Pulses

Witches Finger

There is no substitute
for the stalagmite point
found at certain depths
certain temperatures
certain humidity
and chemistry.
I won’t be pierced
like that again.

Alembic

Mere moonshine.
Just the mention of juleps
of June in Jessamine
and the mill and the still
within
my thirsty karst topography
my pacifist pornography
is penetrated, primed,
and spins.
A matter or mouthful
of moonshine.
A trifle, a nothing
none.
These
of course
are lies.

Spelunkers
skin divers
certain of our
certainty
we plunged
in a fountain
of freefall.

In the cavern
the dripping
and the chatter of Chiroptera,
not dark,
nor light
nor deep.
The candle a simple prop
for our platonic renditions
against the wall
mingled shadows and
mud
from the seep.

Barefoot scaled the cathedral spire
the crumbling limestone promenade.
Reached out and soaked
our quivering fingers
in the simmering sounds
of summers made
mating
mixing
in gasps and galaxies
of gorgeous paradox
and perdition-
a Thiasus for sentience
for seeing eyes
katydids
heavy dew
and fireflies.

The wind lay intoxicated
on our backs, on our brows,
a Zephyr
with neither zeal or bliss
became an angel
or Dionysus,
the alembic
of our art
our altar
our instar
our kiss.

Drawing back the curtain
of the velvet Jessamine
fanning embers
with breath and motion
and before ignition of the oak
of the incense swirling smoke
of black tupelo, pine needles
and sweet grass
rose satyrs, maenads,
skin and stars
and in everything
there was nothing
but this.

Rained on Hay

He rises like the sun, with the dawn,
with the damnation.
He will toil, toil and toil
and I will tag along,
searching for the skeleton
keys to the handcuffs
that have shackled him all these years
and robbed him of his song.

He curses more robustly at knots
I have noticed
especially in fence or twine,
but always pulls up short and stops
wipes his grimy brow,
shoulders slumping for a brief moment,
looking down from any field
at the big wolf oak top,
at the sky
at me.

He will sigh.
He will purse his lips,
kick the ground
and advise not to be overrun
by anticipation
not to be undone by “No.”
Never to be discouraged by defeat
never to yield
to a blow.

And the crops do sometimes grow.
And the cattle do sometimes fatten
through the flies, through the drought
through the snow.
And surely we too grow,
the scarred and worn scarecrow
seems shorter each year.
And Daddy’s bravado
belt, beer, shotgun
and gusto
seem diminished
in the shade of what we sow.

Etre

No snug safe harbor
no sane serendipity
to move this conversation forward
or get the grammar for “to be.”

We are shipwrecks
both
rotting on a reef
surf pounded
life boats long drifted
out to sea.

betrothed = the debtor

Boarding Pass 93

Who will say "Honey, hurry home"
when the day drags on
and the need inside
for hands to hide
in rises to surface
and spills over the edge
of shimmering pools of sorrow?

Who will pull me back
and push me down
when I'm longing
for the ledge
when I'm leaning
over the edge
to forget it
to find it
to feel it all again
to believe it all again
and when?

Who will dream of the future
of the freedom
of loving
and laughing
or living in bliss
or at least believing
I exist
and I'm missed
when I'm lost...

Voices whisper "I will..."
as if a vow.
I heard it once
a wedding
together forever
and yes
I thought I too
would wed
but no not to be
not what she said
not to be dead
throwing arms
around misty faces
saying “I do”
fading back into you
into never
where I feel I must have come
or gone
or stay
on the dark side
of the moon bitter
abandoned yet
on some dream lit black night
someone just might
champion me
and say come with me.

Feo

Dew In the Harvest Moon

To search for the root of you
the tendril of your ecstasy
is the reason for muscularity
in a tongue.

Yet it tastes on its way
finds the saline in the succor
the sugar in your sap-making
cambium.

My tongue as a tap
as a means of production
of confectionery
cause celebre
makes me a farmer, a forester
a man who reaps what he sows
and toils in fields
once dead.

And on this eve
in this reprieve
this unrequited requiem
of the harvest moon
I will lay aside the scythe
and the plow
and instead look to you
deliciously organic
and till...
and till...
until nothing remains fallow.

Originally appears at WetPoems.

My Shameless Lion Pareto

He woke me last night
from outside the perimeter-
the repeated decrescendo
of roaring
of reifying
of his repeatedly realizing
the predator’s
Pareto principle.

He struck me
with his proclivity
for parsing Pangea,
and reinforcing
the sustained
survival
of his species
in the sum of his
slashing
severing
shameless
privation.

This anti-Aslan
his eyes and heart of darkness
roaming the voodoo veldt
of global capital
and trade
will not
lie down
with lambs
yet he sees
with eyes
of angels
into the deepest
anarchic
abyss
tail stretching back to Africa
whiskers
sensing
the alchemy
of order
and myth.
.

Tyche

A chance meeting
chance happening
the name of a suitor
of a mistake perhaps made
perhaps not
there is a chance
its chance-y.

Games of chance
games of dance
Russian Roulette
or a minuet
parlor gimmick or gift
depending on the stakes
on the snakes
that you charmed
or handled
or just looked in the eye
hypnotized,
come heaven or harlots.

Craved a chance
automaton
didn’t have a chance
Tyche went wrong
wringing her fortune from
the frail
the fragile
the foundering
wrecks on the reef
wracked and retching
with the unrequited brine
of romance.

If we were dice
you’re rolling
if I a die
you’re throwing

SNAKE EYES

no chance
bets off
we’re finally
fucking
folding.

Snags

Severe storm warning
expecting gale force winds...
she would ride it out
except she’s land-locked
between Lovers Leap
and the Valley of Death
where she should
not
fear
everything.

The wind is not whispering.
She shouts for help
to find
an answer
an echo
my echo
my ego
and the distinct
lack
of a view
a vantage point
or a vision
of shelter
of chivalry
of the shivering
shivering
shivering
to come.

Exposure brings strength
like a gull on a rock
a girl in the suite
like a gill in the silt
the guy in the suit
and if it does not kill
then it is a good
gift
of God.

If I get back to here
If I get back to her
I will hew this hemlock
this hedge
this hermetic holly and ivy
and ravage the understory
with hatchet, axe and saw
denude the detritus
and free the flaws
clear cutting
the wind falls
of her fear.

She and Gila

I
too
am exhausted
exorcised
omnivorous
oblivious to
the length and breadth
of my long illness
and the wasting away
and the tasting of spray
from the crashing waves
against shallow cliffs
the reptilian coast
where Gila
and she
have mingled.

Getting Wet

Wrens
I don't think
dream hard enough
and are afraid
of a zero sum game
while Robins
get wet
and know raindrops
are words
and they've learned
how to read the
rain.