magic
moment of you
where i am two people…
your hand on my chest,
my heart,
your heart in mine.

far away from you,
in that moment
of being you,
when i’m no
longer gray
and cold
and only me,
i kiss you
kissing me,
see your eyes —
my sparkle blue
diamond pure
in scattered velocities
of crystal black —
i miss you so…
yet, never left you,
never joined,
our being ever only
mine as mirror
of a golden sky,
minor universe,
one half
of night.


[burnt umber]

you draw
the line in amber gold,
i draw pale green
your finger…
faggot tracing
of your memory…
green for amber
in mirrors,
umber browns,
green vivid
blues and blood thin
red of summer

i grab the earth,
hold the dirt
of grape and plankton
fossil tissue —
build a mound
of amber orange:
translucent tomb
decayed to umber
in the quiet dark.
trace your name
into the earth,
i draw the art
and love
and umber-figured
you were never
there at all.

amber sparkles, in the dirt,
my faggot soul.


[chrome yellow]

all the edges
of sand
in shallow water,
earth’s ripple —
movement over waves —
have turned
to water.
all is liquid
and colored
red ochre…

forest fires
blaze bright,
lesser motions;
all is fire,
casting color
on the pale
periphery of
water of life,
water joining
boy and girl —
chrome ochre
chest and arms
claim precedence
of love and yet
is told as colored
caustic yellow,
chrome identity, boy
and girl.

chrome yellow hair,
chrome wave
above the sea,
blue shadows.