Saturday, March 31, 2007

and in the interim . . .

i have a window

i have a window, made of old stuff, grayed out in the sun, where
i can make my spying, safe and full-up with the warm of day,
and it never shadows my careful eye, never leaves me open

to the hardness lying by, it is a window special to my taste,
obedient to my ways, i am become here precious

i have a savory flavor, and i may cause with you, bring you
arias from the world away, pander you with scotches, rums
and scents, leave you pleasured, should i gift you with

lollipops and whispers

come sit with me, i am rare as those hothouse secrets,
i was an old man yester day, drunk up with churchy
hymning, drunk up with frittery oratory, but i have a window,

where i can tango in the dark, wear some fancy glimmers,
bring my little frivols to the play, i have watched you making
kisses, and i'll favor you my bruises, imagine you with blushes

we'll forget the sun betakes us both unkindly, if only you will
sit with me

Friday, March 30, 2007

Good morning across all the time zones of the planet. News! (Of a sort.) If your idea of social and political studies in the US involves in any way reruns of Baywatch, then I have a series for you. You can collect all those old and thick volumes of English history, of which you must have an overflow, and donate them to your nearest Goodwill folks.

I'm in the midst of a marathon viewing of The Tudors. Showtime's new foray into (drumroll) the libidinous 1500's. Who knew that England, alone among all the nations of Europe, offered great dental care, masterful haircuts and complexions that usually occur only on the pages of such profound journals as People and Elle. Or that peasant women wove not brown cloaks but tennis nets.

Now that I've set your minds at ease, you can have another espresso, contemplate the pleasures of porridge with fresh fruit, and breathlessly await my further elucidations. Til this evening, my faithful ones.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

edges

edges of the sea
are more alive
more effective and determined
and where the shallows
are content with morsels
leaving to the deeps some
sweet remains
some palliative for a
greedy hunger,
do these edges of my
sea

i can sit and dawdle
entertain with swirlings
draw arcana in the sand
with just a swizzle for my
wand
forgive my little musings
my toes are salty
brown from lazy and loopy
contemplation
should i have been a prophet
is there a better man
for whispery secrets?

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

the voyeur

death, a petty voyeur
outside, roaming and sniffing
the air, my perfect stranger

where do you live, little
one, when you're not chasing
my dreams, darkly

my bed doesn't welcome you
i have room enough
for my own twisty dance

and death, i thought you
were an old man, or an angel
not a young lad, blue-eyed
dandy

why would i walk with you
these hours are too dark
and my feet are bare

to go a prowling, whooping
climbing walls, maybe
make some thieving

just a fuzzy boy, or are
you an illusion, weaving
lies that i can't outrun

there is a gift for you, wrapped
in glamours, wrapped in spells
they'll keep you bound

when i sleep it's with a doubt
that waking is beyond me
slipped too far from reach

but if that's so, don't think
i mind it, don't think it fearsome
all things slip away

even death

Sunday, March 25, 2007

i can't waltz

there are rags aplenty, here and there
torn and shredded, tossed
where ever i have walked
pieces of a life gone dark
and incomplete

shirts and blankets, coats
for wedding days, for sudden
black parade in funeral cloth
for mothers sitting spare
alone with griefs

something shapes my days
careless, and a little beggared
and i'm slowly deconstructed
step by step, leaving traces
in the years

life is woven by petty gambles
day or night, the game proceeds
let me stop and chance
with the surly neighbor boys
pennies, or some dimes

are you listening to the hawkers
do they offer you the special
and refined salvation that
the monkish fellas stole
can you remember
?

don't gather these rags
their day was never brightened
by the sun, they offer just
a story, maybe wrecked by lies
probably

fancy parties by the lake
splashed with lemonade,
singing tunes from an old man's
rum, and where i danced
all passed away

there are rags aplenty, but
leave them for the dust
here and there, wedding days
books and photos, i
can't waltz

