For Him And You

You don’t hit her, but you might as well,

She wants you to.

Your petulant, tactless spirit

Demands that you batter her

With weapons heavier than hands

And she will wait for more

Because your hatred protects her.

She hides from love in you.

Neither of you are capable of anything

Except greed, hysteria, and mutual desperation.

She’s capable of nothing but dinner and pussy

While she counts the pennies in her head.

You are my befuddled violent proxy

And I give you permission

To straddle her like a tombstone

And humor her with the pale flare

Of your love.

If you haven’t hit her, you might as well.

There is no blow that she cannot take

And there is nothing she will not do

To preserve the safety she finds

In your dull-witted, hateful heart.

I wish someone would hit me

Or that murder could end this poem.

I would have them fling my black heart

Over the ramparts of your memory

To hungry dogs on the other side.

And, yes, you would burn
But not nearly as much as me.
I should die like no other
For this poem
And for the crime of ever wanting your love.

Mama

If God would mourn, I would pray
That His crushing tears
Fill heaven's blue and billowing net
Till the grief is bursting
And spills into the sun.

There is no God here
And all answers elude us.
Nothing can explain this.
The persistent, presiding intelligence
That asserts authority over this death
Lives beyond my consideration.

But if It should hear me, hear this:
Cede all You could condemn
And, in Your heart of mystery, forgive him
So that he can find peace in You
That he could never find with us.

How To Harness A Storm

First, you must discover a circus of language

That can properly present the sea.

And compel cyclones of color

To emerge from the tidal swirl.

It takes lucid magic to harness a storm.

You cannot rely on the blindness of form

Because a storm must have definition

To discover the sanction of redemption.

In dynamos of thunder, we can discern

The full breadth of human affairs.

If you lift it as a calling

Consummate in creation

And dismiss the gentle cancer

That lurks behind the clouds,

In that moment, you claim the storm.

It becomes you.

In that moment, the limpid survey

Of tremendous seas

Bring you the strength to master

The storm.

Springtime

Like a fist of grass bursting from the earth,
Like the skin of dew sweetening the flowers
In the dream-like glitter of the morning,
You blossom with the wonders of nature.

The springtime seedpods have sprung from their trees
But their ample yield has no way to match
The flush aromas sweeter than the sun
That color your eyes and trail in your wake.

Like a pillar of green propping up the sky,
The perfumed leaves propel you aloft.
I cannot command what opens my heart.
In you I live, love and find my being.

Our Needs Lain Bare

I knew it would end this way,
We could never repair
The desperate need to convey,
Our needs lain bare.

Our appetites succumbed to scales
Our sacrifice could not meet.
The power of forgiveness fails
To mitigate my defeat.

Who was I to challenge your way?
Who was I to conspire and cling?
How could I build only to betray
The essence of everything

That framed our visions in flame,
That lent a pulse to our light?
I beg the Gods to blacken my name
And shatter my taste and sight

So that I can forgive your disguise
And you can forget the tongue
That lapped the tears from your eyes
And believed you could be young.

The Drawers

The drawers are full of despair
And the dead have your tongue
Splattered on clots of paper and ink.

The heated missives still declare
Phantom passions sung
As we plunged over the brink.

We struggled in a spectral time
And loved as only we could.
The gentle vicissitudes of youth,

The years of articles and rhyme
No longer serve a greater good
And lack the ring of truth.

The Moon

If I were the moon, I would be cruel
And flatten men with my milky fist
Until they can come to concede
The reason I exist.

I would breathe to fill cradles of beauty
That imbue our days with meaning.
I would live to summon daily redemptions
With a mammoth hand of dreaming.

If I knew the moon, I would linger
Over limpid lips that persist
In spurning my every advance
And spoiling every kiss.