5-15 The Last Poem (For Good- Reprise)

some people say,

yes?, Mr. Snow,

some people say,
he sings leaning over my shoulder,
while my fingers,
are lightly playing the keys,
people come into our lives,

for a reason,
I echo back,
flirting,
only this time,
Mr. Snow puts his hand on my shoulder,
when he has never put his hand on my shoulder,

for a reason, he echoes back to me,
I get up to walk away,
but he whispers to my heart,
singing,
I do believe,

yes?, Mr. Snow,
I do believe,
I reply,
because I knew you,

because I...

who can say?
the piano replies,
when one voice becomes two,
who can say?

Mr. Snow?, I ask.

Yes?

I still believe,
in fairy-tales.

Perhaps, he replies,
for good. 

5-14 In The Final Hour, Mr. Adorable Calls

you're,
from another novel,
another life,
another time,
some other sparrow,
I already cupped,
in the heart of my palm,
counted the breaths between,
and let go,
yes, you are that,
sparrow,
and yet,
when the night ends,
a year and half down the road,
when I feel so incredibly alone,
asleep in the opiate sheets,
of the city of roses,
you are the lullaby,
I hear, singing,
the call,
to fly me,
as if to your arms,
counting the breaths between,
here, and,
home

05-13 Petunia's: The Verse In Which Mr. Behr Says Goodbye.

at the end of our eighth month,
conversation,
Mr. Behr,
they put our table away,
the one,
where I, We sat,
watching the lavender fly between us,
alder and pearl in the sky,
when first we were young to each other,
I would sigh,
when first we were young,
and for each other,
I, We put your hand in mine,
at alder and pearl in the sky,
as I did today,
only this time,
I did not say yes,
I did not say no,
this time,
I did not look away in shame,
to watch the gold turned leaf,
fall, between us,
lavender turned blue,
turned gray, falling,
wanting to stay,
but knowing to leave,
wanting to love you,
but knowing how to leave,
wanting to love,
but not knowing how,
I, from you, fall,
looked away in shame,
at alder and pearl,
when the sky,
between us turned gray with rain,
but this time,
when I looked at you,
I did not say no,
I did not say yes,
I did not say,
when I, We put your hand in mine,
and saw, between us,
spring become summer,
the winter of our rain,
forgiven,
between us, in the sky,
gray turned blue turned
spring in your eyes become,
the amber of summer,
as you, I once more,
put your heart in a glass sculpted palm,
with melted cream and cookie,
calm, while I looked at you,
knowing I would leave,
knowing I would love,
knowing,
I loved you,
knowing,
when you look at me,
you loved me,
you love me,
at alder and pearl,
in the sky turned amber,
when they put our table away,
we, I with you, Mr. Behr,
walked, hand in heart in mine,
away.

5-12 Where Is The F'ing Cheese?

the queen of bedlam,
has smashed my fingers,
between the steering wheel,
of Broadway and Johnston street,
where I am stuck,
in her dry, daisy-plucked lover,
she muses to me, innocently,
I wish it were raining,
but her musings,
are horns,
and flashing lights,
turns signals,
and white cars,
I hate white cars,
and a dredded biker,
happily oblivious to his lollipop ways,
who takes my turn at
every stop sign,
if I didn't live here,
I'd flip him off,
and steal his lollipop,
but the queen is watching,
so I sit, and patiently,
play the pet,
while she rubs my fur the wrong way,
down Lovejoy,
my tail swishing under my ass,
ignoring,
the taxi driver who blows me a fat one,
wondering,
where the f' is the cheese?
she laughs,
parking my time clock of a car,
and leaves me,
blindfolded and gagged,
to wait for her babe, the Minotaur.

5-11 Away, Away, Away

in the confessional of my tent,
I pray the morning to me,
away, away, away,
I pray,
the screaming cattle drive outside,
to me,
away, away, away,
I pray to find the strength,
to lift my head,
and pray,
the night in spurts,
away, away, away,
in the confessional of my tent,
I attempt to fold my hands,
and pray,
but I can't,
because my mind,
has swiveled,
away, away, away.

5-10 Around The Bonfire

there will always be you,
there will always be me,
inside the circle,
outside the circle,
because we,
like you,
like me,
live,
inside the circle,
outside the circle,
where I will always be,
with you,
and you,
will always be,
with me,
and you,

but we never hold hands,
we never hold hands,
we never hold,
inside the circle,
outside the circle,
because we,
like you,
like me,
love,
outside the circle,
inside the circle,
where we never hold hands,
we never holds hands,
never hold,
with you,
with me,
because,
we

will always be,
inside the circle,
outside the circle,
we.

5-9 Husband To Be

what would it be like to be,
married to you,
I often, wonder,
which of us, would be,
the cuter of the two,
or would the pair,
be the affair to declare,
with our wit and our charm,
and your charm and my wit,
with your wit, and my charm,
arm in arm,
two delectable pearls,
two earls, two coy sexy girls,
two in the just right, quite,
queens of the prim of the curls and the trim,
in roses, and poses,
(I've got cute toes-es),
we'd be the creme de la sip,
in the miss of sippippi
the ha and how clever,
in the ha! -oh -my!-thorne,
I would never?
we'd be the oops and the ahh,
of the oh! in the choir,
we'll raise 'em up,
bubble butts higher,
and higher,
and higher,
but let's not get carried away,
after all, it's an umbrella day,
(totes)
but how could we not,
there's so much to say,
when you flirt and I flounce,
and you bounce and I pounce,
and you trounce, and we

well,
um,

sigh, to be married for a day...
what do you say?

husband to be,
one day will you marry me?

5-8 A Year and A Half of Therapy

I take my shirt off.
I am a furry, built man,
who am I,
looking back at me,
desiring,
what have I done,
to take this shirt off,
and become,
this furry, built,
sexy man,
I see,

one year and a half,
of therapy.

I see,
me.

05-7 Unlocked #12 Cursed

I am flesh,
bitten, beneath you,
trembling, when you become,
more man, than monster,
as man and monster,
and I feel you,
as man and monster,
on me, pushing in,
caressing me,
waking in me,
the monster who turns,
to man, to find comfort,
in you when I am more flesh,
than spirit, bitten,
trembling, you push,
hold, and breathe,
the touch, pushing in,
holding, breathing,
I become man,
you become monster,
awake, trembling,
we are both,
man and monster,
and I feel you,
becoming more
monster than man,
and I can't take you
pushing in, holding,
biting, caressing, because
I need a man, more than
I need a monster, and you
desire a man, not a monster,
and I am not sure, we
know who is with us,
now in my flesh,
caressing, pushing in,
trembling, touching,
man or monster,
who?

so I say,
no.

becoming man,
watching a monster,
desire a man,
desire,
touch,
hold,

so I say,

no.

5-6 My Hands Listen

what you need most,
my crazy little sparrow,

is

to hold still,
quiet,
in the palm,
of my hand,
where I hold you,

not a song,
or a note,
or a tune from,
your feathers shake,

in a song,
and a note,
from a tune,
in your eyes awake,

held, still,
in the quiet,
of the palm,
of my hand,
where I listen,

to you,
my crazy little sparrow,
sing.

5-5 In Which Mr. Snow Becomes My Fan

I am a monkey,
in a cage,
there is poop in my hand.

this is a poem,
which rhymes,
and repeats.

I am a monkey,
in a cage,
there is poop in my hand,
it smells bad.

this is a poem,
which rhymes,
and repeats,
and retreats.

I am a monkey,
in a cage,
there is poop in my hand,
it smells bad,
so I fling it,

this is a poem,
which rhymes,
and repeats,
and retreats,
several times,

I am a monkey,
in a cage,
there is poop in my hand,
it smells bad,
so I fling it,
wing it,
at my number one fan.

this is a poem,
which rhymes,
and repeats,
and retreats,
several times,
because I am.

5-4 At The Table

the sweetest man said yes,
but I said no,

quietly to him,
with the sweetest of smiles,
then he said, okay,

but his hand said no,
I had to say yes,

and now,
he smiles sweetly,
leaving,

and I,
leave,
my entrails,
ripped from my stomach,
an incomplete,
feast for the ravens,

endure.

5-3 I Am Only A Child

I am only,

a child in the arms,
of my father,
I don't know,
if you love me,
because I am
physically beautiful,

or
if you want me,
because I am
physically beautiful,
I am only,

a child in the arms,
of my father, I don't
understand, if you,
love me,

because,
I am,
mentally beautiful,
or

if you want me,
because I am mentally,
beautiful to you,
in your arms, I am
only a child,

looking for his father,
I am a child,
beautiful,
but I am,
a child,
mentally,

and you are not,
my father,
do you understand?

I need love,
I need affection,
I need to be told,
I am physically,
beautiful, I am
mentally,
beautiful,
I am capable,
of

being,
loved,
wanted,
by you,

but I don't know,
because,

in your arms,
I am only,
a child,
and the physical man,
you hold, is still,

only a child,
beautiful,
fragile,
afraid.

trust.

