Perhaps in the Sinai
the pomegranates
are still ripe

after forgotten
for a thousand years.

The puffy daylight
is forever lost
in a resurrected Rome
that has become an anomaly
unbound tentacles
procured by the blessed bishops
who have always held
onto the wind
as something

they possessed
after Gethsemane

There's too much of January
to overcome any compulsions
taken from another person's

In our time of denial,
there's no one willing
to cross the snowy fields
to bring back to our camp
the trowels we loaned
to the monks
in a moment of sharing.

There are unguarded risks
for crossing a foreign border,
even if we use our night beacons
to shine in the dark.

Tell me your dream about
to death
never left you
in childhood.

Tell me which ear
Van Gogh
for the voices
in his

The distilled world,
the loins,

the wind,
the prayers.

There's no sugaring
of the infinite
for what is missing.

There's no whiteness
for the silence
to climb over
the picket fence.

Bet on the hinterlands
to be remembered
on Easter for its recesses,
where only the eastern sage
is grounded
in its own unicorns.

Count on the brine from
the North Sea going down-
as if it were on an aristocratic
route to the Old World's

Take the
off the afterlife
by pricking it
in its birthright
until it's
no fatter
than an a
Delmonico steak.

foreign tropes
ID us as
Kafka followers
in the dark

for the light
to shine in our

Only our
Western psyches
let us
put on spurs
without a fuss
after sitting
in the parlor
for a lifetime
and talking
about lives
that don't

Maybe the spirits
escape death
by not
dying twice.

Maybe the stars
enable you
to swear with certainty
there's a God watching us
from above.

Maybe you dream
of palmetto trees

when you are sober.

There's never too many parades
for the rain to stop
Washington D. C..

There are never too many
children to remember
those who no longer exist.

There's never enough emptiness
to hide God from
those who fear him the most.

There are
auditions for
those falling in love

There are needs for
English tweeds
to cover
the backs
of spies with respectability.

The crows steal love
in the distances
while the shrubs bloom
in the night's blackest stones.

The future
has no more bells
to toll in its
broken heart.

The starving
have no crumbs
to clean off
the floor
without looking for

The pope can't count
forever on his flock
to fall a
before he does.

The loveless
would rather die
alone in the woods
than at home
with a dirge
played by strangers
masked as friends.

What if the winners
in life never eat any
more truffles
when reincarnated?

You can show
God your true self
in you
r sleep
when you try
to embrace
something spiritual.

Tasteless are
the grubs
that are
part of

a process

Just luck,
so much marble,
and a jetty.

as eternal
as snares.

of crocus
as possessed
as aliens
waiting for
the spring
to dig out
of the world.

In our last rite
of passage,
an old tar
is warning us
that when we
disobey nature,
we are just

a slip-knot away
from sailing
on a purple sea

We carry within us
the child of our love.

Sutras as limbs for the armless beggars.
Fear as mime for the idle thespians.
Memory as fiction for the disavowed storytellers.

Joysticks for the lapsed Catholics to pray with.
Police for buying back the city with just a warning not to do it again.
Baptists for selling out their souls to the evangelicals.

The silence of love
travels in breaths
that could be
if meaning wasn't
so physical.

History preached as
religion can be
worn as an Islamic veil
and read
from behind
a thousand
years of war,
if memory
weren't so bad an instrument
for measuring judgment.

Even a whore
can find a lasting peace
if she no longer needs
to ask herself who
she is.

The invisible lighthouse
emerges from
the blindness
of its refuge
as a temp home for those
who once lost their way
in life and wandered aimlessly
for years until they created
an illusionary place
of rest.

The oversimplification
in Madras
of selling religious articles
in volume from behind silk curtains,
can never be made up in quality sales.

The Melville thing
about the sea is to
point out
how tragic it is
for the capitalists
to slaughter
the whales
for their oil.

The Timothy Leary
thing about LSD
is to call out
the young
to drop out
and experiment
with hallucinogenic
drugs before it's too late.

The Ravi Shankar cultural thing
is to be more philosophical
about traditional Indian music
without missing a beat
on life.

Hope is a model
of efficacy

tweeted from
within the
silver linings
from the over-reach
of Silicon Valley.

We're all illegals
when moving outside
our dreams.

We're all ranchers
when darkened like toast
on the frontier.

We're all animals
when placed in a

We're all New Mexicans
when standing on the Mexican border.

We must be swimming
in Orchard Beach
if ashamed

to be seen
where everyone has been
blinded by desperation.

The tabernacles
for the night
functions are
turning on
the big lights
in the house.

love curls,
and a forsaken
sleeping in the
to step over
at our leisure

The eventide
the piety made
the insensitive
matters handled
in a psalm.

The syncopation
of orphans
ticking like a
Catholic clock.

Loxodromic as breeding dogs
in a New Jersey mall.

as ink on a sailor's

The Thomas Mann
of beach-goers

must learn how to
navigate further out
from the docks
if he's ever to
find himself
in need of  a
steadier way
to look out
to the sea.

Long on

the ruthenic
at variance

with the vaginal
monotony reported

at the Dubrovnik

where you never
would hear
the other side
of the story.

In the emptiness
of pomp,

in the pertinacious
to cleavage,

in a sickle purified
for the Lord,

and in all the millstones
in the German ovens
turned to soot
in the rising
of the Teutonic gods
from their stools.

drummed into
the midges
so they can be kept
from crawling back into
the same logic
their keepers used
to take the starch
out of them.

On the sanely lit
ice wards of recovery,
on the vacuolation of credenda
for the massive transformations,
there's the restive pecking slips
for the possibility
that nothing will be reversed
when the new day begins.

Outside the afternoon
tea of affluence
lies the mask of anonymity,
that's lifted

in spirit by
the liturgical wind.

Is happiness simply about
such things as children gleefully
running in the pasture
to name all the animals
they like?

Are any of us so wrong to be idealists,
but not in quite the same puritanical way
the late Pete Seeger was?

If I am grounded with you
in cultural transubstantiation
even if in religious impropriety,
and the clouds showered on us
with Freudian ids,

we would grow apart

because things do not last forever.

No one is unhurried in the night's
No one is thoughtless in the afflictions
forewarned about in the blood.
No one will one day be spoken
of in such a fiery voice
as they were at one time in their life.

To be occupied on an ephemeral basis
could mean, rightly or wrongly,
that I have at least put
my shoe on the other foot
without being psychotic
about wearing
a hat with red feathers
for any obstructionist trials.
I must now find the
strength to go deep

into the coastal slags and
into the speckled trenches
to carry out tomorrow's
bloody veins I once charted
in my youth to be alive
for all my daytime color.

Sleep covers your dreams
with words that are

There's life
in the desert
when sleeping
with one eye

Violence is a blind man
with a gun for a cane.

An apology
is sometimes
mistaken for what
never happened.

A conversation
in the desert
might not be healthy
without an ear
for digestion.

