hidden history of broken


under is never,
torture is hidden. my
mind’s a forgiveness;
my heart won’t repent.

he loved you in silence,
yet told you his heart; it
was empty, a park
in baltimore.
i’ve never been there.

a lawn in
some money place…
big shadows in
a dark night, radiates, and i’m
peeking at
the happy family,
it’s always xmas, father and son.

i dream of a summer place,
of scented trees and babies…
happy dreams!
a mossy pond,
a cemetario of ancient friends,
and, there we’ll talk…
the silence off some lazy
pines feeding our vanities, and
you will tell me how you
are not me.

i play a melody,
rachmaninov to your
vast sympathy:
the clean smooth water that’s
my only his touch;
the icy cold of your
careful loathing.



when i was


you said, dear friend whom i admired,
that i’d be better if i smoked dope —
you said so, but i didn’t hear it, but
i intuited that you meant i’d stop
crushing on you.

when i was an astronaut,
you pulled the plug — i couldn’t breathe,
you cut my air.

when i was a ghost,
you sometimes shivered — i didn’t want
to frighten you, just say hello.



it is that kind of day when
the people are slower than
the street, and marshall
mcluhan had no clue.

and all the small beats
kept to their bed,
with moreen and mark and
me too under the
covers, playing time stand

poet’s object and realty

th (13)


object and value. i react, but my reactions exist in the real, even if what i react to is an illusion.

as a poet, i try to refine my feelings into a simple, single, feeling. i want to find the object of desire. not of disgust or desire, but desire. i establish a new value. then i react out again, renew or re-identify myself as a being in control, a ‘knowing poet’ and whatever else i identify with and package for, during the writing of, that poem.

this is idealism, this is thought. i act out my thinking: my reactions to a trigger are acted out in a structured, controllable way. but, i am sharing this or even projecting this intentionally out to the other. that is, a poem is not a ‘thought’, it’s a behavior. a behavior is a studied or learned or maybe even a physical reaction which is acted out within a narrow world of our total human self world. we speak, move… that is, play out in time and space. connect with the other, the outside of ourselves. direct ourselves to some one thing — define and narrow our need for someone else to satisfy. who we are calling to defines, in poetry, by whom we trust. we trust the authority but also the reader — we’re communicators, meaning we’re expecting a response — we don’t shout into a vacuum knowing, defining it as a vacuum and expecting anything other than our own self assertion — of physically being a real person.

we make things seem real. as a poet we present ideals as physical, emotionally valid, objective reality. that’s why all poems are love poems. that we attach an image, just as i might have an image in my mind of to whom i’m wishing the poem, is secondary — their identity — to the reality that we’ve come up with a mind solution at all. poetry is a pin on the tip of a coiled spring, snapping back at us when we find the spring’s tension limit, the limit of life’s tolerance of our behavior… of how far we can go in blaming others or even our self ( if we’re charitable towards our selves at all. )

poetry can be judged. a poem is a reaction, and in any game we can watch how the player responds, and judge the adequacy of that response to the game’s reality, not just by our ( poet and reader’s ) aesthetic needs. even if we were so needy that we think that sense satisfaction from soothing words is all we asking for.



lots of people in
the sun, summer shoes
and summer hats.

lots of noise and
falls and splats…
summer flies and
summer brats.

here’s a boy who’s
lost in games… ignorant,

in days of yore
and spanish seas…

parents shoving him
to be an empire soldier man
in endless victory.

living in his sand soft
world, who could he kill?
sandman guns
and sandman thrills.



i was wondering about
avalanches giving and
like a father who is
not, like a rain
that dries heaven.

maybe i see that
chidren aren’t cattle.
that our parents didn’t need us.

maybe my wondering isn’t like
wishing, like a dream might
make fathers;
like a snow makes
white rainbows.



black river

mostly, i’m ignoring my hand inside
his hand. such composure, i felt
at least like the mona sphynx.

his concerning,
his yearning,
for a simpler done times
when he’d mellow
in the meadow, by the
black river pines.

mostly. the compressed hand between
his own. such affection, in
pats, like butter on toast.