5-2 Mother Mine- Mt. Saint Helens

She.

in her temper,
lashes out,
rapes the land,
with her ash driven,
wind-blown fury,
then,

We.

surrender,
as a crumpled piece of paper,
in her trash can,

She.

picks us up, smooths us out,
using green and brown crayons,
tries, traces,
the outline, of who

We.
were, but,
She.

is afraid of us now,
her maw, her rib cage,
her cheeks turned inside out,
burning,

are still screaming,
at,

Us.

in horror, screaming at her,
in horror, but she, we cannot stop,
trying to erase, trace, color over,
hide, that

She.

is mother, and

We.

are her children.

5-1 Happy Hour

it's too early in the season,
to be happy,
yet here we are,
outside in the settling sun,
being.

happy.
I will miss,
the summer here,
when the boys,
come out in a parade,
of fur, muscles, arms,
brawn, and sweat,
during the late hour,
being.

happy,
but this feels good,
today the three of us,
drinking faster,
than we can order,
gin, and ginger, and whiskey,
and salt, more gin, and ginger,
and grapefruit, then tequila,
salt,
being,

happy,
this is my portland summer,
for three hours,
and we smash it into,
ourselves,
appetizers walk by,
and we,
order,

happy.

4-30 Unlocked #10 (Shoulder Series)

the ogre,
traps, snaps,
snacks,
in his arms,
between his knees,
cracking the heads,
of the children,

the troll,
grabs, gags,
boils,
in his arms,
between his knees,
soiling the stomachs,
of the children,

the giant,
bashes, lashes,
plucks,
in his arms,
between his knees,
sucking on the bones,
of the children,

but,
it is,
a man, who,
hugs, holds,
pleases,
in his arms,
between his knees,
who eats the hearts,
of the children.

4-29 Mr. Porter.... Please, I like Pretty Things

mister porter,
like you, I do,
like pretty things,
like you, things,
that swivel and sing,
pretty please,
mister porter,
like you, I do,
like you, pretty,
like you, do, like,
pretty things,
which swivel,
and swing,
and sing,
on your pretty,
white keys,
black and back,
swivel, and sing,
mister porter,
on your back,
in black,
please, like you
I do, pretty,
I do, things,
I do, please,
Mister porter,
swivel, bevel,
and swing, sing,
bevel and swing,
sing, Mister Porter,

please. I like.
pretty things.

4-28 Everytime I Say Goodbye I Blame The Eggs

There it is,
my schmaltzy title,
but it might be because,
I overcooked,
my eggs this morning,
but I cannot find the tears,
in the words,
so I sit here,
annoyed and bloated,
thinking instead,
about stuffing my face,
with sushi,
making smart choices, and
not so smart choices,
one more plate, right?
and all of you,
sitting in the booth with me,
when I see our crooked faces,
instead of feeling warmth inside,
which might be gas at this point,
as I woke up last night,
and grabbed the chips from the cupboard,
-smart choices
I keep,
wondering,
how is it a restaurant runs,
out of cheap white wine,
on a Monday evening,
when I should be hugging,
you with phrases about
how awesome community is,
friends, blah, blah, blah, blah,
blame the eggs,
but I just can't seem to find the right words,
to say,
pass the soy sauce, please.

04-27 Again.

I did not know you.
I did not try.

But what I heard,
made me cry,
quietly,

as if you were next to me,
invisible,
as you were next to me,
invisible,

crying quietly,
while you tried
to get people to know you,
but,

here we are,
and there you are,

so what we do next,
wishes don't pull a carriage down the road,

nor do empty promises,
but maybe this next go round,
as second chances go,

We''ll say hi.

4-26 In Which Autumn Bitch Slaps A Hapless LoveTorn Victim

after three hours, 

I catcalled my bloody mary's,

with my tongue,

sweet cakes, I said,

with pepper stinging on my breath,

"you should have married me,"

then, I roll my ice, 

at his innocent face,

and stalk off, pouting,

in my hiking boot heels,

he weeps on his knees,

to see me leave,

crying, "baby, baby, baby."

but this is not how it happened,

and I'm not going to tell you what happened,

because it didn't,

and that's all I want to say about that,

oh, and, 

a husband is not a boyfriend,

a boyfriend is not a lover,

and a lover, is nice,

but different than good.

4-25 Sea-Tac Airport, Here

here.

I was a straight man,
passing through,
I was a park ranger,
returning,
I was a gay man,
becoming,
I was an artist,
leaving,

today,
I am,
a ghost,
in these hallways,
between the footsteps and elbows,
of the people,
rushing,
blurring by,
in bags,
around me,
I brush,

the straight man,
passing through,
the park ranger,
returning,
the gay man,
becoming,
the artist,
leaving,

they don't see me,
but I see them,
and we are,

here.

together.

4-24 Funeral

in the painting,
there is my mother,
and there is me.

she is wearing,
a blue knit Aran sweater,
I gave her once,
I am in a loose fit mauve tie,
my young hand,
covers her older one,
we do not touch like this often,
but the painter has pushed us,
unwillingly together,

still I am not looking at her,
she is not looking at me,
but my hand, is,
covering hers,

in her other hand,
on a green and white dress,
but you can't see that,
she is clutching tightly, with wrinkles,
around her fingers,
around her eyes,  but she doesn't look,
old,

the painter has made love with the light
of noon, giving her,
the pale, yellow, and golden browns,
to match the almost colorless blue sky above,
my knees away from hers,
are crossed in dark jeans, with faded brown leather boots,
folding chairs carry us,

it could be summer, or a wedding,
how does one tell it is a funeral?

perhaps it's because we cannot see you,
the painter.

this we mourn.

04-23 Unlocked #7 (Shoulder Series)

the hand breathes,
over my stomach,
a galaxy of stars,
giving birth to my
breath tingling, as
I reach for the darkness,
welling up between your
fingers clutching my head
like a broken egg,
to baptize me,
as I shudder in your
fatherly, embrace,
the demon eating
the flesh of the children,
I want to curl away from you,
but I shake in an unforgivable
ecstasy, is this what it means,
to heal?

4-22 Up- Yosemite National Park

mother,

the dogwood uncurling,

drips white,

on my face, I am

walking,

between where

and there,

looking up, and up, and up,

and

drip,

I squeeze her hand,

stepping carefully,

between, 

oval shapes, zig-zags, lines,

blending, 

gray, black, brown,

speckled white,

puddle, 

I stop,

looking up, and sideways, and around,

and then,

up, and up, and up,

morning fog, uncurling,

reaches away from us,

in the field,

I let go of her hand,

running, skipping,

awkward, two-step,

one step, almost slip,

I arrive,

in the sun,

filtering, unsure,

out of the not fog,

green blades of drops,

grasses, slivers,

warm shivers,

my ankles are wet,

but, 

across the field,

I look out, 

and then,

up,

and up,

and up,

and down, I follow,

follow, 

my mother is behind me,

she is looking at,

me, looking up,

the trees rising,

down the water falling,

I am cold again, all at once,

my hand uncurling,

grabs hers,

and we,

look,

up.  

4-21 Mr. Snow and I Go To Lunch

oh, Mr. Snow,

I say with the car door open,
in the rain pouring,
outside my open car door,

oh, Mr. Snow,
by now, you should know,
it's past the time,
I should go, Mr. Snow,
and this,

the rain pouring outside,
my open car door,
in the rain pouring,
you should know,
Mr. Snow,

this,
I say,
when it's time to go,
in the pouring rain,
outside,
in the pouring rain,
when I close my car door,

and

listen to the rain,
oh, Mr. Snow,
by now you should know,

listen to the rain,

go.

4-20 Make Him Sparkle

late night,
in the editing room,
I look at your eyes,
looking back at me,
at the camera,
you don't look at him,
he is unsure,
cautious in the photos,
he is not used to the,
attention, the need,
you feel, to look
at the camera,
looking at me,
waiting for me,
to tell you I love you,
when I know you do,
he smiles, surprised,
to be with you, but not,
awkward, you see this,
but you don't see this,
this is Pandora whispering,
in my ear, in the editing room,
with you looking at me,
and him not,
knowing where to look,
except at you,
and you don't look at him,
if you did,
the photo,
would,
make him sparkle,
all I do,
is capture what I see,
and I know he could be,
beautiful to me,
I could make him beautiful to me,
but I can not make him beautiful to you,
so I don't look at him,
I look at you,
looking at me,
wondering why
it is so easy,
to make you sparkle,
in the late night,
of my editing room.

4-19 When Next I Howl At The Moon

when next I howl at the moon,
it is you gypsy lover,
I call,
to the sanguine river,
of the autumn fall,
running hot,
and dark,
in the ember-ed desert,
of my hungered tune,
it is you, and I, and the harvest moon,
as the wild wolf call, come
as the unfurled ribbon of song, come
as the beast of the run,
into the swallowing sky, come,
sing the night, long,
it is you and I,
gypsy lover and the moon,
when I next I howl,
into my arms,
come,
come,
the night ends too soon.

4-18 The Argh of Now

jawbreaker,
cracks in my throat,
forcing the hurricane,
-out.