An unwritten
aching heart
is itching to be
when someone
can't write
what they mean.

A naked lover,
if nothing more,
has at least a rough idea
of what life looks like
when they get out of bed

An author
has no better end
for a book
than in writing another.

The future
does not form us
out of dust.

The uncompromising truth
is found only in fiction.

Silence grips you harder
than any sound you would
care to understand.

A word suggests everything,
but the sentence gives us

A lost soul
found in the desert
will still be lost.

The future
has no
for the

Before there was
line drawn
in the sand
to never cross,
there was a desert
where no one
was unwanted.

When everything
good in your childhood
dreams are white,

you might one day
awaken to a world
on fire and a wind
so careless and a ground
so dry.

Not every desert has an oasis.

Not every desert is called a desert.

Not every desert has both a way in
and a way out.

The birch trees,
the tall poplars,
the whispering pines,
and just the guys
bringing a shitload
of concrete into the mix.

Knowing what is forgotten
is not valued any more
than what is unknown.

The world I don't know
begins to make sense

when from behind
the gated communities
of the wealthy
I hear from
the half-dead
through our
mutual plumb-lines
of communication,
and find only the dark strangers
are running away from
their doppelgangers
and only the already dead
are still living life
as if nothing real
is happening.

The sycophant
sat transfixed in a field of pilgrims
to proclaim his
rapture over the dead red flowers
that were trampled by the elders
in the guise
of giving their ideas
enough air to breathe.

You can throw
into the

if you
the one
who will
retrieve it
in another life.

As always
the improbable eyes
of reproach.

The infinite scales
in the margins.

The dead fish
slipping through
the cracks
in the market-

The corporal

of war.

The insignia wheels
of despair.

The world of ashes
as a signature
on rock art.

You are a gentleman
to think so fondly of
others while the

have their backs
on so many
forgotten nights.

An enigma
in the dust bin
of the ascertainable.

A sworn tart
bitten into the jubilee
shimmering from the

A spoon growing hours
for the counter
to be cleaned
before we can stop
from being left
on our own.

On the boardwalk
of Atlantic City

there's rejoinders

for the
Swedish sailors
who can't articulate
to the locals
how to bet against
the sea in April.

How lonely is it
for Howard Hughes
to be himself?

How white is it
for Nat King Cole
to sing in the 1950s?

How pious is it
for Bishop Fulton Sheen
to take so much pleasure
in himself?

How fascist is it
for Trump to think
so much of himself.

On the stinking walls
of El Barrio,

on the longevity of
the Romans,

on the tattered sails
of the risky
cruises to Xenia,

our lingering fears
are all over
the fake smiles
of those who
 left us alone
our entire life.

A truth
growing wild
in blogs.

A mushroom picked
for an eternal carnival.

The corroded pond
of no solutions
for mere pleasure.

The knoll of nightcaps
for living out
the essentials.

We are as good as blood
in the knuckles
when re-loading
our weapons
in the melting snow.

It's from the wounded
side of the deer
that we are disinterred
for the winter.

After forfeiting
are dues to society,
we can no longer sing
without crying to the choir.

The dismissive hyperboles
on inversions
have been executed
as Maoist chants
by the bourgeois,
expunged in the briny waters
of corporate obstruction.

The Russian orthodox
once gifted by their czarist necklaces,
have since learned how to live without
their cossacks

The social lights
behind the fashion models
are reaching out
to the buyers of reason
for their causes.

Place all your coins
in the slot machines
before leaving
the Indian casino, so that
you will have nowhere else
to go that is exciting.

No more
the shelter
than a storm
by swans.

No more a canvas
of white lights
than a painted forest
of green fire.

No more the stones
in heaven
than the prophets
stoned to death
in biblical times

dancing nude
on the beach,
while the pious
are genuflecting
in church
that a heavenly
is playing a harp.

The roll-overs between the banks,
the rip-offs in the alterations,
the rivers outnumbered by the egrets,

the uncloven rotting in the mulberries,
the arrows pulled out of the bloody hotel carpet,
the saw bones left inside a cannery,

the gonads of mirth,
the subjunctive wars,
and the crossed legal bars
of progress.

The pseudo manifesto
that can no longer
be part of the
 quarantined eclipses.

The prayers from under the
of the
glacial adjectives.

Privacy in the see-through
mirrors of nudity.

Symbolic walls
bleeding from religion
in the posterity
of caves.

A silent winter solstice
passing wind through
the farm faces of a

concealed life.

Visiting aliens amazed
to visit a planet
where there's no one
willing to paint the urban

skyline as red as
a country barn.

It's not just telepathy
for a man
to know

what a dog does.

The wind
is better off
when it dances
by itself.

I no longer wish to
change how I'm
 judged by
 what I think
of others.

might have
that in the spring
even the stones melt
in his heart.

The sea breaks at my feet just when
I'm all alone on the crowded beach
and everybody seems to notice
I don't want to be seen.

Winter is always only an hour or two away.

When I paint, it's only
 the sea shells
that look at me
as if I, too, mattered

Some women say all men are beasts.

At the bar,
by the receding sea,

the violin was played as
a cold knife
would be
to hold back
the unperceptive.

The beechnut trees, the frogs
and the idiot weasels.

The permutations

in the sand
left there
by the callow.

I once heard it said
in jest by the government clown
that mankind doesn't
punish invention


It's the blue rain
that I jumped over
that made me
think I was
running away from

The movie called the
Island of Lost Souls
is where the darkness sits
on a theater's ceiling looking down
at the crowds
with the expectation
of a paranoid zombie.

I nailed the only
photo of myself
to the stalls
in order
to amuse
the frightened mares
during a rain storm.

All orbits are parabolic
when pared
in the dense woods.

All clouds are moody
when slowly

All philosophers are Danes
when sitting
on a park bench.

has Greek eyes
when not used
as a history lesson.

has foreign elbows
when there are bare-headed
diplomats on the Ural.

So it's our trams,
our fragments,
our phosphorous.

It's the way carnivals unfold at night.

It's the way a city diner keeps changing its menu.

It's about an ordinary man who comes out of a hole in Poughkeepsie, NY,
covered with mud and is celebrated, while another man
comes out of a similar sized
hole in nearby Peekskill
and no one cares.

It's about knowing that on every Thursday
the local Glens Fall  greasy spoon

runs a goulash blue-plate special.

It's about how you deal with winter's icy roads in Vermont
on your way home from work.


It's a lie:
to read into one Sunday sermon that
it is heaven that moves
us closer to God.


So what if

you can't judge an event accurately if you have nothing
invested in it.

So what if sometimes the sunset just comes and goes and nobody seems
the wiser.

So what if a few months ago there was farmland where there's
now a Walmart.

The X under the primroses
you always watered for me,
is where I would have surrendered
my premonitions to you
if I lost my life.

A cleft on the gong
was left for both of us
to share our love with
each other, even if fate
made sure we would
no longer remember
what we once meant
to each other.

