Citrus and Lavender on 13th and Niagara

The sweetness of green on the basil light

gleans a concert of bees, a tall man who is happy

watches as youth fills the child’s mouth and screams,

I have compressed the dust in this corridor, back

and forth the recurrence of time travels dream

today I chew the airs purple flower, and I am

at once a cow, or lamb, or incomprehensible being

that once demanded the sacrifice of such things

but forgot at last to be.

tissue of thread of rootbeer candy

I am in someone else in their grandfather's garage, a curl of ancient grease,

fingers my nose, pulling me out to plowed earth, mosquitoes

fresh grass grown to long, strong enough for rope, I hang these memories there,

a school of dead fish, swims in the oily air, and deer from

every season, and off season in lean years- click hooves on the last

remaining concrete not cracked to dust

this smell is my legacy, the farm sold to cover medical costs,

keeping an angry life alive one-more-year (that year) invisible

tears hardened in to gold, and burned a blessing in to my

skin, or the skin that used to be ME- it all separated in a panic

every street became a sea, and to cross them was death defying.

Still there was comfort there, eventually, a bargain can be made for

peace- hell can be parceled out, slowly through a life time, Thank God

and so I joined the family in ways I didn't even recognize, bring my

hand to my face, 100 times daily, a liquid rosary where my

hand and heart mumbled love and disappeared in to that word

if brown paint spilled blue and red purple there- God

I am back from traveled sadness to

sidewalk sadness,

a quelling storm rises (already disappearing)

in the morning, there- a

birth of dieing,

a hand tightening around air

the fingers dragged through smoke

to at last see that nothing it touches

life a whiff of its heavy gray Saturday stroll,

through the Midnight Supermarket,

remember who we were, who I was in that

destroyed landscape, ready to explode

and gaining ghosts by the basket all day long

haunted- so many bones plow the ground

behind me, cutting crude syllables in to clay

as something like

steady rain washes it all away.

this stone qurrels with the bones of Robert Frost

13 minutes from sunrise,
i have carved out time in to
the shape of a bird, and no it is at

market, instead of drifting down

the
upper Niagara, this is not the

sweep of the second hand here,

it is not
a small sun rising stationary in the

east marking me greedy for life
it is more abstract than that it is

blood dipped on paper and

burned, it is my sacrifice to the
only divinity I have known, it is my

heart
at the heart of property and to

cut it out would stop the sun from

rising, and push me from the

coast of my being in to what...

eternity?

Clay Mortar between the Stone.

I have learned the art of
return, beer bottles to faith, and
back to 15 desperate hotel rooms,
finalized by sandy haired maids
all yelling, all willing to take a stray in,
all love is declarative of something:
that it is monastic, and it works
the heart in its brothel, no better line
of work for something so abused, I
knew before knowing that you were the one,
I would trade in dreams for, for a good
stone walk and a garden by the fish pool,
where faith is orange and gold, and a
vine choked nasturtium, waits patiently
on a botanist, needing only a few knowing
fingers to unfurl the bindweed from its
throat, fingers with strength enough to pull
the killing thing out all the way
down to the root.

the holding of light

you know the pool in love canal,
my now girlfriend, the one that loves
Jesus, the one that might be the one
says over the phone, i am not on the phone
but answer, yes i know it-
yes i know
it holds deep blue benzine and
bubbles of pure noon
each a container of sun, and I know
that it has recorded
my youth, silent
as a spring of hard iron
water constant as limestone
time runs to it
like my fathers love, a combination
of duty and anger,
the quiet maleness of doing
the manifesting disfigured intention
a rage of convention, defines civilization
digging holes and filling them in
finding purpose in the action -alone
the auto drive to work
the cage a woman becomes,
after she calms the sea, gray with
anger so deep
it is white
and she
provides earnest flying lessons
to those birds of desire
the ego like a window on fire with
mornings to come, and a finality
in the mourning of moving,
hands and dwellings
first one home then two- 4 houses
split parceled out like seconds swept
clean by a hand counting the
minutes we
dwell in becoming whole
recordable truths, a pool dug
in dirty soil, soiled dirt
its is a simple list of the
sacrilege, my parents
grocery list become confused
in the milk and eggs of everyday, as
we would shoehorn church in to the yawn of
Sunday morning, my spirit longing for
the tragic, the blood i knew was true
now though i know the water
is cold, and the chlorine is
strong as white stones, and the only
poisons swimming in the deep end
is the past that threatens to stop me
and pull me down past the embers of midday
fracturing time and propriety
where i and he and this 91st street pool become
one thing, and just the memory
is whispered, like a gust, a God
through the leaves of an aspen tree.

buried in the calendar

For me alone
God tugged a dark text
from the lemon light page sour with
morning sun, a ghost called to
dance in the melody of memory,
copper flavored as a mollusk, and
grown even, heavily biologic with
rage to haunt the steal
blade ego me, sideways through the
blank street of my marigold and mercury
sunrise machine,
Riding the clocks fastest hand
gravity’s thought astounds as
suddenly as a goldfish, curling faith
to cream, and weaving in the
willow trees that limn each
separate memory, in blue & pebble gray
along each orange scale burns the
difference, pronounced as night &
day
a wobble of axis, the word made into
rock, clay, dust and abandoned where
the glued stones shine by the
slices of light that accumulate into
a life long railroad, traveling east-west
a fixture of spirit, silver as a
gun delivers to me daily
new lead, dull madness inscribed
in my mind
forever two lines, running alone
together, a darkness of wood and stone
between us too, a million rails burning
sun untouched for a life, but for
the antler of shade where deer
crisp through September apples
I ache at all this gleaming gold
pressed up against a window pane
my mind winding
hair into sweaters and scraps of sweaters
into quilts, a feminine finger points
me north, a signal of that cold
freedom, courting the moon in winter
night, snow & space colliding in my eyes
a colorless world, metal lie
and before me now grows hands of
blue sky after its slumber, drunk and abandoned
love keeps me quarreling, pull at the wheel of
life, pouring out glass after glass, of this
electric thing, from some thing that seems
to be a great decanter of late December.