4-17 When The Ocean Said Love.

when I close my eyes,
there in my hand,
I feel the ocean,
blue moving,
grey sand,
sister and you,
with your eyes closed,
as the ocean,
moving,
here in your hands,
you and sister,
blue water moving,
grey sand pouring,
when she closes her eyes,
there in her hands,
you are her ocean,
blue water forming,
grey sand returning,
sister and you,
with our eyes closed,
we are your ocean,
blue becoming,
grey returning,
water, sand,
water, sand,
water,
sky,

here in our hands,
ocean.

4-16 Unlocked #4 (Shoulder Series)

flesh in your mouth,
it is mine,
gorging,
on my shoulder heart,
you grab,
me forcefully,
eating without intention,
the hollowness
of your gaze,
speaks only of
hunger, unending hunger,
your pregnant
moon belly,
saturated with
weight, hangs
flabbing, in your
deflating jerky
movements,
who created you?

was it me?
I look down at my chest,
where the hole of
your mouth, has
plunged a fist,
and I see it is pink,
and not black,
my hand in the slime
and clotted blue ink,
ripping out,
your entrails,
and feeding it
to your mouth,
where I swallow it,
because you need me too,
because it is in my nature,
because I can,

because when I taste you,
I see death,
the never ending,
falling up and into of
a darker midnight sky,
stars, wanderers, illuminating,
lanterns of light,
the familiarity of a path,
I once knew,

and my heart,
aches, like you,

to go home.

4-15 Where's Brad When I Need Him?

I'm scared, Joe.
this dance, will end,
in three minutes and a year,
can we pick up this waltz again,
the night always takes us
away into the morning,
sweet cinnamon,
cloves, cedar, and linen,
don't let go,
not yet,
I could love you,
in black suit, white tie,
and ring, promising,
champagne, whiskers, and kisses,
but I can't stay,
not yet,
no sweetie,
but we can pretend,
and then I'll pretend,
it's you,
holding my hand,
when the band stops playing,
lights twinkling
in a darker sky.

4-14 This Is How I Tell You I Love You (Reprise)

Mr. Snow,

the springs Rains,
I bring will come and go,
the boys and barbecues,
of summer, will watch the stars,
awake, on the steps of your patio,
but don't forget, babe,
when the maples leaves begin to glow,
I as the autumn rains will return,
to bring the smile with the snow.
this is how I love you,
this is how I know.

Mr. Snow,
this is how I love you,
this is how I know.

4-13 I Forgot To Turn The Page, Mr. Bumblebee

I must apologize,

my delicacy of souls and sirs, 

in the deepest and politest,

and most earnest of ways,

but your furrowed brow,

strong arms,

slight frown,

were the epicenter of 

an in-discretionary distraction,

due to an improbable negligent attraction,

so possible, I might ask of  an

allowable quota of forgiveness,

but I think, 

your sweet and sensible iota of a pardon, 

might do me the excruciating embarrassment 

of an accidental inexcusable, -

4-12 HornQuake

did you feel it?

about 3:28 pm,
pacific standard time,

the earth shook,
great with a fury of a terrible might,
thunder roared with teeth,
as fierce as the blackest of night,
an army of zombie dinosaurs,
arose a terrible, fierce, and frightening sight,
but really,

the phone just burped,
"woof,"

nopantzpdx says hi,
pigglywigglybearrug says grrr,
bottombastien asks what happening?
pccpunkinthefunkinthetrunk sends a
hey-lo, whistle, toodle and a grunt.
(block)
boxtopbabe, getmelaid, daddylicklicious,
silvertipsplayed,
groaner4u, travelinthru,
and masc4musc2wrstle4trble,
send a pic of their trick,
a thick stick of a shtick,
would I like to
(blush)
handsonnhary, handsomenthensome,
mississippimymary,
cubinaclass,
and discreetdrtybullbearly,
give it a show, hey, you're nearby,
woof,
what do ya know?

then it stops,
blue as the balls,
high in the sky,
the thunder meekly,
says good luck and good bye
the zombie dinosaurs,
cower, lost all their power,
shrink out of sight,
while the earth, laughs,
to cause such a fright,
taking pleasure
in his afternoon's delight.

3:29 pm
pacific standard time

did you feel it?

4-11 Sin Eater

grace my shoulder with
your fingers playing the piano
lightly behind me, ghost on the
feather of black thread,
unraveling, between your fingers,
pushing me down,
pinning me down,
while the rain plays the piano,
lightly on me, ghost in the
feathers of black and silver thread,
unraveling, between your fingers,
pushing in,
holding me,
pulling out,
holding me,
between the black and white keys,
stars come spilling out,
in the rain, unraveling,
from the thread where my
featherless wings,
ache between the black and white keys,
of my shoulder, stars
spilling into the rain,
unraveling, black, featherless,
thread, between your fingers,
you swallow me,
in the lightly falling rain,
of me unraveling, featherless,
between your fingers,
gracing my shoulder,
black and white,
feathers,
in the rain.

4-10 Spring Makes A Mister Sneeze

Mister (Sexy Bull),
at the ready,
in the comedy of morning,
oh court the young Achilles,
sung too early in the opera,
of my pastoral short comings,
when priming the pump,
the fat lady entered and sang,
an arresting aida,
without a warning,
laugh in the comedy of the morning.

Mister Producer,
oh sweet, snow falling,
Mister Producer,
are the holidays here so soon?
care you not, for the tea of summer,
which brings the honey to the spoon?
Oh, Mister Producer,
Mister Producer,
the winter is so far away,
come, come, follow the words,
the woods, the paths, the words,
what mother doesn't know,
can't lead you astray,
Mister Producer, come I tease,
what do you say?

Mister Valentine.
tender your heart,
into the spring of song,
your words call to me,
the robins in concert,
men of the summer come long,
to listen, so sweet,
to the lullaby wind,
holding the note,
soft, a gentle kiss,
asleep in your arms,
only you, only you, only you,
Mr. Valentine,
only you and all your charms.

Mr. Snow.
oh silly, adorable, deplorable,
mister, never kissed her,
(well once), sigh and a mister,
your eyes of idleness, of want,
the dick of your desire,
flicking your casual lady fingers,
delicate as chopsticks linger,
dipping the boys in sauce,
flirting with words,
on your tongue,
the men of your mind dripping,
kind as always to the fur muscled brats,
which you place so carefully,
as appetizers, dessert first,
main course last.

Mister Bumblebee.
the trembling unicorn,
in your arms,
held fast to the slipping
grace of the day, the waves,
of the shore came tumbling down,
the tide, as friend, to carry you away,
but instead you saw, in the quiet
questioning of your eyes,
the tempest of the hurricane,
bent as the willow to the creek,
in the surge of the rise,
that which is effortless,
that which is wise,
the which is you, Mr. Bumblebee,
the unicorn with the lavender eyes.

Mister (Gypsy Lover),
a verse for you,
yeah you, the drama,
the intrigue, the familiar,
spun tale, the song,
you don't want me to sing,
your day spun out,
tired and sore,
off to bed with you,
without me to bring,
I sighed, and more,
already knowing,
there's a part of me,
that waited long, to see,
if you would come,
and stay the night,
all cuddled and cute,
all verse and song,
before you leave,
to watch the summer,
carry the spring, so blithely,
away from you and me.

Mister (Princess)
you woke and rang,
your words as kind,
and soft, as the song,
you sang, once,
when the night called,
the moon to chill,
to still, you remind me,
to care, to see, to thrill,
to sing, and at the end of
the day, to be, me,
there is more to see,
than today,
there is more today,
than I can see,
and there is you,
a voice of reason,
reminding me,
you are as beautiful,
as the moon is beautiful,
to me,

carry the night into my bed,
sleep soft, the misters of the day,
sleep soft, and then tomorrow,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
I will write a poem,
for you,
to sing awake the sun,
as if it were,
the poetry of my misters tomorrow,
come sing the heart of my song today.

4-9 I Do Not Hum

I do not hum.
I do not give.
I do not let.
Except for you,
on the deck,
when I grabbed,
the sun,
with my fingers,
curling into my,
crying from the heat
of the cement,
smashed,
through,
because I
need you
to hum
I need you,
to give,
I need you
to let,
me,
feel the heat
of the cement,
on my cheek,
curling my
fingers into the sun.

4-8 At Least For One Day

at least for one day,
you,
said casually
to the romantic who
only heard,
at least for one day,
with strings, and words,
and an afternoon,
filled to the brim with champagne,
the wolf in your dance,
in your chest,
all that remains,
when you said,
at least for one day,
stay on the path,
and do not stray,
this is the house of September,
wrapped in a play
of sage and cotton,
lost to the blue-green sway,
of your words, cautioning me,
gypsy lover,
gypsy love,
at least for one day.

4-7 Well, What Can I Say?

Could it be spring again?
Is that why, I'm in spring again?
Is that why I'm the:

spritely, sprung,
of spring begun,
the after laughter of winter done,
the chit and chatter, which doesn't matter,
when your're chit and I'm a chatter,
cause it's all blather,
in the after laughter,
with spring begun,
to spritely spring,
the sprite in me,
begins to spring,
spritely!