The green figurines 
of transference
were kept in isolation
for a sunny day, that is,
if it would arrive in a
boat full of silence.

I wish to be born where your whispers
were eaten as if birthday cake
and where we were again
running around together like children.

Your most Jungian dreams led
you to dark venues to
where you could not
be lost and found
in a lifetime.

Blueprints for minors.
Smocks for seniors.
Cranes for workers.

The History of Baltimore
 as a sports book.

The realization that time can't erase
 itself with only its hands.

The urgency in explaining
how easy it is to forget everything
after cramming for an exam
not in your field.

No theory on Ibsen
that's memorized
can be
by scholars
without the
 words of the dead
coming through louder
than anything else
heard in the room.

Alternatives without jargons
for our paths

for our future
without evolution

How the dulcimer sounds
so sweetly as it returns us

to our rotten habit of
digging up worms
but in the ground.

Make no rough optics
about Pascal for us
to pick up his sight
through the years.

You can still see
the Ganges
as it once was
in mythical times
if you
find it in yourself.

There are canyons
that sleep better
when the visitors
call it a day.

By taking politics
off the shelf,
you can tell if
the elephant
in the room
would be willing
to perform
for peanuts.

Never mind
the noise from
the barking
dog who kills
your foe.

Do not believe
the sign of
the future
points the way
to the other

You can forget
about remembering
what it took you
forever to learn.

Summer templates of Eden.
Orange triangles of shade.
Perfection culled of fossils.
Merchant films of arteries.

Can we say droid
in a tsunami
when looking out
from a porthole
splattered in mud,
in Singapore?

Every traveler
must go home
before it's too late
to sleep like a baby.

Every word
must point
to us
if we can
as a blood

The truth
is in the silence
that never
goes away.

The future
lies in the path
that brings you
back in the morning.

You are lucky
to live alone, to stand
in the shadows
of the wilderness,
to quietly say
to yourself that you
still have things
to look forward to.

If all the swallows
were in chaos
they could not
be brought back
alive from the teeth
of a shark
without at least
having some hope
of surviving.

There's uncertainty
in the perambulations
of the Left Coast
haunts, in the heart
beat of Pound's
on the possibilities
that the Tibetan lore
in Hollywood
has been ripped off
from the sacred

The unimaginable
visions are for the
arriving martyrs
to live safely in the toxic
after-life of New Jersey.

The re-mottled happenstance
is for the impeachment
of the word.

Celestial propriety
is for the earmarks
of space.

The alluvial priests
paving the way
for turning the bedrocks
into a sanctity
for preservation.

Payback for the
too much

from philosophy.

as cities. Flowers
as preludes.

Ukrainians standing
under elm trees
where sparrows
are nesting
in case of
an emergency.
for comparisons
when searching
in the woods
for a compass
a hiker might
have forgotten.

Light as bait
on the quays
for what passage
is returned to the

Water as brackish
as Montauk Point is
for spinning
around the world.

Fennel in the hawk-weed fields.

Displacement for deployment.
Dragon-poles for judgments.

The dullness of catfish.
The tides of infinity.
The October marches for the exculpation
of the masses that no longer turns heads.

Implosions as accommodations for Tehran.
Materialism as frivolous as elastic highways.
Language as optional as communal charters.

Kinesis as seasonal as miscalculation.
Signs as an itinerary
for penetration.
Freemasonry as authentic as a waffle house.
ncantations of the mindless sects.
Economic fonts of interrogation.
Postmarks of restless pleasure

The silt on the horses of suburbia.
The perpetuity of urbanization.
nebelschwaden music of water.

inveigled over brunch.
Convenience induced over artistry.
Slapstick peeling off the face of parody.

Wind-born logic driving us into more ranges.
Arias dripping from the cleavage of hunger.

The conflict over
molecular reasoning
and philosophy
on the winding slopes
of transformation.

The dragonflies
of the mercenaries
not at home
for protection.

The back roads excavated
for the construction apostates
to reverse their directions.

The uncalled for vernacular
for shutting things up
from the insides.

The scars of the wind
granular as an unmentionable tongue
for another voice.

The shale.

The fairy-tale woods.
The inner tone of revolution.
The two-headed cress of culture.

Just runts.
Just puddles.

Just pearls.

Just an army

No one can climb
the glassy steps of
 utopia without
breaking a leg.

There are no dogwoods
you can turn around
in the shade if playing
a roundelay.

A thousand circuits
around thinking.

A thousand lights
to wait for another
chance to cross paths.

On the marrow
of something
the skinny
hooked forever
on yesterday.

In archaic circles,
the untouched
hands of the theosophists
getting soaked
in the tearful chambers
of  exile.

The unloved framers of MOMA.
The privacy at geometric crossings.
Another masterpiece for the public to dabble in.

Onto the right hand
of solicitation,
above the branches
of olives,

on the inroads
bypassing the hoarfrost
kissing the Oedipal
sleepers, where I was told by the
gods to wake up the dead
or lose your proverbs.

The ointment
is used
by the fishermen who
smell like foreigners
on American soil.

The missive balloons
float so casually
 into the noir currents
at dusk, as if to catch
the unearthed when
they are the least suspended.

Trams in
are going past the
sugar chimneys
you would find

in the vagaries
of office in any
corrupt country.

The wine spilled
on the Baptist
missions and
not on the moon.

becomes for the
orphans a chance
to obey their old

The Philosopher's Stone

darkens the landscape,
while we wait for eternity
to come and soften
our hearts.

In the winter, our untuned harmonicas
are played in the treeless squares,
where the fur hats fly off the heads
of the millennials
and where the city healers
 kneel down to sing in front
of the excoriated animals.

Today the efferent news
is of the plumes
and of the psalms,

and of the fondling
dangers others
must overcome
to find their own

The sacred nubbin
is where the selvage fits
the public colors best
and where the machines make it
count for more than it's worth when

It is as if it could be instinctually
possible to be liquidated
to make way for the ultra-languages
and for the newer mechanical devices
to give us even a slightly better chance
 to be in on any beginnings.

It was the messengers
who kept up with the swaying
from the top down
to get specific about being cautious or
reckless, and to discover who will be deemed the most sincere
before they depart the world and who will remain to do the math
for the dead man's equations to work.

Forsaken is
the shepherd with the
sea shells from Galilee
who tried in vain to reach out
for the Vatican to receive
them in good faith.

Yet who can be surprised
that the entrails of
Catholic dogma
have hardly been touched
since they went on the New Age

All political slush
tossed aside
outside of Munich
during the winter,
cannot be anything
colder than
the intervention
from the masses
refusing to remain
at the border
as ordered by
a misspoken
parabolic leader.

The train out of town
signals to the Germans
how many passengers
don't belong and why
there are those who
do belong but must still
be removed from the train.

When it drizzles
at a cemetery
in a foreign land,
like Germany,
there are ghosts
waving goodbye
lest we forget
our umbrellas.

