The gifts of lovers to one another are, in respect to love, nothing but forms; yet, they testify to invisible love.




From your gnashed teeth
Take these bruised lips
And teach me how to
Make your skin sing
You’re so percussive.




To witness two lovers is a spectacle for the gods.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Lovers grow like ivy vines

Crawling up spines, ‘round bellies
And whisper into each other’s
Mouths, quiet breath and gentle
Tongues lest the cords snap and
Suspension break, but they sing
Sweetly and play softly in the salon,
A private symphony.


“Complete possession is proved only by giving. All you are unable to give possesses you.”
-Andre Gide




You stretch my sinew,
And give me hot,
Quivering expansion.

I’m at my crest.
Release me.


“The modern artist… is working and expressing an inner world – in other words – expressing the energy, the motion, and other inner forces.”
-Jackson Pollock



Just leave me alone
With a bottle of Pellegrino
And an ashtray by
the window, so I
Can make waterfalls
On the inside.

Cat’s Cradle

 “Woe is me! for I am undone.”
-Isaiah 6:5 


Cat’s Cradle
I could use the
Blue of your veins
To paint your eyes.
Mine have unraveled
Like a ball of yarn.
Will you pick them
Up and weave me
Together with your
Butcher’s hands,
Around your flat
Palms and hold
Me in your
Cat’s cradle?

Morning Light

“Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind.”
-Bertrand Russell



Morning Light
My head is full

Of cool mist, like that
Which rises from the
Warm ground above
A field in October.
Where shall we meet,
In the rustling, dry
Snapping of brush,
Over crisp broken leaves
At lake’s edge in morning
When light is blue, when
Night pulls its cover away,
And all that can be seen
Shall be seen?

Walking the Beat


, , , , ,

“Follow your inner moonlight, don’t hide the madness.”
-Allen Ginsberg

he strange

Walking the Beat
I can turn a phrase
Like a pirouette, I will
Zip bibbity doo-wop
Down a run-on, run up,
Run around sentence
Like a slippery keyboard
On a Sunday, I have
Whip-whap attacked a school
Of synonyms, swimming
In a fish bowl so I’ll give you
Twenty-seven names for
Sweat, I’ll cut you with
Consonants, ‘cause this
Lit junkie is into erotic
Elocution and I need my
High strings snip snapped
And I want to paint you but,
Adolf, baby, I couldn’t do it
Either but I have these words
And I’ll use my spit to
Paint you gold.