I've become an,

embarrassing,
a carouseling,
caroling,
of predicament,
meets lusting
sin of sentiment,
when in the store
I should chance to see,
a cut-off, tatooed, brazen,
balding, bearded,
meat of personality,
oh my, oh me, oh my,
oh me, it's spring,
begun to sing,
begun to ring,
begun to sing,
and ring, and bring,

a burgeoning testosterone,
escapes my lips,
with a soft moan,
when a hunk,
with swaying trunks,
swaying chunks,
junk and trunks,
swaying junk and trunks,
walks on by,
dog on leash,
dog in hand,
walking dog,
on leather leash,
pleasurely, leisurely,
walking dog in hand,
in leather, pleasure,
swaying, leather,
pleasure, swaying,
could this weather get any better?
oh me, oh my, oh me,
oh my,
please let it be,
in the greater to plan
please let him be,
my kind of man,
oh I can't stand,
I stop and stare,
I don't care,
I want him to see,
that spring has sprung,
spring has begun, to spring,
and sprung, the spring,
in me,

cause,
everything, I mean,
everything,
looks good to me,
the baker, butcher,
busboy, bellboy,
boys with bells,
who ride the bus,
with boys who bake,
butch on a bus,
with boys and toys,
and bells, and joys,
such noise,
such toys,
such joyful noise,
with toys, and boys,
and bells, and ploys,
butch bakers, makers,
takers, wankers,
bake and shakers,
wanking, baking,
butch, joy, making,
shaking, wanking,
in clogs and thongs,
is it so wrong,
in boots and butts,
strutting along,
with bangles,
dangling, clanging,
changing, bells,
to ring the spring,
to bring the spring,
spring my ring,

what should I do?
which should I do?
who should I do?
even my words betray,
my sense of play,
propriety is a mister,
I refuse to court today,
oh what can I say,

it's spring, it's spring, it's

sprung.





,

4-6 An Excuse To Smile

if I met you in Portland,

maybe I wouldn't have,
the cello always playing,
when I touch another man's hand,
I wouldn't think,

about counting the breathes between,
when I ask another man to dance,

nor when I walk into a book store,
would I casually browse the magazine aisle,
knowing someone like you,
might happen to be there,
awkwardly smiling,
sitting on the bench,
not waiting, and waiting,
like me,

nor would I hesitate,
when I lean in to kiss another man,
with the rain dripping off my fedora,
thinking about how the rain spilled
of the rim of my ranger hat,
as I said goodbye to you,

maybe,
but I didn't meet you in Portland,
and now,

when rain drops fall,
the cello is always playing,
counting the breathes between,
as I sit next to you on a couch,
both in our pj's, you writing in your journal,
me in mine, as it would be,

if I had met you in a book store,
in Portland.

4-5 Without The Wind To Remind Me

the mind is quiet,
at thirty four thousand feet,
the week is gone,
below me,
past the clouds,
flat, horizon less,
I am somewhere,
down there drowning,
in a blue sound proof,
screaming ocean,
the heat of a few days,
gentle on my shoulder,
casts off blossoms,
from a plumeria tree,
for someone else
who needs a shadow,
I don't need him anymore,
not up here, not where,
the compressed air,
pushes in on me, around me,
down on me,
holding me,
in its anxiety driven,
state of not being,
without the wind to remind me,
I am movement,
I hold my breath,
waiting,
counting,
one, two,
three, four,
five, six,
seven, eight,
nine,
I am,
held.

4-4 Jungle Ride

we slid,
down,
the curve of the asphalt,
snake's back,
black as water,
slick with mud,
till we,
reached,
the tail,
holding on,
drenched,
slapped from side to side,
blind as the yellow-milk,
of his eyes, caught,
between,
the knotted prayers of our hands
silent in the whip-lashed fury,
of our prey.

4-3 Beach Day

Palm,
towel, sand,
sunscreen, magazine,
beer in,
hand, palm, towel,
white sand, sunscreen,
magazine, beer in,
hand,
swaying,
palm, towel, sand,
toes, sunscreen, magazine,
beer in,
hand,
palm, towel, toes,
white sand, sunscreen,
splash.

magazine, beer in hand,
palm, towel, sand,
toes,
waves,
sunscreen, magazine, wind,
beer in,
hand, palm, towel,
sand,
blue sky-

sunscreen, magazine,
beer in hand.

4-2 Tidbit

said Katie calmly to the iguana on the shore,

"Puerto Ricans are not afro-american, or black,
they are Puerto Ricans."

Katie adjusts the folds of her towel, looking
at the iguana intently.

"Rum is made from molasses,
(at least on this island)."

she added as an afterthought,

"cuba libre, means a free cuba,
best served with coke, not pepsi,
officially."

about to pick up her latest copy of Simple Life,
she said

"the fort was attacked four times in four hundred years.
four times."

She shook her head, flipping to page 34
the iguana blinks his eye

(do iguanas blink? this one did.)

"Well." she replied

The iguana closes his eyes.

4-1 Musical Interlude (Snorkel Movement)

Yahoy!
(musical interlude)

cast off from the shore,
head out on the water,
blue to the sky,
which smiles above.

cast off from the shore,
jump into the water,
blue as the sky,
which smiles above.

So many wonders,
colors, and plunders,
treasures of fish,
swimming,
swish-swish.

So many wonders,
colors and plunders,
what more could you wish,
from a BLUE-SKY- DAY
-LIKE THIS!

Yahoy! Yahoy! Yahoy!

Stars on the sea floor,
stars in my hand,
what could be more fun,
than a day spent with,
stars on the sea floor,
stars in my hand,
dots, squares, and white bands,
dots, stripes, and we can,

Yahoy! Yahoy! Yahoy!

cast off from the shore,
head out on the water,
blue to the sky,
which smiles above.

cast off from the shore,
jump into the water,
blue as the sky,
which smiles above.

so many swimmers,
fins, tails, and glimmers,
so many swimmers,
tails, fins, and shimmers,
so many swimmers,
tails, fins, shimmers, and glimmers,
glimmers and shimmers,
fins, tails, and swimmers,
every fish is a winner,
(every swimmer could be dinner!)

what?

Yahoy! Yahoy! Yahoy!
Yahoy! Yahoy! Yahoy!

cast off from the shore,
head out on the water,
blue to the sky,
which smiles above,
miles above,
smiling with love,
above in the blue sky,
a day for you and I.

Yahoy!

03-30 This Is Travel Club

circles on circles,
mowed lawns,
lizards,
pavement is,
HOT,
boxes bright,
orange, blue,
white, poles,
periwinkle,
pavement is,
gates everywhere,
fences,
circles on circles,
tennis courts,
gates,
where is the beach?
this is travel club,
not here,
not here,
blind leading the blind,
it is so HOT,
lawns, lizards,
blue skies,
smack our faces,
backhand, return,
smack, circles
on circles,
flat feet, smack,
the pavement is,
where is the beach?
where is the beach/?
this is travel club,
dirt road,
wandering,
golf carts parking,
dirt road, stalled, then,
wind blowing fierce,
wind blowing sweet,
blue ocean, palms pose,
waves on the feet,
radio playing,
circles upon circles,
blue skies,
sand, towel, nap,
this is travel club.

3-31 Dream Sequence (Run)

they gave me a gun.

I don't know why.
I didn't ask, but

when the children started dying,
they told me to,

run.
so I did.
with the gun,
carrying her over my shoulder,
I don't know,
if she was,
alive,

or not,
I never checked,
I didn't think too,
I just,
ran,

down the rain, dirt trails,
down through the city,
there was me, her,
trails, city streets,
corners,
smoke, me,
and my gun,
hitting my hip,

it was hot.

I was in training,
or at least I thought I was,
they just told me to run,
where I was cool,
it become hot,
binoculars slapping my chest,
I didn't understand,
I didn't have time to understand,

she was heavy,
with green blades whipping around me,
she was so heavy,

golden eagle flies by.

3-29 Three Tequila Floor

The margarita went down first,
silver fish in lime flashing,
then out with the champagne,
of course,
a rose in palm, sparkling,
followed by me, white as the wine,
bottle in hand,
vodka, cranberry,
bed.

3-28 and I was done

and I was done.
the rain came down.
and I was done.
the house felt empty,
no table,
bags packed,
Tater pouting on the carpet,
but,
I was done.

the rain came down,
all around me,
all I could think about,
was the empty house
the rain coming down,
and me,
in this house,
with the rain coming down,
done.

3-27 The Hands Remember When

when we love,
we love completely,
do we not?

the difference between us,
though, is you are in love,
and today I am not,
today I am watching you
fall in love, and I notice,
the difference between us,
and I think about

you. the other. and the before.

I was taught to love,
without,
touching,
you.

How is that any different
than love? I have re-learned how
to love, I think, but it
is easier for me to love from afar,
as I was taught. But,

you are not afraid
to touch, not today,
today, you are,
falling
for
him.

This makes me happy.
makes me hurt.
I think of,

you,  the other, and the before.