You truffle in the spring
for the snow to still be falling
in the remote hills,

but don't know
why it matters.

An appetite for prepping
with your eyelids
for whenever you get
hungry again,
as if you can be
ensouled in a moment
if you are whole again.

To sleep on
the orders
from the
foolish colonels
of obedience
is mandatory,
if it comes from
 no higher

Take the plunge
for a yard of thought
if you are to carry yourself through
the mind fields of Chekhov.

Tell yourself
to invest
in a meditation
that pays dividends 
from your inheritance
if you have lived
for so long wondering
how you ever
absorbed so much imperfection
when alone.

Into your birth, the blue moraine
from the floods
that drove you far from
your crib still cries out for you.

You might have found solace
in your new zero signs
lifted from the ashes
of your rebirth.

Maybe now
you would
bleed less for logic
and more for ascendancy.

The lactate
 hands emerging
from the shanty canals
of the narcoleptic traffickers
are not yours to shake.

The glacial curbs
in the obscenities
oozing out of the
compromised vibes
of the devout
become so soft
in your priestly
for scandal
when you try to frown.


How sweet
are the travails
of urbanization
pushing downward
on the centrifuges
and into the sea fronts!

How commonplace are the
vowels in your astral charts
that are needed
if you ever will replace
the crowns of knowledge
on the ageless foreheads
of yesterday's pundits.

How ancient are the Lost Hebrew
Tribes who took forever to work
their way into
the spinning binaries
of the past, as they continued
to leave feedback
for those who will probably
dwell forever in mews
that never get too old.

Though unimpeded in their
use of the night lights,
the mind-voyagers
will never be certain
if they have ever seen
what the true age
of reason
looks like
when reaching out
to an ever widening
deregulation of privilege.

For the believers of Arcadian myths,
whose spirits lightly beam
on the brambles
of non-existence,
for the sake of survival
you must still pray that
the Torah

can be the face of
worldly internment

For the young idealistic sailors
to serve their mission honorably,
they must use their sea arms
to remove all their tattoos
from the hull
of their ship.

Wistful fumes
encrusted in
the phobic ruses
of modernity.

The sprightly hoofs
of vanity
retreating forever
from the embraces
of the undead.

The red curtains
as iron words
from behind
the scrolls
of disbelief.

The plastic trolls
so that the constellations
can alert us about their
plans of dying
before there's even
a temporary peace.

The songs
of gully birds
have no memory
of the sea,
as they freely sing about
exploring the voyages
that teeter in their
lyrical hearts.

The sweet tears of loss
have no juggler touches
before passing onto the
floor lights of disavowal.

The dogmatic frost-stream
passages have served
the priesthood well,
even if the faith-based
Templars have not even
survived their own judgments.

All our secularism
could over time
give us
was better
inside the temple.

All our greenness
made our tastes
so politically correct.

All our devotion
to God
was in finding
no more rivers
to cross
before reaching
out for what might
never be possible
to be imagined.

Adam looks out of place
in the garden where
the blue geraniums bloom
the darkest.

A signal from space
calls out for mankind
to be true to its mountains
and to never abandon them
for the big cities.

There are desert
crossings where
only the nomads
will find their
way into and out of
the tightest spots
without getting lost
in all the isolation.

The land traffickers
fighting in the dog spaces
of gentrification
have ingested
dreams of men
betrayed in virtual reality.

There are buskers
we don't know
by name
who sing about
hope and charity,
until they age
and die in cities
they can't disown.

When it pours ashes
all over Jerusalem
and there's no atonement,
there can only be more
sand on the roads home.

For the radical streets
to become inbred,
there are only
hair-pin turns
for every time there's
no motive to begin again.

We see the visible in the invisible.

The gallimaufry of substance
that tears
in the eyes of a sailor,
who almost could touch
the horizons
without yielding any more
to his symmetry.

In the millenniums
we see the egrets
as bloodless as ever,
circling the indecipherable
aliens who are determined
not to go home
without more code
for their pain.

Dear L, In Kos,
you were my flesh.
But I could not catch you
when you swam away
and kept swimming
after so many low tides
of non-existence,
until you finally left me
abandoned on the beach.

Dear A, an entire vox populi
found their fate
in the blue rain,
but now some kind
of a barbaric flood
is sweeping across the land
and we all must become
our own philosophers or perish
in a stranger's myths.

Certainty is
the main obstacle
to overcome
when going
against the red tide.

The Rothko reds
are inquisible below
our intolerance points.

Perfection rots
in the ash trees
when the red ants
climb over
the branches
and science
is not there
to catch the fall. 

Everything fast
looks as if it were
a window glued
to the red eyes
of a narrowing world.

Part 1

Not everything
in a loveless life 

is destroyed by

how it lives.

Whatever it's like
to be alone
can almost be insane
if you are afraid
of yourself.

If it snows in a dream
all you can do
is hope that
someone unexpected
will wake up
for you.

Part 2

Yellow stretch marks
in the Far East
before a new-born
urchin grows up to play
uncle to the
rest of the world.

A moment left
in gratitude
to believe
that every morsel
in the ghetto
is without
a hungry eyeful
of doubt.

There must be a reason
for the god-fearing
creatures of habit
campaign for
the right of removal
of anything that
doesn't remind them
of tomorrow.

The Yankee shoals
are emerging too late
to ever hold onto
the little ones again
in Sandy Hook,
who were sacrificed by
those too weak
to turn back the greedy.

obwebs are
in their nooks
over not
that nature
is so viral.

A jihadist is
driven into the wind
of no leniency,
while Allah emerges
 from the exculpatory mosques
with the garb for a new life.

Gender math is solved
crossed out of
big city spaces.

Emergency calls
are blinding
when prisons no longer
open their eyes in public.

The Sabbath's metronomes
restrict the orthodox
when they pray under
the veils of peace.

Motel guests are living someplace else
when they check-in without luggage.

There are lions
who become proud
when their
manes can be seen
in the mirror.

There are Giraffes
from your childhood
who will be recaptured
when you grow up.

There are left-footed hoofers
ready to step on your toes
when you say nothing bad.
There are tea leaves
 left on the porch
that only the dead
can read.

There's a Minnesota Viking
who won't find his compass
to be of any use
if he doesn't know if he's
coming or going.

There's no beginnings
where nothing ends.

There's not enough
straitjackets for the insane
to wear when
they chop wood
in the void.

There's no colors
to fade away from
on the state flag
when you vow
to perambulate
in the rectal sky.

Outside of the mangers,
the unprotected
are reproducing
in the bogs
more than miracles.

The bilge
in the weeds
is made to cover-up
one's natural insecurity
for war.

The cold light is
where you confound
the inch worms
off the shelves
without warning
us of any outages.

The wrinkles
melt in the snow
whenever there is
more than transparency
on your mind.

136 -
No one rebel
is alone
in Damascus
during any war.