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Mornin', all. Sleepy heads, yawning, stretched across all the time zones of the planet. Will you be sitting on the Pont Marie eating a St├ęphane pastry? Or on the Spanish Steps watching the boys chatter and strut, arm in arm? Perhaps meeting for a beer at sunset at Ydronetta, a reason in itself for floating to Hydra? Where ever you are, I have an interesting lineup for the coming days. We'll revisit North by Northwest, Running with Scissors, Bobby, Babel, Unknown and more. An eclectic linup of film sprinkled with that subversive passion for TV. And the odd little piece such as . . .

dancing

i'll come following you, for you seem to know
the many tricks and fabulations that i need
my own are deceptions far too subtle for the place
we make shelter gainst these brickey walls
cold, even in the summer shade, even smoked
by cans of fire, wetted with our darked-up sweat

we've made some scaresome tales. you, gone
out from home so overfull of wait, jumping in your
goodwill hip-hops, grinning fierce and silly, you,
nearly talking backwards, thinking jack's old
studebaker might make the road our bed; and me,
spouting rawsome poetries that you can't hear

if we walk far enough, won't we go up to the sea?
won't the salty lathers scrub us bare? you've
been humming that old baptist tune, but will it
get us on our way? they can smell our steps,
when they're out running like the dogs, barking
through the night time, sniffing all the posts

i should never dance with you, i can't lead,
you can't follow, and your hymn's an oddly frolic.
whoever told you it was proper? you hide
your hands in secret pockets, touching monies
hid in haste, telling me they're found by walking,
charities, perhaps, from strangers and some fondlings

if i sit here long enough, some newly carved
performance art, giving jokes for quarters, haiku
blabbers for a sack of raisenettes, will i be discovered?
there's a window with a leather chair, and it's cleaned
near every day, like a prostie store in brussels,
rocking near the railroad tracks, neon red and yellow

we'll sleep there in the afternoons, warm our toes
in the pittsburgh sun, make a grimace face, wave
our arms, shake and rhumba for the tourists, arias
to the glitterati, a dollar for a photo, in advance
left by the door, i can wear a hat from paris, you
can skate around the floor, but i will never, ever

dance with you

Friday, March 23, 2007

Are you lost? Have you stumbled here by chance or design? You are exactly where you should be. And that should give you comfort. Below is a morning offering and tonight . . . reviews! So in answer to your . . .

prayers


you've been praying for me
i can feel it in the clouds
i can see it in the summer fog
but i can't hear a prayer
cause words don't find their way
here

i'm gone walking
on this old brown grass
stones don't cut or break
these country feet
got a whistle for the jaybirds
a few mutters heavy
down with secrets

tears don't come with
magicks, or make me tall
and proper
and prayers just aren't
what they used to be
sunset finds me causing
with the old gents
sparkling whiskey like the dew
i'm full up with
forgetting

the hills don't seem so old
and give me jolly conversation
we don't need to whisper
where the dogs are yapping
and the moon can hide
what time has done
i can remember fingers
soft as jasmine
wrapped inside my hand
another day

there's a few steps left
in the path i've chosen
they'll get me where i need to be
a place that i can sit
and while some hours
bring a tune that slipped away
prayers are for a father
and a son
when spring still makes her promise
winter is my lover
now

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Now: Clear, 50F by the Bay. In our City of the Fog.

Tonight, as we've grown accustomed, I'll post a new review. But for the morning, as coffee brews, yawns are stifled, a bit of musing. A bit of whimsy while . . .

making coffee

let's make some coffee, poach an egg, summer makes me
crazy, pollen's in the air, we can sit out in the garden, on
a wobbly little chair, touching toes like school kids at a

corny country fair, and can you still remember, while
we're digging in the past, the day i buried momma, in her
dress from sears on main, gingham full of of flowers, lace

all up and down, bought on time, paid by the month, back
in 1989? how we sat and drank with daddy, til i fell flat
upon my back, had to carry poor ole granny, cause a funeral

is just fine, with its casseroles and cakes, neighbors shuffling
through the house, maybe tears and irish wakes, musics
dark and simple, brass and pipes and horns, but why am i

here daydreaming, what ghost has called my name, why
is the day now darker, than it ever was before? have i
forgotten friends i once held dear, are they faces on a wall?

photos in an album, letters in a chest, and yesterday just
keeps on happening, hours with no end, roses never opening
or is this just my fancy, touched by wishes unfulfilled? but

weren't we making coffee, scrambled eggs, or drinking beer?