I miss them. I miss them more than I say.
I keep hoping. I'd get a chance, one day,
to find out, what it like to not miss them.
this makes me happy.

makes me hurt. I want them
to be brave like you,
are being brave, silly like you,
are being silly, but

the difference between us today,
is you are in love today,
and I am not, but,

the hands remember when

3-26 Mr. Snow Feels A Tickle In His Ear

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how could you know?
the summer wind blows,
spring a soft beginning,
to tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
where does the heart go?
when it follows the summer,
to the spring to the wind blowing,
soft a tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how will you know?
when the summer wind blows,
a beginning, a spring,
soft as a tickle in your ear?

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how does the heart grow?
in the spring, to follow,
the summer wind blowing,
soft a beginning tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
only you can know,
how the summer wind blows,
into spring, as your heart grows,
a beginning, soft as a tickle in your ear.

3-25 Soft The Blowing Gentle Of Your Hand

When the night wind begins to whisper in my ear,

Soft the blowing gentle of your hand,

I wake, and I am awake,

in the soft blowing gentle of your hand,

I wrap myself in cotton and weave,

rough to my sleeping skin, I wrap myself,

and leave the tent flapping,

soft in the blowing gentle of your hand.

I wake,  and I am awake, to the sky,

so swallowing with stars, I fear,

and I am afraid, of the sky,

so swallowing with stars.

Cotton and weave wrap rough to waking skin,

when I see you, blur and form,

when I see you, sitting,

by the last of the fire, blur and form,

wind blowing soft and gentle from your hand,

I see you, blur and turn, a low whistle to swallow

the stars gathered around you,

embers of cotton and weave.

 I fear and I am afraid, to see you

in the sky, here with me, by the last of the fire,

but I am awake, and you are as gentle as the soft

blowing wind from your hands, it is you and I

by the last of the fire, you are smoke and earth,

smoldering in the shadows,  and I want.

 To be close,

to smell the smoke and earth of your skin,

smoldering in the shadow, but when I see your eyes,

swallowing the sky with the stars, I fear and I am afraid,

 but you call me, soft with gentle hand of the wind,

you call me,  to the smoke and earth,

smoldering in your shadow, I am afraid.

 I feel the cotton and weave, rough on my skin,

when it drops, under your touch, the cool of granite,

solid, smooth, cradling around me, gentle, soft in the wind

of your hand, feeling of earth and smoke, smoldering,

cool, smooth granite, I wake and I am awake,

looking at your eyes,  as they swallow the sky,

with stars forming, a blur, by the last of the fire,

smelling of smoke and earth, you are afraid of me.

I am limited, but you are afraid of me,

because I can see your granite crumbling under the sky,

the soft gentle wind of your hands, cradling, the granite

crumbling, when I am close to you, but you are afraid of me,

because I can swallow the stars too, next to you,

by the last of the fire, I want to be close, and be with you,

by the last of the fire, embers in the smoke and shadow,

smoldering in the earth of your heart.

you have come to know me, but I fear and I am afraid,

for I see me, in you, and you are limitless,

in the sky so swallowing with stars, you are limitless,

and I am afraid, in the soft, gentle wind of your hand,

I fear and I am afraid with you,

 I am limitless.

 I see my heart,

smoldering in the smoke and earth of your shadow,

 I wake and I am awake, granite crumbling,

into your cradle, by the last of the fire,

soft the blowing gentle of your hand,

solid, smooth, limitless,

we are-

3-24 Dionysus and The Boys

should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh, yes, and drink the wine?
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should we laugh and drink the wine?

One for the faerie, with the wings made of trees,
One for the faerie, with the wings made of trees,
One for the snow faerie with the wings made of trees,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he walks beneath the trees?

One for the faerie, with no wings to be free,
One for the faerie, with no wings to be free,
One for the hanged faerie, with no wings to be free,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he runs to be free?

One for the faerie, with the wings made of honey,
One for the faerie, with the wings made of honey,
One for the bumblebee faerie, with the wings made of honey,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he gathers his kisses of honey,

should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh, yes, and drink the wine?
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
laugh and come sit, beneath the tree,
come drink and be free,
come share, in our kisses of honey,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
we drink to you,
who turns the boys of winter,
into the faeries of spring.

3-23 Boys and Girls Like You and Me

when the last note is played,
the ford escapes
up the highway,
back to the "O.",
where the sun is beginning to smile
in the east, and it begins again,
a slow, steady, waltz,
the footsteps of the champagne men,
tucked into bed,
asleep, two by two,
hand in hand, they turn, awake,
into the piano,
strings pulling tight,
playing the keys,
beginning again, with the faltering,
tremolo of my arms,
when he lets go,
I am on the floor,
on the stairs, crystal shard bracelets,
twinkle on my wrists,
my pink dress is torn,
glitter falling down my cheeks,
I am drowning,
in the bright, blinding,
glamour of the trill,
turning inward,
till, one by one,
hand in hand,
picking me up,
they kiss me on the cheek,
dust off the glitter,
hand me back my crown,
and together,
two by two,
we sit down on the piano bench,
singing of champagne,
all the while, holding each other,
looking at the corners of the room,
where they waltz the ghosts,
into the walls,
clapping in rhythm,
one by one, hand in hand,
we bow to them, the piano picks
a key change, we leave the piano bench,
the tie from our tux, unraveled,
in colors swirling around our necks,
in our eyes, chandeliers of fire,
burn feverishly, low and soft,
careful now, careful now, we whisper,
to each other, hand in hand,
smoke gets in our eyes,
so we leave, two by two,
nodding to the stars above,
drinking the last of the champagne,
and
I curl into you.

3-22 The Champagne Men

late as the evening comes,
early as the night arrives,
I am a champagne man.

my effervescence twirls,
in crystal glasses,
rising to the occasion,
sparkling on the tongue,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am a man of champagne.

my effervescence whirls,
as glasses made of crystal,
occasionally sparkle,
rising on the tongue,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am a champagne man.

whirling and twirling,
twirling and whirling,
the effervescent crystal,
sparkles, rising,
sparkling on the tongue,
of occasion,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am always a man,
of champagne.

3-21 The Hanged Man

Death came tapping
on the shoulder of the hanged man,
blowing smoke in his eyes,
laughing,
son, he said,
son, he said,
opening
his arms wide,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
rising from the ashes of his cigar,
desert soldiers on a pale blue horizon,
roses upon roses of rows,
black with feathers and gold with thread,
roses upon roses of rows,
black with feathers and gold with thread,
blowing in the after-wind,
son, he said,
son, he said,
stamping his boots on the platform,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
the soldiers turn to face him grinning,
flashing their bone white teeth,
the drums of their feet,
pounding and pouring sand into sound,
black feathers soaring, gold thread wound,
pounding and pouring sand into sound,
becoming the after-wind,
sand into sound, blowing,
son, he said,
son, he said,
throwing off his cloak,
bowing to the sky,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
from his chest, from his bones,
from his hands, he brought,
ripped flesh, and veins,
dripping black as the feather,
a crown of the dust, dirt, and stone,
spun with a weave as thread of gold,
a crown of the dust, dirt, and stone,
harnessing the after-wind, dust, dirt, and stone, blown,
son, he said,
son, he said,
Dad, the hanged man replies,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death hangs the crown on his head,
black with feather, gold with thread,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death fills his ears with the sound,
black as feather, gold as thread,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death fills his arms with the men,
black with feather, gold with thread,
I am at peace,
Death has nothing more to give,
so he rocks him gently,
kissing him on his rattlesnake cheeks,
black in the feather, gold in the thread,
unwinds the rope,
black in the feather, gold in the thread,
let me go.

03-20 Should I Salt The Kale Salad?

we know enough,
of each other  now,
for me to chop the onions,
quickly, with the garlic,
while you add the thyme,
then you, with painter's hands,
ball the elk meat
into hamburgers,
and blue cheese,
they are huge,
a year ago,
I might have watched
you with your hands,
flip the patties,
cigarette between your lips,
while I nervously
drank my wine,
but we know enough of each other now,
that I am in the kitchen,
wine glass next to the sink,
cleaning, getting out the kale salad,
outside, you are fussing over the bacon,
and your reputation,
phone in your hand,
yelling to me about the tickets,
I am listening but not,
wondering why you have no dressings
in the fridge and should I salt the kale salad?
I don't ask.I just do.
You're calling for the buns. I had forgotten to
butter them, so I grab the knife, the red butter dish, the plate,
and I head outside, it's chilly,
we know enough of each other now,
I don't have to stay,
but I do.

03-19 The Barcode On My Butt

"oh! is that an apple,
in the stuffing?
how unique..."

you say pushing around,
the buttered brown clump
of crazy, on your plate,
drowning the hapless lump
in gravy.

between forkfuls of increasing pleasure,
you point out:

the pecans, toasted?
the celery, too salty?
the carrot, too much crunch?
the bread crumbs, oh those are good,
there is silence for a few seconds,
while you take the time to swallow.

"Is that sage?"
you continue, right where you left out,
a peculiar unflattering expression on your face,
forgetting for a moment
your in public, smacking your
lips together loudly,

"No... maybe
its marjoram."
you slam more into your face,
looking up at the chandelier
as if written there are the answers,
revealed in the light from above.

"No... It's sage.  It has that fuzzy,
undertone of,"

you stop, choking,
one eyebrow goes astray,
I wonder, I pray,
pray harder,
but you cough,
into your white linen napkin,
politely,
and then resume chewing your words
lost between the heapfuls,
of battered down indulgence,
when you burp,
point the fork at me,
with a empty plate question on your face,
I stop praying.