There are apologists
among the scholars
who believe
that the ancients
never left their caves
without praise
for the dead.

There are
shrunken heads
on a pole,
where the delusional
can be clearly heard
praising the Lord.

There are fears
 that the red spots
are everything
fallow that turns
yellow for a reason
we don't want to understand.

There are death parades
for just praising the way the crimson sun
opened up for us when we were mortals.

Sometimes the night is so jumpy,
it's as if people
they are sleeping
with bedbugs
in their heads.

.137 -
Madness dries faster
than the rain in Spain.
The fantasy world
has no more excuses

for lying than does
the real-world.

Belief is built like a house
that can't be painted
too much more or it cracks.

Scorpios in the desert
work well
in the sand
if they bleed only for the

Poverty is like
the unicorns
kick us
in the shins
for a laugh.

There are
 no canaries
in the hills
willing to die
so others
can live.

In the provinces,
we are all faceless
in the moats
and thimbles
as we undress for the night.

We are all consumers
who go
through the store with
only a sack of onions
to breathe life into us.

The silence blew into me
before my dreams
screamed out about
the shame of
finding love with a hooker
in this cheap motel.

The soft spot
on a sailor's chart
is for the sea to turn green
because that's the way
Turner paints it.

The anthem played
after the twilight
was everything
that could be seen
in the dark.

On the narrow path
you can conclude that the real world
can only deliver you from yourself.

in their

dispensed with
at European
harbors for
future blooms.

punched in their
by conductors
who ponder
before settling

Pings of anonymity.

Fossils of delineations.

immiscible as prison decor.

Low hanging as fruit in Florida.

Tilts of opulence.

The sinecures of the interiors.

The red hoofs in Dresden.

The machinations of seizures.

The margins on the branches.

143 -
Steel barns.

Barks of slope.


Steam for florid grace.

Half-deeds of meditation.

Mitigation of closure.

Full disclosures.

Shafts of encryption.


A stonewall
willing to

Drought as finite as West Hollywood.

Tableaux in circles as free-thought.

Plebeian as hormonal streets.

145 -
Try and fall asleep
when you are
surrounded by angels.

Try and feed
off the evangelicals
when they are
led around
by white supremacists.

Try and preach
 the Wall Street
message when
 they have
such fleshy hands.

Try and cite scripture
when you have
gotten lost
in the hulls
earmarked for finitude.

Reading Faulkner
does not make me
feel any better
about the world.

No agnostic
would ever be alone
with God.

.148 -
Take no umbrage
from the mauve sea,
the meadowlark singing
in Harlem
or of the hunchback walking
with a limp in the outer boroughs
of the city.

The mossy streets today
are too slippery
to bring Whitman home again
with just a bridge named
after him.

When winter
grabs a bum
by the neck,
it leaves
no bones
in his throat.

At night, the old men walk their dogs
under their deteriorating neighborhood
poplars while the eagle is perched
on a high branch,
where he only pretends to signal
that he will
lead the disenfranchised one day
to the Promised Land.

150 -
Only the Greeks
know why the gods
sometimes vanish
behind the passing clouds
in a storm.

.151 -
under the plateau sun
are touched

when passing through
the primitive nights
with their backs
to the effusive wind,

where death
has a greater meaning
than life.

.152 -
The geese squawk
loudest at noon.

The Vermont farmer looks
most tired before the chores
for the long day are done.

The winter has just begun
and there is so much sorrow
to live through
before the dirt roads
won't be plowed again
until the next year.

The dead fish smell fresher
in the Hunts Point market
than they do in the Hudson River.

The followers of Kierkegaard
are delusional after learning
that they have been climbing walls
for years that might not exist.

What if in Aberdeen
the ash trees
in the street
remind us of
how slippery
winter can be!
What if the North Sea
 looks scarier than the
Loch Ness monster!

155 -
I get confused
in Yemen
when I move
like a snail
and am surrounded
by sand and Arabs
on camels.

The moonbeams blind
sneaking around
in the foxtails
to find love at an early age.

The flowers
in my garden
make me
breathe too fast
to run from
the world.

There are vines
 mentioned in the gospels
that never stop
spreading in the OT.

It's still possible
in the Black Forest
for a Jew hiking
to think he's
going back
to Dachau.

156 -
Sometimes even
in all the silence
it is not quiet enough
to hear
what we are saying
to ourselves.

Thoreau only changed his ways
for the better when he began
taking long walks in the country.

Sometimes we are sailors
until we reach land
and can only dream
about the sea.

Sometimes we feel
like cooing
when we reach out
for ourselves
before we can't
any more.

157 -
Some foreign ports
warn tourists
how dangerous
it is to know too much
about things that
don't concern them.

The more empty
a place is, the more
reason we have to fear
what is unknown.


When the Irish
toast Yeats
they visualize
the suppleness
of the dirt roads
he traveled on
to further
his own cause.

When the wiseguys
ID each other
in Vegas strip joints,
it speaks to them
through the crusty old men
who normally don't talk about
personal things in public
unless they're playing you.

I wish I was only
dreaming rather than
waiting in Hoboken
for a ferry
to Yonkers.

I lied when I said
I read the Bhagavad-Gita,
but told the truth about
seeing an angel
at my window.

There are knaves in Jersey City
who can't stop
dancing atop the bar tables
like Gene Kelly did in Anchors Aweigh,
even if the Mafia owner
warns them not to.

Today it's kippers for the children,
tomorrow it's haggis.

There are Egyptian pharaohs who never age.
For the skylarks there are new songs to sing in the forest.
For those in limbo, there is the dusk to contend with.

When too many smiling salesmen are in town
it's a sure sign tragedy is around the corner.

Those with an addiction
to kill themselves, can't believe
it took so long before
they were saved
by inertia.

Frontier appetites are served best
on the mountain peaks, where the reborn
die like holy men even if they are
not pious.

For every eternal who has come and gone,
none will be dancing the polka
if they don't drink enough beer.

An autumn sonata
can slow down a fast driver
if it ever stops raining in Seattle.

All the chalk marks
in Bellow Falls, Vermont
were not made in a day.

The city snow has only
so many feet to be measured
before it's forgotten just
as easily as the last scandal.

The Catskill vultures
actually look human
in a funny sort of way.

I'm a dwarf in a purple dress,
doing the speed-limit and
reaching out for a map of Maine,
when a highway cop pulls me over
and wants to hit on me for being
so vulnerable.

If I'm a sophist
then I'm
pulling something
wordy out of the ground
just like a rabbit who has something
up his sleeve when its eyes get so big.

159 -
How terrific it is
when it's snowing
wherever you are
and you wake up
in a warm bed
from a dream
about living
on a farm
in Kansas
with a woman
unafraid of dying.

You can live forever
in rural Kansas
and believe
what you want
about vampires
without being
by the locals
why no one
ever sees you
during the day.

