Wicked wish
sound like the soul
songs for the wanted
sounds from the hole

What plants you near
what hits your fear
who knows your name
and what brings you here?

Dust from the road
sun dipped for show
sleepy morning smile
blinding and slow

Keeper for the take
kingdom of the fake
what presses your pedals
and keeps you on the make?

Violet stardust
edges out easy
slips down the sides
of a water full moon

I breathe in shy notes
exhale mismatched lines of poetry
celebrate eclectic blue night
gathering in my quiet bowl...

Lamb's Lettuce

Eyes of ever
gaze long across tall grass
World beats with hurt
inside
at it's core

Sores on the surface
pulse
with strong odor
Sweet
like sour apples in the wind

Gardens full of angry herbs
put pressure on decaying flowers
Fertile soil has produced
ripe intent
strong
without need
or direction

Foster no disregard
of Repunzel's Father
for in his weakness
twice
he
created
her.

6/25/89

My ears in thier gripping solstice,
are breaking,
torn silver by new romantic words.
Scorched and dripping with earthly sorrows,
I cast them aside,
to feel only the waking world.

Renoir

To live in your time,
by your side,
in yor mind,
in ignorance to all things beautiful.

To gaze outward,
toward the explosion,
with non-existant eyes.

Rapture,
to induce the glory of the passing fade.
Cower,
in my hallway,
and in my heart.

In all your living years,
did you ever consider why the earth is so unclear?

The aim of museums,
in thier wickedness,
is to form a spiders web.
The very floor plan is a map to your lair.

Mystic,
Romancer,
Time Traveler,
Sage.

Do you believe?
Oh, I do.

I believe that I could step through your photographs
and master the fade.

I breathe in gasps at every stroke,
and I sigh,
for you.

Is that what you wished for?
Passion?

The air conditioned breeze through the marble hall tastes of fate.

Renoir,
the streams your paint are a cool wash...
...and love.

Mean for a Taste

I'm lying on the ground,
letting the grass grow,
under my nails.

I open my mouth to gulp the air,
a fragrant swill eases up my throat.

It is night time in my fantasy,
and the dream is only to sleep.
Far from Nod,
it's easy to turn over and face a different crowd.

This one is Heaven.
A raised arm greets you at the gate.
St. Peter offers me a kiss and I accept,
smiling.
My hair is wet,
my face is tired,
but the dirt hides my lines,
and lies chill the smoke as my spirit burns...

Please do not glare,
a fragrant blue becomes electric in your hands.

I ran from the playground that was offered to me.
Dressed in my bed sheets,
dancing,
wet from the rain and my acidic sweat.
Curled up like a cat on the ceramic wall,
I stretch out like a sacrifice,
letting my arms fall free.

I can brace my legs in the grooves,
where the bricks that built this fence meet.
I would love to thrust my body forward,
and stand,
surrounded by air.

Space has a tune and it's heart beats wild.
I'd kill to be there,
pounding,
is that my heart?
Or the fist of a reluctant hero,
mean for a taste?

Rock Star

I visit new romantic playgrounds
where boys in damaging tuxedos
sell lipstick signatures.

Special performances
buy diamonds
and spectators
to christian my children
with the names of vagrant flowers.

To all of us they whisper,
England,
Ireland,
and water.