I reach into my rhinestone  D.A.D.D.Y
lettered leather purse, and pull out,
my rocket launcher,

"IT'S (insert explicative) STUFFING!"

3-18 Looking For Employment (Dream Sequence)

the mountains, rocks, cliffs,
are stacks, bits of watercolor,
oil, dripping from the amber fog,
curling around the permanent sunset,
sandy beach open, splashing,
they rise,black, charcoal streaked,
as my face, forms eyes, nose, mouth,
swallowing, ink,
a night sky, swirling as my
head a crowning of stars, of light,
of.

03-17 Harvest

Winter, bows out,
kisses the feet of spring,
shrugs his shoulders,
and walks away,
with men heavy,
in his belly,
satisfied, for now,
those he leaves behind,
notice, but don't,
they become glitter on the
eyelashes of her
blossoming cheeks,
waiting for the bosom,
of her always mother to arrive,
she, though,
in the drawing room,
oil and pastel,
satin and silk,
watches him go,
worry in her eyes,
following his shadow thin,
she will see him,
again,
soon,
always.
the door shuts.

03-16 The Question I Didn't Ask

tonight, we
are men,
in a bar, rain
pouring outside,
the dive plunging,
checkered squares,
forming halos,
around our heads,
while the wind blows,
uneasy words from
our mouths, chalkboard recipes,
of whiskey and why,
on our dimly lit
china plates,
the question never
answered, because,
we are men,
in a bar, talking about,
god, while he rained,
pouring outside,
his disciples,
plunging us, out
of the checkered squares,
forming halos,
around our forearms,
while the wind blows,
from his trumpet,
words of praise,
from our mouths,
chalkboard alleluias,
recipes of whiskey, why,
and who, half-lived,
soft-boiled eggs on our
dimly lit china plates,
the question as answered,
as two men,
sitting in a bar,
asking god to appear,
in the pouring rain, drowning,
outside of the dive, plunging,
into the shadow of the checkered
squares, blinded by the white,
of the halos forming, from
our clipped wings tattooed,
on our backs, writhing in the wind,
blowing feathers from our mouth,
cautious words, scribbled on
note paper napkin chalkboards,
recipes of whiskey and why, drunk
twice on the priceless dimly lit
china of our lives, fragile in
the questions unasked,
as two men,
sit at a bar,
in the pouring rain,
forming halos around,
the wind blowing,
uneasy,
words, of whiskey, and why,
looking for god,
in the grain.

3-15 Now Accepting Applications For A Perfect Husband

Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Interviews begin this morning,
It's time I found the perfect husband,
you could be my perfect husband, but
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
read the fine print,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
the applications comes,
with a stern warning,

must be tall
and rather witty,
on my arm,
you'll carry pretty,
likes to charm,
no harm,

has a smile,
which hearts a mountain,
eats gelato,
next to a fountain,
when you sing,
bells ring,

Misters of the Greater Portland,
if you think sex is important,
yes it's true my tale is sordid,
but read these words,
and heed this warning,

must have a job,
a necessary,
benefits and never any,
episodes, cause I've got,
loads,

must be kind,
and kind of crazy,
likes to travel,
but cuddles lazy,
afternoons,
is it too soon?

Misters of the Greater Portland.
Misters of the Greater Portland.
Misters of the Greater Portland.
There's just one fact which I'm ignoring,
there's one final note of warning,

although I'm tall,
and rather witty,
on your arm,
I'll carry pretty,
I like to charm,
and not cause harm,
I have a smile,
which hearts a mountain,
but eats gelato,
next to a fountain,
and when I sing,
bells will ring,
but I don't have a job,
it's unnecessary,
cause you've got benefits,
and never any,
episodes,
cause I have loads,
and yes I'm kind,
but kind of crazy,
I like to travel,
but cuddle lazy,
in the afternoons,
it's what I do,

Misters of the Greater Portland,
I'd make me the perfect husband,
but I can't date me,
legally,
(plus no job)
so don't be silly,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
if you want to be my perfect husband,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
all those qualities, are great niceties,
but you, my proud and perfect husband,
my mister of the Greater Portland,
you,
must,
love,
me.

sincerely,
Mister Timothy.

3-14 A Peek Into The Garden Of the Sleeping Giant

in the garden,
beyond the wall,
of a city,
which drips of
blue and black ink,
he, the one who
has been sleeping,
opens his eye,
chest rising
falling, rhythm
in the hills small
and valleys shallow,
opens his eye,
blinks,
turns over,
and snores,
blossoms tremble
pink and white
on his cherry trees.

03-13-14 Trilluim

the potato trots next to me,
I pick up my pace,
we can do this,
past the downturn in the trail,
over the bridge, where the frost,
clings to the rails, between the lines,
of the sun patterning through the early
morning trunks, then up the muddy
edged curves, over the crest,
I slow down,
breathing is difficult,
the chest hurts,
then down again,
ferns, cold, curled,
blur past my awkward form,
then I stop,
white, barely formed,
petals in three,
blink awake,
is it spring yet? 
the potato takes the break,
to mark the trail,
I  continue,
down over the bridge again,
then.

3-12 When You Care (3)

why,
are you,
hugging me,
with your fists,
slamming knives into
my ear with your kisses,
why won't you just let me,
be, if you don't know how,
to love me,
then don't,
love me,
please.

3-11 Sexy Bull

the flutter of wings,
knives, as feathers,
the flutter of wings,
brings,
a smile to your face,
a smile to my face,
when you call yourself an ogre,
I call yourself a sexy bull,
when the flutter of my wings,
knives, as feathers,
brings,
a smile to your face,
a smile to my face,
the flutter of your wings,
knives, as feathers,
bring.

03-10 Throwing Thistle To The Wind

I find a park bench,
to sit down on,
in the house of September,
where Spring,
quince of thorns,
blossoms worn,
blesses my feet,
though I am cold,
I shiver,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
away from,
her early morning light,
sliding golden down my face,
as if to say, it will be okay,
it's just another sunrise,
in the house of September,
she stays,
in my hands where your letter,
tells me I am a mistake,
sitting on a park bench,
with my back to the wall,
my back to the wall,
back in the house of September,
I fold,
your letter in my hands.
I make a few phone calls.
What can I do? I am a mistake.
I make a few phone calls.
I am not sure what else to do.
I want to stay on the park bench,
and wait,
back to the wall,
for another sunrise,
but I don't, instead I write,
letters, poems, stories, songs,
applications,
sending all my songbirds,
to arms, writing applications, singing songs,
telling stories,
and I forget about the poems,
and the letters, when my mom calls,
to listen to me, sitting again on the park bench,
back to the wall, waiting for another sunrise,
back to the wall.
I am not patient. I am not kind.
I am angry. But she listens,
to me trying to be patient,
trying to be kind,
trying not to be angry.
There must be some mistake.
Only one.
I reply dramatically.
I am a mistake.
I hang up the phone.
The songbirds have gone,
having armed themselves,
with songs, letters, applications,
poems, and
I am left, to wait the day, with
Spring, doodling, away by my side,
back to the wall, on a park bench,
where I am a mistake,
then
I forget,
about the poems and the
letters when from her lips
fall blossoms of feathers forming,
two finches, yellow lemons,
orange, and black rinds,
citrus and thistle on their mind,
citrus and thistle, they are both
male, bright, I had been waiting,
for months,
throwing thistle at the wind,
she smiles, coy
takes your letter from my hand,
throwing thistle to the wind,
and folds, forms, finds,
one last songbird to form
fold, find, to arms,
she whispers,
flies, from where
I sit on a park bench
with my back to the wall
in the house of September,
with my back to the wall
with my back to the wall
on a park bench,
throwing thistle to the wind,
I am a mistake.
throwing thistle to the wind.

03-09 On The Corner of Hawthorne and Thirty Seventh

on a street corner,
at Hawthorne and thirty seventh,
I wait, fingers shaking,
is it cold outside?

couples of indiscriminate nature,
walk by carrying grocery bags,
full of next weeks grapefruits,
kale, and bars of fair trade chocolate,
with cocoa nibs, with each other, with a dog,
with and alone. I watch them,

fingers still shaking,
what did they think of the man,
with the mustache, standing beneath
the street lamp, in a black pea coat,
shaking. I try to appear as if I belong there,
but I don't smoke, and I don't want
to be seen, checking my phone,
so I awkwardly lean on the air,
feeling ceremoniously un-sexy,
before a date with another glass of
champagne.

the street is a silent wet blur
of pink and orange streaked lights,
permanently noir, in the Portland,
constant afterthought of rain, when
thoughts of you pull at me,
is this why my fingers are shaking?

should I have driven you home,
sat in the seat across from you,
wondering what it might be like,
to get out of the car with you,
every night, or,
should I have walked away?