Sometimes it is easier
to forget about the bad things
than to remember the good things.
When the winter nights turn pink
as they often do in occupied Tibet,
the snow comes up to your knees and
you know it's not the right time to

We sometimes sing
when we should cry.

Sometimes in disbelief
we look down
the road expecting to see
the daylilies
when there is only

162 -
In this small
New England
college town
we all sound
like tenured
when we talk
about our lawns.
At the annual summer picnic,
some of us wince when we see
the red meat on the grill
and the flies around it,
and how hard it is
to zap them,
even with the can of Raid.

163 -
You looked mostly
out the window
when Watts was burning
on TV.

164 -
The falling Norse snow
reminds me
of the cinnamon sticks
I couldn't have as a kid.

The antelopes
remind me
of how close
one can get
to the truth
without getting

165 -
The uncleared wastelands,
under the muted moon,
grows scratchy
in a bamboo coastal town
that is smoking hot
from the undead,
while the exorcised ghostly
overseers of prosperity
remain erect on the heels
of their unproven manhood.

On sandy crossbars,
       on lovely tributaries
            on pyrotic foothills,

the holy men
of India
stumble forward
only while looking
in their hearts
for more hope.

167 -
It's just the way
the butterflies
dance in the clearings
that made the Greeks
so sensitive to beauty.

It's the new kind of silence
that's as hard as stone
to be embedded
in us.

It's the sap in the willows
that we read into the truth
we imagine, that gives us
our convictions.

It's the crippled priest
in our parish
who is resurrected
so that he
can deal with

168 -
Tribulation for
the one who escaped
the taboos of his
hometown with just
a warning.

The re-educated
points of existence
drives fast in your mind
when bypassing
any stakeouts.

All the ice
that melts
in Newark
is spilling over
in the streets,
until there's
no other place
to go to in
New Jersey
that doesn't
smell foul.

I go in a blindfold to
where the tumbleweed
are disclaimers
about crossing
too many state borders
without forgetting
about the past.

169 -
It's noon
when the games
call out for Iago
to enter the fray.

Winter lays itself
bare on the table
after so many nails

There were so many pills
the sleepless took for
an emergency that
they can only be saved
by always staying

Atop the city fruit stands
in the 'hood,'
the snow slowly melts,
while the street urchins
drool after disrobing
for the Man.

In occupied Paris,
the frogs were hopping all over
the graves of the foreigners,
while the half-dead
were praying for more reparations.

There is no piety

to re-direct
over the old
rails of theocracy.

The ducky boys
are already the men
they will become
whenever it stops

.170 -
The first sign
of winter

and the crows
are not happy.

.171 -
Wherever the Devas hide,
the cherry blossoms
cover them up.

Wherever the willow trees
are planted,
the Buddha
will wait
for the camellias
to bloom.

172 -
No seconds
for the
in the playbooks
of social hieroglphics

173 -
Pink clouds, monkey ears,
rusty turnkeys.

The Third World
can't keep its hands
off itself.

174 -
In the forgettable
white pastures
of olden times,
there are rabbits
that are too gray
for them to hide
from the hunters
all winter.

I saw somewhere in the
dunes of the Sinai
my salvation
in the Prophet Isaiah,
if I could only identify with
him when I swear
to never climb again
a mountain
I couldn't live in.

I learned from noir films
that even on a person' worst day
the bunco squad
will tear up the tickets
already written in good faith
by the elected officials.

If only strangers
would order
their ascension
from a respected
source, our God
would forgive their

If only the lawyers
would turn sideways
in the Nubian nations,
then there would be
no need for tourists
to vacation
in perfumed retreats,
or for bulldozers to
level the forests.

.175 -
The yellow haze
of sunlight
has no axe
to split
the Red Sea
for those in plight.

In suburbia, there are
no librarians
to quiet the visitors
with just books.

The Gulf War poets
just pull out
their stone tongues
to share the
polymorphic guilt
of the world.

176 -
The corner spots of our
childhood dreams are where
there are still vacant lots
littered with garbage.

The Gates of Mercy can
be refined by law
if they are greased
with priestly hands.

Even if the steps up in the world
are scarred by formaldehyde,
 it still is a better looking sight
than standing still on the Russian snow
that never melts.

We are the Illuminati
who have no more palms
than a man has for eating
the leftovers.

Everything white is
vanishing from the prairie
when in the past
the reverse was happening.

Nothing is ever new
about the plight of Job
that convalesces in our

No one falls
in love
when making it
on a bed of nails.

Not one sun
is deemed
if it fails
to open
its eyes.

There are pigeons
whose crumbs become
the eyes of the unseen world
before they learn how
to see each other
in the arms of another.

For all the rich geography
of the north country,
be warned there are no highways
to turn to when sober.

177 -
What if you
can retain your
while praying
that you are
from the violence
of the world!

What if the adorned
never knew about
the Vatican's
alabaster love affair
with Wernher Von Braun!

What if one of our best scientists

was scheming
to wash his hands in the hot smoke
rising up from the graves of the innocent!

178 -
of visibility
is a checkpoint
for all
the deceptions
that hold
in place the

African headdresses
that have been retired
and will never be seen
again by the European

The peasant shop
it comes to be
is filled with
many alluring
amulets that can't
be sold without
losing face.
The prosperity promised
for the canticles
dries and becomes
the mulch we abjure
before we are submerged
completely in our fate.

The frog lights
shine on the
rental boats
of the wealthy

whenever the sea
washes too much
of its ocher
off the future.

181 -
Clarity still floats in
 the forgotten ponds
you once loved to fish
in as a child.

Cartwheels still move
positions in the detente
emerging from behind
the walls of time.

Astringency still
 in the West's open spaces,
where a banker's
good word could do a lot
to lift the spirits of the dead.

Frugality still tastes
right for the
of Taoist carp.

182 -
You are the lichen
carriers embroiled
in the emulsions
of time,
while delving into
the pits of those
who replicate themselves
to become less immune
from the system than ever before.

183 -
You have found
a sanctuary for Balzac
in a Paris that
might not even
be European anymore.

Since reality
turns you on
at night,
your dreams
have vanished.

You left yourself
because you
can't go home
again without
getting over
your long sleep.

184 -
It's no big deal
to fail to notice
any boats
on Staten Island
when there's
no romance
in the air.

185 -
The art of reading
from the unwritten
signs in the
passes so
quickly over
our heads,
that even if we're
crying, the world
is not lost.

The unseen things
in the night --
the unreal noises coming
out of nowhere --
the unknown sounds
in the basement.

On a Uzbekistan roof,
in the winter,
the Russians claim
that the Muslim snow
is black.

The one sure truth
to take away from
all the Eastern religions
is how tiny
are the grains
of salt
on their temple floors.

187 -
What if our reflections
ran into us when we
were not looking?
What if our ashen icons
drew into us our own
face of death?

.188 -
Are there no losers
to find out
if life is a game
to be played in
all honesty?

There is no such sand
that is dirty enough
for a courier caught digging
for stuff in the desert.

