(for my daughter, Chloe Jayne Finlayson)

Chloe storm thrower,

Tossing swift miffs aside with spring time,

Blizzards and drifts early in the morning was your thunder.

Settle in, dear child…

The dawn of your birth has arrived,

And the lightning of your life has yet begun.

Midnight, silent sullen snow-blanket drives

Dives deep,

Sleep-be in best peace

This shall save you.

Morning milk white waves

Nurture

Nature powers within you.

Storm shockwaves,

Winter to spring labor pains raise,

And craze the same burst that brought

Venus

to shore.

She in her shell,

And you behind the tidal wave

Somehow in the future time

(just the same)

-you were born.-

(for Jodi)

There’s no need for lullabies

and we can hold back

late night phone calls

—-’cause I can feel you.

Re-assurance, my dear

is a feather

plucked from a

down-goose

pillow

falling to the floor

in any season.

Much I’ve learned from freaky encounters

Much I’ve speculated from dreams of lost love

Much I’ve pondered through the lens

of starry night.

…and though freaky-feathers and stars-dust

migrate between us

power-lines dangle from oil-soaked posts

attempting to connect us from

miles

Apart

we remain

the same.

Farther than furthest words

of longing

lost along the line–

be still—

Dear Woman

I can feel you.

Obliteration by rote knowledge.

Spoken

broken-back

spit-too-ie!

What would this mad world mean

if not for the beauty

of the idealist?

Take a moment

to project forth

a fancy

deep beneath

the gilded rights of

America.

Take a longer moment for:

-food

-sex

-shelter

and jokes that

seemingly suggest

Intrinsic Truth.

Take a moment

to project forth a fancy

deep beneath the gilded rights of America.

I love Jesus

(and Bob Dylan)

‘cause they make me

cry

when my heart

is a brown pineapple

an ol’

pigskin boxing glove

wrapped in

ribbons

of

rusty barbwire fences.

Spike to the touch

maddened by the crush

splintered as if

the stem

of a rose

was placed upon a lily pad.

(which is me)

And that jousting

pinkish

purplish gem

(which is you).

I’m an idealist

slumped in a sleeping fancy

bedside warm sleep

comes over me

like the sweet peace of Jesus

(or a song

by Bob Dylan).

Eating sardines alone

is like dying in slow motion.

Carefully peeling back

the tin lid

on yer mortality.

Then lookin’ inside

to find

the teeny, tiny spinal bones

that

(eventually)

crush

soft

as a baby’s breath.

Headless wee segments

of little fish who once

swam

limber in schools to avoid

Death

now stacked

chalkboard stiff

like desks in classrooms

of Omega oils

(that help me live)

Alpha

(all alone).