Monday, October 11, 2010

Poetry's Pulse

In gardens occupying each others
mind and body as a tree full of birds.
Coffee for the morning, glanced at our clothes
Both formed quiet comfort, without showing
Loveliness and lull on our rooted rhymes
Talked the way out of dinner plans, climbed back in bed
(Instead of seeing a movie we saw each other's eyes)
feel pulps of a dawning kiss, our cadence, this bliss.

felt like writing something. needs work as does everything but feels so good to see a poem.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Uncle Ross

Technical Drawing by Ross Feld

It’s different than invention, burdocks
pulled off alone, let’s say alone.

I can’t take my own comparisons
nor make active the dumb rust machines
that are leased within.

Call it what you like but what rhymes
with peach is reach, teach,
beseech, all in a chorus of some positive
drawl, getting there.

Or with cherry? merry, berry, ferry
into some days you can’t get enough of.

But my invention. Not the novel of
insects. Plum with
dumb, come, some rum
soaked half-life burning

and sighing in a small wind.
Inadequate. My song sung. And just
too much for invention, phased

out, obsolete, parsed.


The heart is too easily awakened by things
like the telephone. It is whipped from
its own tired science by a

noise, it sets down the figures of women
who ran, wild-haired, thru its dream. Women,
scenting the world with morning,
cut grass, damp breasts, an
odor of plums.
The heart lay there absolutely
mute and fascinated

by these visitors who had something
to do with happiness but now it

drops them and they crack. Broken women,
broken plums. The telephone rings and says,

"This is the operator,
Fuck you."

Sunday, April 11, 2010

How good can you be
when you lie next to me, heads drifted
pulsing, pressed together,
framing love’s unbend.

How good , the Sun stays,
smiling spawns of senses in our bed.
the unbending spices life spins
thoughts to others with notions,
we remind them of The Fool--
Legs wreathed to form growth to
Toast this one to love’s devout and tranquil institution
true instinct without rhyme or rule.

Friday, March 19, 2010

"The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, of water. We feel poetry as we feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we feel it immediately, why dilute it with other words, which no doubt will be weaker than our feelings?"

Thursday, February 4, 2010

i am p a r t of y our s e l f
and the product of food
how do atmas move?

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Raw With Love by Charles Bukowski

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Quenching Vinegar

Climbing, the dirt crumbles under
the calloused balls of your dauntless feet.
Now on the backbone of mountains
We found it, the adorned tops of trees
and how they crown all that you see,
hats glowing in their own sunset,petite.

A frost on the window; confined beauty in bliss,
Bountiful knowing, the shining of stems.
this valley of rocks formed for the senses

The trees bend their shade to convey this,
ornamenting landscapes for you and the friendses
teaching us how to see through green lenses:
the dew dribbled on the chin of lawns.

Some God smirking from the raw while chewing and gnawing
the divinest of things.
He forgets the finite, starts to remember the certain
colored blocks of sees, like the darling resonance of buzzing
inside the shell of a bee.

He feels the pines laugh at me
like a capitalized word,
peaking into their hats as if they held keys,

or knew how to hold bones,
or make them talk like the trees.

Monday, January 18, 2010


this might not just be puppy love
can you imagine
my bedsheets are your new clothes