There is no such a bone
for a caged dog to be barking at
that its master has not already
decided to give him.

There's no such rain
 in paradise to get dry in
without contemplating
what are the alternatives.

On the musty shrouds
worn by the ancients
the stench
is almost gone
from our memories
of so many revolutions.

If we survive in modern times,
it's because our modern decor
is designed in part from
those civil principles
hidden by the institutions
left behind the unguarded ropes
of procurement.

You sing a sad gypsy
song today about a love
you turned your back on
long ago
that still haunts you
when you realize
you have never
found another
love to surrender to
that hurts you
in ways you can't
recover from
without losing
everything you
believe in.

The retail shelves
you painted red
for your basement
of debauchery,
stands out only
if  you could
wake up the dead
from their long sleep.

The frozen
splats in
the pipes
you played for
one last time
in Auschwitz
is still not
thawed out.

The submerged
men of
making nothing
out of something
seem credible
if they were
ever to return
to the sea.

Since the days
of Roman rule,
to survive bad
the unfortunates
crossed their arms
over the Tigris
without holding
back their spears
for the fierce deities.

Our blood sport must
stop spilling over
to the tombs of our
bravest if we want to remember
what we are studying
when we call on the stars
for inspiration.

If nostalgia is the way
we roll, we must
turn on the
Broadway dancers
to be as vulpine as ever.

In my lifetime, all the saviors
have lit candles in the shadows
of the lumpy wells in their homes
and are by the minute turning
darker than any medieval church.

For openers we are the Delaware,
who have an ace up our sleeves.

The smell of corporations
are emitted from our body pores.

There's combustion from fossil fuels
coming out of our lungs
while we speak about anything
but our tomahawks.

For time to be the moon
whenever the wolves
can feel themselves
slipping away from
their path
and the darkest settings
in what is unseen
can be a void
that runs its top off,
as if there are variations
to decipher and bell notes
to push around
the perimeters before we
can walk safely
through the iron gates.

Moss doesn't matter much when
running over the thistles
in Tangiers. For outsiders
the strangeness
from the clay roads
turns off the past
with its nomadic roots.
The empty skies
bring no relief
for the hungry lizards.
When it rains, the horizons widen
and the new inclines keep rising.
There are only aftermaths to deter
my renewed faith in the way all
the religions are framed as divine
but nevertheless don't say
the same thing.

There's no return from London.
It takes too many hills to cross.
The clouds won't pass over
yesterday's fennel fields.
The barriers of reason can no longer
support an extremist's existence.
From behind closed political doors,
the art of conversation
has become too confrontational.
We are the masses
almost doomed traveling in cyberspace
at the outermost edge
of our scorpion visions,
where everything that must appear real
is growing tired in the arms of eternity.

The mergansers vanish in the black ponds
whenever exposed to the implications
of others.
The over-riding imperatives of standing erect
in the orchards
is viewed by the fallen
as the way for them to best remain unnoticed.
It will rain in torrential biblical amounts
when the gorse gets swept away
by all the intangibles and the old man
living on social security comes out of the woods
with his rifle facing down,
as he throws his deer kill
into the pick-up.

Another silent dawn.
Deviations from the circular bird-baths.
Undetected noises from the untried scepters.

The unhurried fires behind the eyes
of the Tao followers.

The bones of the universe
crackling from their memories.
Clouds passing over weather written words.
Just another forest of pagan origins
that begins in the middle of a Germanic city
that has its deviations.

Sophist portals on the eight state borders of Missouri leading in all directions.
The periwinkles in many tiers facing the great rivers of progress without shutting their eyes
to a crumbling Anubis obsessed over the shadowy dead and their grip on the world's gold.
The forbearance of the people who cannot return to their ancestral tombs without being tested
by the many make-shift memorials that call out in the night with
ghostly sounds.

Remember or forget whatever you wish to.

Life is arbitrary except for death.

Even if you are a cautious person,
you can never become a stone or
have your soul measured by the wind or
made unfit by the Earth's dissonance.

Whatever quiet achieved might not be enough
to give you peace of mind.

Instead you must learn to live with your emptiness
before stepping out in the beyond
for a final reckoning.


Bongos, loud voices and rants.

It takes a rainstorm to drive the crazies
off the East Village streets.

While the haunted live alone
 in squalor

and dine on Hot Pockets, and
never think about death.

During the 'dog days of summer,'
the playful kids cool off
by opening the hydrants,

which in turn
washes off the dog shit from the curbs.

But no matter what happens in this circus-like neighborhood
of effortless trickery, verbal elasticity and brass rings,
there's always a gleam

coming from the storefront windows
as the conservative Polish immigrants, bikers, and stoner residents
somehow co-exist by not making contact with each other.

I can't sing anymore
under this poplar tree,

whose branches
always are so still.

Only in my dreams
can I see the majestic mountains
I once imagined would exist for me
if I led a good life.

When it rains
I want to get stoned,
to laugh at myself in the dark,
to listen to Chopin
and to call out to the gods
that all religions
run into the ocean
its followers will drown in
if they go out too far.

I dread winters more than I should.
The gray skies depress me.
All I see above and below are nations
distorted by corruption.

When I noticed how bright the full moon was,
I imagined how my heart would burst with joy
if that was really me walking so fast on the trail
to the top of Mount Mansfield.

So What if I can't see tonight the stars
in the cloudy sky

or the nearby hills in the thick mist

or my way home in the darkness.

Yesterday I could sing and dance and play.

Even if the red wine was spilling over the deep sea,
I could have walked over it if I knew what I know today.

I can see myself
in the clear light
of my dreams,

while in my garden
all the red roses
have died and

the wind is so strong
it rips fiercely across
the heart of my house
making such a racket
I can't hear what I think
I'm supposed to.

Apprehension is the dark root in my heart
whose flowers resemble a boat that never
can get out of the water without sticking
to the mud on the heels of the sea's basin.

Haloed in meds, the captain's puppy voyage
was amid the Islamic chants from the remote African ports
and from the uncaged parrots sounding off
on the trees outside of Abyssinia,
with the echoes bouncing off
the coastal rooftops at dusk
with a sense of immediacy
for the compensating Moors,
who lived a desert life for a thousand years
without sounding like Abraham.

I remember that I'm one of the lucky ones who stood with a prayer shawl
wrapped around my shoulders, under the yew trees in ancient times,
and waited there alone until I heard my number called by the tribal elders,
who were the authors of what realities were not fit to be said.

The inferences are not as good logging
in the river beds as are they for the aspen forests
that breath into the canyon bases and carry
on their backs with ease the newborn
of the Old World.

The jaded horn-beams of Europe rest on the
sapphire street corners of urban life
and learn to smoke their leaves
behind the corporate glass doors,
where the hired dancing girls are enticed
to lift their veils and pledge themselves
to work, play and obedience.