Thursday, March 15, 2007

May we revisit our childhood . . .

I was meant, I think, to be an accountant. But I have one blue eye, and one brown eye. And my hair fights me every morning. So primarily, and secondarily as well, I will never find cpa behind my name. When grandmother searches my papers, she won't see a comma followed by letters of distinguishment. I foundered in shame and confusion. I tried to learn Italian, but I wasn't Italian. I tried picking apples, but always fell from the trees. Then, oh my, oh my, there was for me a revelation.

I was 11, and facing failure at every turn. Fearful of a future wholly ignominious, I sat beside my gran-papa's bed. Waiting for the dawn, and gran-papa to wake. And when he opened his eyes, he took my hand and said, "Let's go buy you a cello. You're going to be a great cellist."

Of course I was relieved that it wasn't to be an accordion.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

the magician

the past,
what does it mean to you?
i can tear my shirt to rags
and wipe it from your mind
leave you just a child
or have you even grown
little one

hold my hands
these aren't caresses
there is no prelude to
your passion
i've come to take what's mine
i have the right
purchased, fairly in the open air
like you

but i ask again
the past?
what does it mean to you
does it have some movement
bring warmth
grow hot with love?
bathe you in the dusk
hide you when your window
makes its calling
and you listen

your mother taught you
bitter lessons
kept you in a hard darkness
cajoled and laughed and pitied
an unworthy child
wove little witcheries
with locks
unyielding doors
and now i ask you
what are you worth?

may i go into your secret places?
just a traveler
a collector
fill my pockets with
baubles
and miseries
i have my price
but keep your coin
what are you worth?

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

what?

he stands on the corner
night after night
listening to the moonlight
what is a waking dream
he'd ask you
if your pockets held some treasure
your voice pure with reason

he's heard the passers
barking from the edge
moving below his feet
whispering around his neck
and felt their hot fingers
playing their dark tunes
but he drifts within
this little opera of the street

let's go out into the city
shaking trees on 17th
make some howls together
and when we find that fella
doing his time until
the dawn can walk him
to some bed
we'll jingle our dimes
and rub our nickels

but then
what'll we do
?

Sunday, March 11, 2007

rain, no. 2

i can 't stand the rain
tapping on my window
calling me to dream

i've never understood the clouds
never understood their portents
hidden behind my charms

rocking in this old wood chair
yapping with the fog
come hungry full of gossips

leaves gone brown, some time
yester day, if i can read the signs
learned at my granny's side

this house makes creaks
and shakes me in my sleep
or am i kissing ghosts

i can't stand the rain
when i go dancing
with my feet bare in the cold

listen to that stringy waltz
hiding in the corners
slower than my breath

tapping on my window
voices settled round my bed
calling out my secrets

i can't stand the rain

Saturday, March 10, 2007

kind of

kind of sad, considering
all those years
how can a beginning
be so different
at the end
?

walking through a life
on tiptoes, thinking
in whispers
caught up in the wonder
falling apart

quiet, while i listen
to the rain
it brings such memories
birthdays in silk paper
wrapped in red

it must be time for coffee
my fingers to hold
some warmth
you know, the day's gone colder
in this old house

rocking in the sunlight
curl my toes up on the
window sill
i get sassy drinking whiskey
sing-song the blues

am i smaller than i was
yesterday?
probably

Friday, March 09, 2007

rain

rain
tapping on my window
i can barely
stand the pain
ain't no end to the winter
howls
whipping gray frenzied
winter
how can the rain
just tap
it must think to lull me into
stupor

inside this house i've found
all the ways a gentle man
can waste
looking for a god
or two
making waylay of silly
strangers
writing names and dates
petty and pretty remembrances
concocted, in my usual manner
only i can jabber with
old mr. truth
and win the game

there's a lock for every
occasion
a fact that's sidled by you
unaware
but until you've loved a
lock maker
given yourself over to
the craft
until you've danced that
swirly dance
you may be tempted by
the rain
tapping on my window
smiling at the pain

no,
there ain't no end to winter

Thursday, March 08, 2007

tired

so
old daddy sun won't rise
anymore
gone tired of me
and mine
but i've gone into love
with darkness
easy with its ways
the day was just a thief
would have taken all
that i possess
now i will be young
forever