Inside the theater,
the movie ticket attendant with the smart beard
and weak mustache laugh about something,
together and disappear behind the counter,
wet towel in hand, I try not to appear curious,
but I am,
still thinking about you,

earlier shrugging me off, I wanted you to say
something, say anything. However it's a bad independent film,
and I can't write your dialogue. I am angry and not
angry out you. Concerned. I'd like a husband,
and you will make a good husband,
if you'd let yourself.
you smack me gently, though and say
no surprises, another day, another side.
I watched that other side walk away
from me, your jeans, never do you wrong,
I hold back my reply, instead playing
a few sweet chords on the piano,

don't we all?

I put out my fake cigarette, and refrain,
from texting you anymore.
I can see him walking
down the street.
my fingers stop shaking.
he is shorter
than I thought.

But, angels and demons,
I cross my fingers.
mama mia, here we go again,

He makes me laugh.

03-08 Making Circles In The Snow

fall down the stairs,
wake up to
a hill, moving,
slowly, ice
rushes by,
quickly, he is
not you, you
struggle, wedge
down the slope,
she holds your hand,
because she loves,
you and can see
you rushing down,
the slope, I do not,
rush either, a few days
ahead of you, I am
as graceful as a whale
on a beach, tobogganing,
I wish at times, I had
a she, to see me,
rush down the slopes,
but I am not envious,
not today, today there
are green matchstick pines,
dots of red, yellow,
blue, bright green, pink,
blurring wings around us,
to remind us, we are flying,
down, around, down,
then up, puffs of
steam dripping
from our foreheads,
we may not rush,
like them, but look
we turn our heads,
their eyes are wild,
like ours, clear, bright,
alive, smiling, in the
gray forecast day,
of rain at,
one on the clock, we run,
up the stairs.

03-07 So I Think I'm In Love

the curiosity,
began the night,
with a poem about his mustache,
while his eyes glittered,
I think I'm in love,
so I sing,
so I read a poem,
while the boom box,
plays a lost melody on
the boy's fingers,
his brother screaming,
about survival,
chain-gang mouth stretching,
I cannot know, from
where my princess folded knees sit,
but I can take
the photograph in sepia,
of a Portland couple,
who never were from,
here but now are there,
the dust of highway 82,
lingering in the shrooms of
their eyes, jean faded,
I think I'm in love,
so I leave,
the curiosity behind,
to be curious reminding him,
I drank red cinnamon tea,
to hear him speak,
(pause)
I arrive,
the party at the garden,
blossoms, bees make honey,
with lime, presents,
from his cedar chest reveal,
their wriggling horror,
on the table,
they are his children,
the collector of,
chrysalis, twisted,
and strange, claim,
a place, in his heart,
at an altar to Dolly Parton,
who is this, Mister Bumblebee,
I wonder, but tonight,
there are others,
to steal his sunshine and celebrate,
two, drinking, as one,
yellow stripes on the wall,
should be black and white,
snap, polaroid, done, I
hover, ask questions,
the vibe, is okay, when
she kisses me, full of
rain, beer, and possibility,
but I am not in love,
so I ignore, the button pusher,
snow maker, lover and instead,
make conversations with bottoms,
reminding my future husband,
my superman, (sigh)
I think I am in love,
so I drink,
the limes out
of the choir crushed boy, while the Flash,
weeps for his cat, the Doctor
craves the rush of the ER,
the climatologist buys broccoli,
and lent creeps up to the door,
to peek in and say hello,
I'm still here, chastity strap
in hand, tickling me,
but I am in love,
so I leave,
before I say something,
I'd regret, in a poem,
the day after, something,
he might be reading now,
and wonder, is that me?

03-06 On The Way To Mordor

I was on the way to Mordor,
Samwise, the bastard,
was cheerfully sexting supportive,
nonsense in my ear,
when Gandlalf explained to me,
volcano mountain in sight,
dirt and grime streaked epic on my face,
that somehow, it wasn't the right ring,
I had carried the wrong ring, he must have left
it back home in his tobacco pouch, with his keys,
oops, I wanted to curse him, except, this Gandalf,
came with short trimmed black beard, bright eyes,
curly hair, and air of mischief about him,
and although the lava was roaring around me,
I giggled, I giggled a lot, so I couldn't say no,
the other seven or so in the party consoled me,
blushing, stammering about war, these things happen,
possessed kings, queens, talking dragons,
all things are possible, apologizing,
but, as Gandalf said,
grinning wickedly,
tapping his pipe before dissappearing,
while the smoke from the volcano,
smacked my face repeatedly,
  "it is a Good Day, a Good Morning."
I almost pushed Samwise into the lava then,
wouldn't you?
all this build up, fuss, songs, and nonsense,
and I get blue-balled by the
conclusion, I am more dwarf than hobbit,
and a good pushing goes a long way with me,
but I don't,
instead, I give the ring to Gollum,
who sits down next to me and cries,
steam rising red from his cheeks,
until he stops, wide eyed and curious,
and turns to me,
"What else you got in your pocketses?"

03-05 Waking Atropos

the one with scissors hears me,
hears you coming up the stairs,
it is too late to hide in my room,
we should not wake her,
we should not wake her,
up the stairs, into my room,
up she comes, she hears me,
praying her sisters, hold me,
praying her sisters, down with rage,
praying for the weave, to begin,
again, do you not hear them,
as you come up the stairs,
a whisper in the walls,
they have built this,
this House of September,
she hears you,
she reaches out,
listening,
for your footsteps,
no one likes,
to lose a lover,
but either
you are deaf, or
she is blind,
because I know,
she can hear me,
screaming my silent prayers,
in my room, as you come up,
the stairs, to my door,
asking why I hide,
fool, do you not hear her,
she wakes.

03-04 Wasn't he fine? Isn't it madness.

Girlfriends,
we've always been,
girlfriends,
but I don't always know,
how to be,
girlfriends,
it's not like I love him,
any differently,
as a girlfriend,
but I love him,
differently than,
his boyfriend,
because I know him,
differently than,
his boyfriend,
would have it been better,
to be boyfriends,
instead of girlfriends,
because it's not easier,
to love him,
when I'm his girlfriend,
because I know him,
more,
than as a boyfriend,
and that makes me,

the one who listens,
the one who judges,
the one who has to say,
you should have,
you shouldn't,
could you,
but you didn't
then why did,
but you did,
and now, I know,
more than I thought,
I'd want to know,
more than I thought,
I should know,
but still I listen,
and I judge,
I say you should have,
when you shouldn't,
I say could you,
when you didn't,
then I ask why,

why do I ask why,
when I know why,
when I know him,
I know him,
more than I thought,
more than I should,
because,

I'm a girlfriend.

03-03 While The Curiosity Prays

Un-forgiven.

Autumn,
cries the needles from
the pine dripping, with
song, when,

the green dragon,
uncurls from my lips,
fingernails black with soot,
to ask you, one question,
why did you look at him,
on this night of sanctuary?

The milk glass eyes,
of the slithering beast,
ripple with a bold response:

because you could,
because you saw me,
looking at his hands,
dark ink spilling from,
the center of his palms,
where he repeatedly stabs himself,
trying to contain,
the out pour of his veins,
are you thirsty for more?

I think,
he had been born,
for greater things,
than self-scarification,
yet he itches and burns,
beneath the scales of his
uncomfortable dry skin,
what has he found in his travels?

Autumn ignores the practical Stone,
in his belly, unfolding his wings, silver feather,
silver thread, the green dragon, his pet,
smoldering, in his cupped praying palms.

What do you see besides, the muscled,
faerie pixie dust of the past settling on
your eyes, bewitched, man of never mine?

My green dragon has crawled
up your thighs to rest before, between
your thoughts, while you plan,
to court the devil with a smile,
while all your boys at the bonfire,
are burning, black pole, black flag,
charcoal on paper, ribbons of words,

Do you not see,
the hurricane forming in your love's eyes,
telling you, a cautionary tale,
monsters are created not born,
Don't break his wings,
it'll be blood on your hands,
and this one,

the curiosity,
who has found his way to a
pew bench where we both sit
watching, waiting, wanting,
needs space to breathe, or

he will drown, in his ink,
strangled by his hands,
do not remind him,
tonight he is a man.

The green dragon, crawls back between,
my armpits, to nest, satisfied,
vamporous bitch, while
Autumn shivers in the winter rain,
closes his rain coat,
and watches the not-man,
smoke the sky,
numb to the splinter,
digging in his hands,

the heart says goodbye,
questions unasked,

I start the car.

3-02 The Indignant Unicorn

"you have to be a virgin,
to touch a unicorn."

I said, looking at
the huh forming in his shoulders,
over my bowl,
of spicy tomato bisque,
with an air of hmmm,
 while his half eaten citrus shrimp salad,
began to crawl off his plate
when his words wouldn't.

"I was at the age where I
wanted a tattoo of a unicorn."

referring to a just revealed footnote,
on his forearms, as two male unicorns
faced each other, hot, but...

I knew him as
Mr. Bumblebee, he dismissed that
tattoo on the back of his neck as a small
insignificance, waving it away, as if it were a
fly instead of the sexpot of the floral world,
I was more cautious, bumblebees
survived the flood, unicorns didn't,
according to the bible of Mr. Silverstein.