If you tram your way down a spiral path
to the bottom of the Caspian Sea, you will find
the noon sun as damning as the unspoken dreams
you once had in Utica, that woke you up
when you already passed your destination spot.

The quiet encroachments
between day and night
hide a childhood of dreams
that never stop growing.
The lonely mountain peak
is where an unseen
Milarepa dines on nettles.

Along the sea coast
is where the fishermen
return in the evenings
to their villages
with their
catch of the day.

How finely the shadows pour out of
the marble fox-headed fountain spouts
in the center of big cities.

How desultory are the people
who never learn
that unmitigated vengeance
will never satisfy the insatiable.

The truth draws pictures for us 
that are clear only if we want them to be.

At one time I thought everything in the city
would be real if it felt hot when I touched it.

In the 1960s I died in my own dreams
with those who sang folk songs
about only having one year
to find themselves before
it became too late
to avoid the inevitability
of just doing nothing.

What becomes tantamount
is the knowledge of ham rods
on things we dig up
from under the crocus.

The amber posts we carefully
inch away from on the road
is the sweet Georgia rain that
turns things away from the traffic
to concern itself instead with the illegals
seeking sanctuary here.

Money cannot buy happiness
for the inert.

Outer space is never enough of the world
for the restless to discover peace in.

History has no gardens to nurture
the dates for those who forget everything
and must study themselves regularly
to remember how much they've grown.

Only time will lead the inferences
that will catch all our reflections
that bounce off the tree tops
in bird song deliveries and
will tap into the mood swings
each generation has been through.

Hermes had no island
to sink his teeth in
when things ran afoul.

Because the sun of the Aegean Sea
moves to its own beat,
no outsiders follow it
without losing sight
of their journey.

On the island of Ios
I fell in love with the blue skies,
the white sands and the sultry
black-haired women
who never noticed me.

On the mainland,
during the noisiest seasons,
firecrackers would light up the sky
with a false beauty
and the modern-day pirates
would steal from those who thought
they could get away with profiting
greatly from the truth.

When I got serious about the dolphins,
a local artist painted pictures of me
that were seeped in absolute darkness,
that nevertheless opened up
the visions I never could see in the daylight.

I could never be sure
if I heard correctly
the unrepeatable word
heard in the wind
when I was young and was unable
to slide through the abyss
of my generation.

When the white clouds rose
further above than usual

and the peasants in the valley
dressed themselves
in the rough cloth of the mountains,
the places that roared the loudest
in their celebrations
became my world.

But in a bloody storm of extractions,
all the trees of my world stopped rustling
while the orbits of the sun
kept bringing back the dead
with its nurturing music and
inscrutable eternal messages.

He searched
most of his life
for a past
that vanished
the moment
he no longer
how old
he became.

He griped
how difficult
it was for him
to memorize
Russian history
without living through
the country's
long winters.

When he read Tolstoy
the same fears he had
of living until he was too old
haunted him with memories
of never finding a love that stings
as much as the truth does.

He realized
that he would only
become more gleeful
the more ignorant
he became that
he was more removed
from all cities than ever before
and would no more
find another Jerusalem
to pray in its temple.


On our island
we could touch ourselves
and feel our breaths stiffen
when they came upon the dead,
whose songs were getting more round
and whose eyes were filling up
with dark emptiness.

When the summer rain fell,
the flowers became gentler
and the thoughts of the old people
became softer and the world,
whose silence once led us
on paths where everything began,
surprised us by holding us in its arms
even when it rained harder.

In the summer,
the river turns green
under the shade trees.

The men who used to come here
and sit by the bank to talk baseball
are no longer alive.

I still come by and sit alone,
thinking about all
that's missing in my life.

What once kept me occupied
is barely a memory.
What love was left behind
now hardly matters.

I no longer see clearly
in the daylight
what I think I lost for good
and I don't think any meditation exercise
or any good fortune will change that.

You found the right word
to take the glass roots
out of the night,

with the world reading from its
own emptiness in the passing hours

and the bulging tree stumps
adrift in the leafy canals
that locked hands together
to keep intact all the measurables
like thistle, flagstones and grain.

What matters is nothing.
The earth is a wound that
opens and shuts. It holds
the silence that hides in it
everything else that's lost.

Consolation in the gorges
of redness, where the gravel
has its sore eyes
on the farsighted-world
of distances.

A world of granules I followed
in the bell lights, on the slopes,
where the thorns ripped
into the silt to become part
of the trails for the shrubs
to sleep on,
while the day worshipers
ring out the stones
built on the baptisms
of such transient fortunes
with the new memory banks
of falling crystals.

One more identity slash
of nobody who comes back
through the panel of lines
with melting snow
on their hands,

to only walk
on the back end
of the summit

to hear the airfall
from the travelers

pressing forward

with the nightpacks
at their backs.

The gates of a nation
have closed on tomorrow's

A foreign tongue sneaks
into your heart forever
as a song with secrets
that cast shadows
over the ground
that summons
you back
to your roots.

If you stagger
into the night
looking for words
Jacob must have said
when he lost his staff,
you'll find above you
the same stars
that fell into the rivers
as by-products of rust,
of sedge and of chariots
reserved for the dead
in their long journeys.

The June wine clocks.
The cycles for distillation.

The hands that feed in the wood.


White tree notes
pulled by the roots.

Integrated circles
facing East.

A hand on the plastic
An opinion
for the green map.

Running more grass
over the top
of a hill.

In the desert theaters
 nobody saw the bloody paths
 taken through the heart chambers.

Nobody could find
where the golden silence
was buried.

Nobody dared take back
 the hours
when the new world
 let go of its old skin.

Stones made in images of
what's lost
keep falling off mountains.

Obsolescence undressed
n human fickleness breathes
in only so much foulness
before shutting down its despair.

These swell summer moments
 of returning everything
 I wrapped around my orange shrouds
when living in Kasa Devi eons ago,
 has become my tsunami
I run into when
not afraid of
being myself again.
228- A breeze of absolution
runs its cool fingers
over a deflated city.

A man is not ashamed
to walk alone
downtown on Sunday
with nothing to do.

Atonal music is played
in the brownstones.
Off in the distances,
from the river boats,
the sound of movement
clashes with anything Mozart
would have sworn to when haunted
by his genius.

If I could sing.
If I could believe everything is not rational.
If I could stop reaching for what's not mine.

If my angels could teach me
to fly, I would no longer
be in this world.
230- Today's beans and rice
tastes like the hands of a heretic,
who was sequestered for life
in the back room
of a broken-down dream house,
where he found a new life
when he held onto the dear sun
with all his strength
and vowed to never forget
happiness is whenever
he reaches another fork in the road


The forgotten pulse in the clouds.
The sleepy voices
coming from over
the stone walls.

The jungle voices
slowly choking
its followers
to death.

By the old river
of salvation,
the Asian women
in saffron robes
emerge from
yesterday's traditions
to speak softly
to the fierce gods
about changing faces
in the stillness
or to perish
in the dust.