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

waiting

do i rhyme
with thyme, or blame, or
suppressed rosebuds
and i'm afraid of aphids
cancerous black on my
widow's hand

or do i rhyme with
time, or loss, or
my most gentle son
sleeping these shaded days
with little bouts of
melancholy and schumann

won't you walk inside
with me
may be stay inside
where the airs are fine
with old and sorrowed dust
we've seen the failing
of a father's pride
together

i can sit by this window
forever
how many tears are allotted
in a house with no
children
how many years
til love can fade

can i make any more
confusion
we've had so little to share
you and i
where do you want to be
when the night comes
heavy

do i rhyme with longing
or shame, or
softly grey silence
this battle's gone on
and on
there's only me
waiting

for the rhyme

Monday, March 05, 2007

betrayal

mirrors speak with a tawdry tongue
liars, befuddlers
and think to pander
sell my beauty to undeserving
thieves

but i'll keep what's mine
it is unto me alone
and i cherish it

lovers move like golden snakes
to wrap, to choke
to crush the very air
and think to leave me beggared
destitute

but i've places dark and safe
where i can keep some truth
and none are violated
where the corruption of the world
is locked away

mirror, my mirror
you were beloved, once upon
a distant time
and i have been true
ever faithful

how can life become such
a fickle master?
betrayal finds me lonely
and singing with the dead
all through the night

Sunday, March 04, 2007

memories

you have photos,
say we were lovers
did we marry
sometime in your past
did we waltz
across the garden
did i carry you
ever
?

you have memories
say that i kissed you
brought you flowers
and ice cream
was i a wonderful
lover
?

you have letters
say that i wrote them
from far places
islands and castles
bringing you presents
wrapped in silver
was i gentle
and true
?

you have memories
say that i made them
was i handsome
and clever
constant and laughing
show you summer
and joy
?

am i reflected
in your eyes
your magical suitor
strong and immortal
opening doors
waking you softly
was i your
prince
?

i seem to remember
a day gone golden
gone misty
and distant
somewhere far away
across an ocean
lost in a valley
protected by magicks
don't i
?

i seem to remember
i seem to remember
don't
i
?
odd with cubism

odd go the hours, in this
most odd of days
walking through weed-caked
fields, brambled
are they hungry
do they crave some sympathy
from my reckless feet
let me topple grandfather
blighted aunt, devil thorned cousin
crush yellow flower
strangling with a heady scent
may be i can roast these seeds
toss them to the crows
feed their senseless poesy

unbounded nature casts a pall
slings grays and dessicated green
into an already unsettled day
what moves me to seek
beneath the feet of God?
am i in peril to His passion
a plaything to the angels?
strum that harp into a frenzy
or fling a halo into play
i feel the tug of 17th street
beyond the breathing hills
it's there i make my frivols
there i mix my little deviltry
on this most odd of days

Saturday, March 03, 2007

unraveling

i'd rather that old sun
go colder
leave me here, at last
lying in a shadow's shadow
thinking of the past

no more footsteps gone
uneven
no more whispers raw
and steeped
watching my daddy's clock

memories are sitting with me
we're making gossips
like before
laughing, while some ghostey fellas
catch my eye

pass the scents of lilacs
across this stony path
i have a story long untold
wrapped around my tongue
old and impatient

tripped up by these twisty
and awkward days
tripped up by a heart
with so few beats
waiting for the dead

i could sit forever
unraveling
Site Meter