the cars sound like ultra-long waves of ocean coming & going

i shudder when i think of me
back in november.  diane & the kids gone.  
that stupid ugly house.  the end of my novel
not knowing what the hell had happened.  
stranded without a car.  without a family.
HATE for diane.  HATE.  realizing what a total asshole she is.  no
longer having to listen to country fucking music, i crank dan bern high,
& vic chesnutt, some classical, some jazz.  able to imbibe again in
peace amidst ruins & chaos.  i didn't like the dog anymore, all that
dusty shedding & charlie's pig-like quality, all the dog-shit off the
back-porch.  i was pretty frantic & wrecked, tho i give myself credit
for not being suicidal.  3 weeks in the darkness & changes
& the phone rings.  ann.  20 years later.  in virginia.  20 years i
hadn't heard her voice, & it's her voice.

this is may 7th.  i've been in this apartment since the middle of
january, & i like the place. ann is moving here the end of next month.
she's given me love & laughter & hope & a future of delight.  this
summer we'll be slow-dancing in the nude in the livingroom in
candle-light.  nag champa incense.  our buddha-bellies pressing.  she'll
be on her tip-toes.  patti smith on the stereo.  cold beer on a hot
night, fabulous kisses.  this is a growing happiness.  this is love.



you know how it goes

he lights his tiny pipe
with a huge red lighter,
orange glow of lava
under his slitted eyes.
mingus in the dark livingroom
& his open bedroom door,
he feels musical
like the muse of jazz
has slid into his skin.
he sits in his chair
like a wavey undersea anemone
pulsing like breath
in a crevice.  off with his 
green shirt!
his belly folds over his belt-buckle.
he flames the bowl.
mingus snaps to silence
the cassette ends.
he thinks he hears birds
tonight, crows.



cocaine memories

whole big glass of whiskey & water & ice
is gone in my belly, & a certain numb-teeth feeling reminds me
of a dream i had in the 1970's
about sniffing green cocaine on a train
& i was so happy in a place like italy
i was pretty happy
when i spent a summer like 1977?
doing grams in ellport pennsylvania
& the last time then
i saw ann
a gram a weekend we snorted
i have photographs
of her swollen nose,

that imperfect nose
i so love
neither of us touching cocaine since

but whiskey is another issue.



no disgrace


american males
empathize with 
german citizens
who are stereotyped
for the sins of their armies
against the jewish people
over 50 years ago.

misogyny was cultural & natural
a whole bunch of past time.

magnetized hormones
have indeed produced rape,
& murder, deception, 
daughters of bastards
chained in suburban closets.
dominating muscle
over the translucent mind of perfection

gun-barrel over prayer-book.
& in my maleness i have sinned
thousands of times against
eventual visions of heaven,
tears
teeming
by things i say.  if i did it right

the first time
look at all the love we lose
in that interim time of understanding
woman,
man,
& the human animal.  unfortunately
unforgiveable crimes exist.

they are movies & society
pages.  lone men write poetry about love.
girls cry "no fair".
listen, 
all i want to do
is love
you.  it's true i don't know

how to exactly
because i'm a man.



poetry as sensuous play

she touches edges of my beard
with small middle-aged hands
saying "i love you" as i sit 
on a kitchen chair believing her
& the universe
is skin under blankets on 
a friday night,
red-curtained street-light,
incense from the ceiling,
stevie wonder,
soap-smell of sweet flesh,
the magic softness of her breasts are
my zen pillows, 
dreams in green light
primitive jungle beat of wood
all of her tasting feline,
sharp
where i am cut
of all my stances,
my wise ideas

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