waiting

he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs up on the window sill, in that same ol' same ol'

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping's lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy's slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington's aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch

the rain persists. wind, ennui. ergo, i recycle.

The Pastor's Tale

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin tonight, he wondered. Tasting the young night moth. Just aborn this very evenin, by the sweetness of it. Listening forward, then by the side, he slow walked to the pastor's lane. I am stiller'n the serpent egg, I am. All awrapped and makin shadows. He sniffed - Ah, there's the pastor's breath, close and warm. I'm fat swimmin now, I am. Hungry for the sermon's tongue. Save me, pastor, sang the pale shape of desire. I am the lord's chariot, come down to take you home.

I am the resurrected, he sighed. I am your doubt, I am your black howl. And over the poor and pebbled paths he walked, neither turnin nor rustlin rock, leaf. Til pon the pastor's door he cast his longing. I am angelus come to make my mark. Then sitting down before the servant's door, he tasted lock and knob and frail sad secrets.

I am salvation, he moaned. Come to me and bring your godliness. I would come in, pastor-man. I would come in.

And so it was through window sealed and brick amortared, past crucefix silver, n past wood apolished with fingers' oil, he came upon the man envirtued. Came upon the old god's faithful. Came ensorceled, all a-magicked. And when our pastor's eyes alit upon this most unwelcome, he saw the son. He saw heaven's light.

I bring you eternal life, man of mortal dust. I am the hope, I am the way and the return. Rise up and seek your golden shores here, in me. Rise up and give yourself freely to me, for I am redemption. So it was that night, when darkness came a-stalkin, the pastor was cast down. And the old house heard the boy a-laughin, heard the words all ancient, felt the hot and soured breathin. Then without memory all quiet came again.

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin this summered night?

listening to jackal songs

if you've spoken to my father, know that he is dead
know that when the sun fails, the dead speak from their
glamours, and that fathers weave their jackal songs

about their sons, for he ever was a liar, was this idle
ravisher, who crushed my crocus just as i taught them
turandot's despair, and struck my tulip tree with his

cuckold's brow, felling peony and iris in a sweep, tossing
magpie and catbird from their stolen roosts, so came
this clamour into my harmony, this danger to my careful

plantings, so came his casual desolation where once we
sang g.sullivan with lollipops and tea, for he ever was a
jealous man, who sold my solitude for a mirror's fame

let us sit round his burial fete, together with a glee come
unexpected, and make a magick that will keep him bound.
to those who knew my father, know that he is dead

a doris day lament

he did his sliding dance, with a twisty smooch across my
ankle, singing coffee songs filled with morning breaths

knowing that his buttery lips, fresh with borrowed tawdry
promise, could wrap me with an ancient sweet delusion

knowing in his artless glimmers that our rhumba moved
against the under syncopated rhythm of a doris day lament

so he scats his happy patter as i close the act's old curtains
and he panders to an audience that has never seen a stage

while i slow my heart mis-beating, cover mirrors for the day
he does his sliding dance, and smiles, and then he fades away

'undone' was written during my Barcelona days. Fiddled with a bit in Rome. Presented here for a second time for no discernible reason. Published twice. Basta.

undone

I am ... been ... undone
I am ... been ... felled
Yes, been fallen
I am ... been ... unread,
Listening for my father's voice
I am ... unsaid ... been unsaid
I have no remembrance of my father's voice
I have no ... touch of his voice
I am ... been ... uncaressed.

My father is a made-up thing
A spectred, fabuloused thing
A concoction stewed in my undoing
He is an unwinged, casted down
Fellen, unstrung phantasm
Is my father
He is a glamour, a gollem
Breathing ... dust ... that ... haunts ... me
Is my father
I am ... been ... undone.

I am ... been ... tricked
I am been sorcelled
I am been unwoved
Enstrung by foul weavers
Caughted, fraughted, stoled
Yes ... I am been stoled
Thief - a thief has grabbed and nabbed me
Hid me, put me, stashed me
Undone me and lost me
Throwed me, I was an unworthy steal.

I was ... unworthy
Listening for my father's voice.
Unthought, unlaughed, unsmiled.

I am ... been ... undone
I am been envoided, en-nihiled
Enchasmed, ruptured, fractured
And my father is a made-up thing
Of found, discarded stuff
Grasped, glommed, glismed
Ferocious, fierce, frenzied stuff.

Spring progresses. Your itinerant poet readies for a move to Montreal. All that's needed is a literary salon for the summer, replete with wine, beer and wine.

what if

what if kisses, left in loops on your dancin boy
took his rhumba from his toes, stole those pouty
lips?

the eulogy

to those of you who knew my father, and fill this room
with sustained applause, demanding encore after encore,
i've left your daggers at the door, take them to your hearts

here is my mourning, captured from death's swarm,
here is my scene, where i am fully dressed in stolen
sorrow, wigged and blushed and with the greatest art

a noble son, for i am my own eulogy, and my tears
have pocked this glimmered mask, my grief sustained
is surely through another's weaving, for this day

marks the ending of his magics, marks the cleansing
of his bitter flatteries, so i may sleep without my ancient
hesitation, knowing with a fullness that his breathing's

done

Again, for ye newcomers, here's one for the day while I'm working, working, working away. Send wine and goodies.

the float he was an immoderate man, choking d-flats into his steel horn, riffing down intemperate a-sharp sugary crusty donut shaped violations he throned those iron steps scratched out from his bedroom window, splayed his toes shook his arms to free the juice listening down, waiting out the breathing that stole a few half-chordal splutters, squint-eyed o-ing his lips to mimic back a few gray crossbay air nibbled at his chest hairs, maybe eating them down to their stump, maybe acidizing through his pores, making a caustic trail maybe he'd coda out some butchy-boy noise blonde hair glisses, frat-bunny do-wah do-wahs runnin-the-bridge makin-time atonals his leg found some dancing, shaking a wrong old beat stutter stutter what'd-i-ever-do-to-you and everybody knows boys don't cry boys don't get sweet inspiration, make sweet choices, make supper with sushi make-believe and he splayed his toes cross the edge iron steps, swimming in the moonlight, surfing slip-sliding, chasing dizzies, gutting out and making kisses on his horn, steel smooches making him a good boy, an honorable boy a make-me-proud boy, and he gripped the iron one last time, then did the float

untitled #1

there was a time, i'm whispered, when i slept midst
shadows drawn by father sun, full bewitched from
dawn's falsities, until aged day fell into its long decline

before i was entranced to taste the moon's crescendo