The Crayon and the Catfish

I had so many things to tell you,
let's pretend the purple crayonmarks
on the wall were made by our son

and not some desperate cry
for being left alone, again,
in our large, childless house...

once, when I was seven
I caught a catfish in a storm,

it gulped the rain so hungrily,
I cut the silver line and released it.

When I was eight, I found it floating
on the top of the lake, a rusted hook
still embedded in its protruding lip-

the angst of its foiled life...

a large, quiet house,
an empty womb.

"It is better to let madness slither away
than to engage its furious fangs"

Passage to Dawn

How will you teach me lover?
of shuddering stars, vigilant moons,
concealed shadows where

black flowers flame silver wicks
on the purple dusk of temple-

answer my prayers, what is kiss...

clear sky, seeds of sunlight planted
in the heart of fog, an entire night

like a passage to dawn
on an oarless boat, how

will you move me-

wings of light, mysterious word
whispered sighs of cloud,
rain and morning, of bird

on the tremulous back of winds...

how will you take me lover?

suddenly as death climbs through
an open window, slowly as the vine
of sleep crawls up its ladder, completely

as the silent moment of losing soul.

Draft- Dream of a Small Room

What speaks of silence- warm breath
without a body, the twine of bundled lips
unwound in the darkest corner of thought,

(each strand unraveled kiss)

the narrow tunnel of a tiny shell
the fingers never breach, the eye

has only dreamed of that small room

where treasures are presumed to dwell...

The Tail of River

I would like to be the one
to inform you- we were never
meant to last beyond
eternity...

a river has a mouth
and a tail, a road
has a gate and a last step

into the mystery of grasses...

even, the faith
of stars vanish

at the end of night.

Draft: In Memory of Our City

We never thought this would happen
to us, buried apart and city remains
as a great stone of tomb with our names
etched in memory on broken streets,
our faces reflected against the shiny skin
of high-rises,

Un intended Journey

There is a certain, sad obstinance
to the grainy leather of soul, which
when rubbed habitually worn-shine
that even age cannot mimic...

why do you worry so? In the end
there is naught but the beginning

rewound, re-played, theorized,
thinning, over-used and badgered

(haircloth of thought stretched tightly
around the fragile body parts of longing)

I have been there... too many times
in many forms, but always there

like the cycles of worm, cocoon,

glorious agitated flight-

straight into the grisly teeth of death...

Soon, you will remember the quiet days,
count them as stamens in mouth of flowers,
every yellow pollen appreciated for its

unintended, ill-conceived journey.

Draft for... Snake and Vine

An empty bottle of cheap champagne,
half-smoked cigarette snuffed out by rain,
seven dollars and a girly magazine
stuffed in the pocket of his faded jeans...

leaning on the corner of sixth avenue
shooting sugar with the chosen few,
glassy eyed and pale green cheeks,
hasn't seen the sun in six long weeks...

red tatoo of a snake and vine,

Silver Wolf

1.
Dangles like a necklace, the setting sun
beaded ornament of glowing nights,
of smoke rising from the distant hills,
of darkness sunken into saffron eyes of owl
echo light as precious stones.

2.
A silver wolf paces the black forest,
an old, reluctant woman asks for directions
in a strange city, instinctively turns east-
the gate of her house closed each evening
with sudden clasp of a rusted latch.

3.
Small creatures wait for day in fear, men
lie down in feathered beds and weep,

........... work in progress

Orange Night

The orange night,
a solitary fruit
clinging to the boughs
of a black, dying tree-

what I remember
of you and the way
you clung to me.

Somewhere in the dark
a cello throbs in arrows
flung through sky

as if to slay

what is left of night
when its heart

burns out.

Questions of Flesh

All bindings released
beneath the intimacy of skin,
questions flesh asks itself...

the same query of dusk-

(hacking, breaking, burning
from severed cage of sky)

what form eternity
assumes when it has

no memory.

The Foolishness of Mature Skin

Did you really think
that your old bones,
leather skin, waning desires

would offend me as much

as the gnashing teeth

of your charred heart?

Separation of Humour

We had a laugh today, each
in our separate rooms,

the ivy grown
so thick between
the walls...

no one heard us.

Alibi of Silence

It is far more noble to leave
the silence when given
the opportunity, than

to disfigure its smooth,
porcelain exterior

with graffiti of word.

Wounds

I do not believe
that great, empty holes
are ever healed completely...

you can fill them
with what you like-

solid ground, death's confusion,
memories of pearly maidens,
the furry skeins of eternity,

even handfuls of darkness

will inevitably settle,
reveals the circumference

of original sin-

moist earth sunken

over disposed desire.

Today (mourns the sun)

Today the sun is older, yet
mourns the darkness
from which it rose...

a rose, with a nasty temperament
to delight and bite,

feeds upon itself

if no other flesh wounds
are opened by the thorns

of its fickle, wonderous tongue.

The Debt of Man

The descent of angel to man,
demon to the maternal arms of his pride,

began between the parted legs

of a woman, even God
clung to thighs, to womb

as if falling from heaven.

Transformation (from winter to flower)

What we have been this winter,
cold nights of raw bones, blue fingers,
whiteness of lips pressed to snow...

became hoary frost greying
on the crooked windows
of our abandoned house,

whose crumbling walls
set heavy now, over hidden designs

of a wakening slumber-

fragile shoots of marigold and lily.