"Unicorns aren't gay." I sputtered.

as if we were sitting over an ouji board
at a slumber party and he had just stolen
my pretty princess pink pillow with
L.O.V.E. glittered on it in cursive letters,
instead, of in a gloating half lit Sunday night
conversation bar.

"What?"
he stabbed a shrimp with his triton, (bumblebee),
as words came out in a carefully
placed syncopatic torrent about his friends,
symbols, gay culture, while the shrimp suffered
his unintentional crucifixion.

I actually thought they were gay,
but I didn't know why. I suspect it
had to do with a sticker collection
I had once, and not a symbol of male
to male sexuality, I'm not sure what he said here,
it would be unfair to give him a line,
he doesn't deserve, except to say he parried well,
while I fretted, stuffing truffle fries in my mouth,
is this a girlfriend conversation,
or a boy toy conversation,
did men always talk so casually about unicorns?

why did I care, but I did,
care,which kind of conversation it was,
screw the f'ing unicorn,
so I changed the topic,

"I'd ride a unicorn naked on a beach."

03-01 March Again

march again.

the rains came,
cold on my breath,
and stayed,
in hurried conversation,
don't want to freeze,
goodbyes, nobody lingers,
except the potato,
I tuck, her
my sometimes love,
in the car, where she shivers,
turns her head away,
from my hand,
reminding me,
today, tonight,
I am her father,
and she loves,
me, sometimes,

at home,
she pushes her blanket
around, not facing me,
and waits,

for the heater
she is not
talking to me,
she misses her buddy,
I am used to this,
her sometimes silence,
lasting for days, sometimes,
a few hours, solved by,
a toy, a dog biscuit, or me, but,

I go to bed, she on hers,
me in mine, the door is locked,
we are separate,
hours go by, I wait.

I get up, shake her awake,
she groans, stretches, I curl
back into my bed,
and wait, she snorts,

then jumps on the bed, nests,
on the pillow next to mine,
and grunts,
I am forgiven.

I lie awake.
thinking about him. thinking about her.
listening to March again.

2-28 Raven Has A Wife

I will give her violet eyes,
cause that is the color I remember,
when they flashed,
though she is copper amber,
toned, muscled like a cat,
waiting as she spins
from her hands,
webs of necklaces,
washed in from the tide,
clinging epiphyptes,
beads of wisdom,
drooping from her,
tongue, afterthoughts,
from a golden afternoon,
gifts, from the woman
of a shadowed
god.

2-27 The Cow Cries Alleluia

midwife and maid,
barman and bee,
deliver the cow,
who came
to pray for me,
alleluia, alleluia,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
deliver the cow,
who comes,
to pray for me.

with ovaries and tease,
pious and please,
pregnant and bleating,
journeys full pleading,
house husband,
house husband,
midwife and maid,
why do you pray,
with ovaries and tease,
to deliver the cow
who came to say

moo.

with cilantro and sense,
twice and a price,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
she has been paid,
twice and a price,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
alleluia, alleluia,
midwife and maid,
barman and bee,
with cilantro and sense
you pray for the cow,
who comes to deliver me?

on pitcher and plate,
beer and brie,
barman and bee,
suckle the sweet,
deliver the flow,
alleluia, alleluia
open palms know,
barman and bee,
on pitcher and plate
the cow comes,
to pray on me.

with alleluia, alleluia,
the cow moo's
midwife and maid,
barman and bee
the cow moo's
alleluia, alleluia,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
the cow moo's
alleluia, I pray-
with thee.

2-26 Mr. Bumblebee Orders A Glass Of Kitten

tequila simmers,
in your hand,
held, a kitten,
purring,
turquoise eyes,
lost, lamenting,
the dust of a lap,
you curled on,
once,
but, now,
she is,
late night,
comfortable, yawning,
in the after,
chorused lamp light,
a southern curiosity,
of a gentle, shot-glass,
careful ,
rocking, white,
furball beneath,
the river,
of your breath

2-25 I'm Human (Today)

compassion
dangles from my lips,
like a used cigarette butt,
wet in the eggs shells of my
frown turned sunny side up,
from the rotting smell of
breakfast disinfecting,
deodorant streaked paper towels,
mushing the alveoli chorus of
my lung.

2-24 The Bear Wakes and Leaves

this is the house of September,
silence the drums
of the sparrow,
come,
gather the shadows,
the dried roses, burn
and scatter the embers,
the cobwebs, the spiders,
the fools and their spinning wheels,
dim the lanterns,
the sky grows
dark,
with him, above,
the bear, and his thousand
droplets of rain, dripping,
white,
he is awake,

"he is blind,
send him away,
send him away,"
squeaks the mouse
with the fury of the east wind,
from the nightmare of my clutched hand

"quiet.",  I whisper,

squeezing his life,
back to where it came,
undone, and done,
he is, awake,
come, gather, and watch,
all of us, musicians at the fire,
the sky above, turns,
inward,
look down at us,
him, the awake,
with his one raging eye,
rips winter from our breasts,
swallowing, snow, ice, murder,
in his heart, his one silent fathomed rage,
swallowing his own,
eye, looking down at us,
heartbeat,

we do not move, we do not speak,
this is his time, the hunger, claws,
at his hollows to get out, to get out,
he growls, soft  and low into the grass,
the field of sky turns,
he leaves an anger of bristles,
the field of sky turns,
turns, turns,
towards the east,
dawn fades into bloom,
he is undone, gone,

come,
pick up the drums of the sparrow,
begin again,
come,
this is the
house of September.

2-23 Black Needle, Gold Thread

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind, 

black with needle, 

gold with thread,

I sew the living,

wake the dead,

black with needle,

gold with thread,

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind,

sew the living,

wake the dead.

one to his heart, 

which he cannot feel,

black is the needle,

on his spinning wheel,

numb is the man,

with his own two hands,

who stabs with a knife,

one to his heart,

but he cannot feel,

when black is the needle,

from his spinning wheel.

two to his eyes,

for the twin empty hollows,

black is the needle,

which weeps with his sorrows,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who threads his lids shut,

with two to his eyes,

for the twin empty hollows,

when black is the needle,

which wept with his sorrows.

three to his right hand,

pinned to the cross,

black is the needle,

which holds on to his loss,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who attacks out of faith,

with three to his right hand,

pinned to the cross,

when black is the needle,

which holds on to his loss

four to his shoulders

bent over and broke,

black is the needle,

which puppets his stroke,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who pulls on his threads

with four to his shoulders

bent over and broke,

when black is the needle

which puppets his stroke

five is to her,

the mother and girl,

gold is her thread,

which tightens her curls

blind is the man,

with his own two hands,

who straightens the weave,

when five is to her

the mother and girl

when gold is her thread

which tightens her curls

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind, 

black with needle, 

gold with thread,

I sew the living,

wake the dead,

black with needle,

gold with thread,

I open my eyes,

five fingers blind,

sew the living,

wake the dead.

2-22/B Little Fur Bro

little fur bro,
so chill by the fire,
why do you have to go?
little fur bro?

you speak of places you've been,
as if they were coffee in your mug,
you speak of places you've been,
as if you'd return to being been again,
maybe,

tonight, though,
there is the fire, and smoke,
beer and boys, but not the kind
of boys you're thinking about,
boys who have been about,
boys who have seen more
than the fire, and smoke,
in the night, unfurl
within your hands,
fire, smoke, earth,
tonight,

like home,
home, you carry with you,
within your hands, unfurling,

why do you have to go,
 little fur bro,
so chill by the fire,
why do you have to go?

you remind us,
the boys who have been about,
of home, unfurled in your hands,

-home.

2-22 Letter To The Man Upstairs

maybe,
I'll start with the end,
I don't know if you will read this,
maybe,
I should start with
the beginning, except,
I've already been there,
and what's the point,
this is the house of September,
this is how he breathes,

when he walks up the stairs,
we don't look back,

but if you have to ask,
there is a truth in the rumor,
I kinda miss you too,
there is a quiet here,
settling into the walls, while he sleeps,
a quiet I don't want to get used too,
it's uncomfortable,
in his quiet, but before I forget,
the potato says hello,
she reminds me everyday,

to watch from my window,
the sun going down, the sun going down,
the sun going down,  then she hides under
the bed, while the piano plays,
she hides under the bed, except to crawl
in with me, where she curls into my stomach,
keeps my warm, she is love, sweet, unpredictable
love, and she reminds me, everyday,

to watch the sun going down,
from my window, in the house
of September, where I walk up,
the stairs,
and don't look back.

so that's how it ends,
does it need more?
every letter needs filler,

I put the dishes away, took out the recycling,
brought the vacuum out for later, the potato is
going through a shed cycle, so, you know
how it is, parenting, but I washed her blankets,
bought a new toy, which lasted, oh, about two minutes,
but it was nice to see her bouncing around,
though in the wild, they would call that
playing with her food, it disturbs me as
much as watching chickens eat, vicious
little dinosaurs, where is this going?

is this enough filler?
should I write a beginning now?

I don't think so,
the house of September,
is quiet without you,
but that is an ending,
not a beginning, and I

have already walked up
the stairs, to watch the sun
go down,
from my window,
and not look back,

this is how he breathes.
love,

T.