Gabrielle 

Closer to owning

the fervent color that

wild flowers possess

As each

Day

Passes

…you settle)

In summer summit

of autumn bloom

To me;

you grew too fast,

too soon:

Your roots did draw from God’s well,

wild-bright-petal

Gabrielle.

Chloe, Storm Thrower

(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.-

Sprawl ‘cross summer sky

Airplane red-blinking bulb.

Sprawl wide across evening sky

Ain’t that just like my heart these days

-lost & tossed

future dreams once held closely

yet somehow

not care-

-fully enough

off in the distance

beats this beacon.

And

Summer is screaming with the laugh of the idiot

Summer is scowling with the barking of brown dogs

Summer is scattered with projects

(incomplete)

on workbenches

Summer is streaming with banners of festivals long broken by dawn.

Sprawl across these indigo skies of june

I’ll cover the world and its people

with one blink of red bulb

with on heartbeat in tune

Lemme’ be everywhere

lemme’ see all of these states

lemme’ pour wine

into the glasses of all lovers on earth.

Lemme play hooky-look schoolboy

on Fridays & Mondays

in June.

Sprawling ’cross midnight-moonlight

like an airplane red blinking bulb in the night.

Squalling like star-dust

‘cross the summer sky

singing this anthem of a June tune tonight.

I can feel you

(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.

The Pigskin Boxing Glove vs. Champion Idealist

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).

As if

trans-lucid lands

Cupid

-to dash across a fiery lake

In fitting passion

of a solemn choice

(later found to be a mistake)

Love let (like it just does)

let’s wet kin: hit dust done

like wasn’t was

but we will

forever be

magenta

at duck.

Lust heaven

trust Hell

-or

what-so-ever

that anvil that fell straight down.

How!

how low–

loon;

pale moon

delights me–

enlighten thee

just a mere eyelash

hair from restraint.

Awake!

to a fear of lust

of fear my dear

Boo-boo

bruised and bubonic

like rats

aware of the plague

which walks behind

our grace.

Eating Sardines Alone

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).