16F

May 14, 2018

A windowseat is great

In an all night diner

It was unfair the Airport

Shorted  me  enough

Stuffed me, a long-legged  man

With a long-winded rant

I stifled in my windowseat.

.

My legs were cropped up crinkled

Like the babies sitting next me

Their cries exited and were emitted freely

Some cries  deep inside  deep inside me.

.

I bet one windowseat would be great

In a darkened diner

My inner world would wander

That  eighteen  wheeler

Lots of legroom  not so tight

Roads to walk  upright

 

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THERE’S FOG

March 6, 2015

There’s fog.
Then, there’s people landing planes at all hours.
There’s dogs chasing birds
on runways. And one way those people in those towers
can plan to, and see to, land planes is
the guts to go with the guages.
They heartfelt dealt with data,
Trusted all they’d seen
on their farforeign &; onlyman-made monitor screen.
As dogs flushed their fog,
hands hover over lights
and cover their old bets,
their usual action.

,

,                                                                            from 2009

presentation appreciation

August 21, 2014

Swallow

& Tho’ I’m so tightlipped sometime

I’ve often a soft spoken voice

I’ll go take this choice  this time

Pretend what’s set  went off

What followed

Got flat out

Presented

I could concur  then

Consent

My  “Amen”

Impalpable

August 11, 2014

Neruda’s ” impalpable ash”

Chants away/

In the fray of my own tiny ruins.

.

If I touch/ near the fire/

Impalpable ash..”

Chimes away/

And supports the clearing away  all

Insubstantial,

Makes way to take less blinding steps away

From  cave  to  climax

I’ve come to have left out

Crucial  rescue  tools

From my matutinal

Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.

In touch  information

Out

Should I get older

I recognize me,  more blind,

Crinking my neck back, there, as

I look up at the cliff terrace

And A windowed hideaway behind,

Not so unapproachably high,

Fixed over our Pacific, finally,

That we thought might couldn’t be.

Hard rain, hell, wept down a wet

that mixes well w/regret, on my shirt

.

                                                  2

.

One can look past all our four shoulders

From inside the glass wall

On the backside of our Adirondacks

And maybe just make out

What we’re watching and talking about.

A man closely following his own footsteps

The long stretch of the shore,

But looked up at the both of us,

Here Hand in hand, and how then the heavens poured.

I’VE IVORY

July 18, 2014

 

  

 

Shiny gold pen when an old

Shade-off light bulb

(it can be a candle)

Best  Klieg-lights this  crèche ,

Best showcases this birthplace.

.

On my knees

To lure verities,  (surely,  scour our trees)

To cure maladies,

Wrest fallacies from unsound foundations,

Whisper one less lonely

Wise,  recognizable incantation.

Take this shiny gold pen…!

.

It’s nearby,  go forth,  go further.

I clear my path,

&  Go over…

&  I’ve  Ivory!

Simba’s  mammoth  cemetery!

(they must go deep)

Precious sunned bones poised on  as symbols

Archetexture   actually

I take a sacred see of symmetry

.

Even I’m

Silent Partner in this stronghold.

Before I go on,

I’ll go on & make sure

The blinds are drawn.

.

.

When I’m

Aware/Awake It’s gone cold,

For me to know it,

I’ll go on & need you some

I’ll go on & remind me some

I’ll go and turn my life down some

I’ll sit myself down until

I’ll see myself still enough

To behold

You, me, both,

Silent partners in this stronghold.

NOT TOO WINDY

July 6, 2014

It’s too windy for flimsy masks
All thankfully yanked at on hardened air
The call & wash of wave then wave mark
The times of our lives
.
The charade route marches
Its way today through town
An older man hoists his girl
Up upon his shoulders
Her/his quizzical smile is quiet
But her/his flush on her/his neck is evident
Veils down

R E G O G N I Z E

March 10, 2014

tumblr_n1jaz4L7P61rrxr7to1_1280

Only fools wouldn’t, or would,  notice

This young god walking in stalks of sway grass,

Grass the color of irish sea spray.

Seems she recognized me too.

I bet it was this one side of her peculiar, porcelain face,

Silhouetting  a small half-smile

That would & could encourage me

To love her

Even more.

.

.

.

.

image via

http://iseultsdream.tumblr.com/post/77775468803/feb-21-2014-the-foggy-view-behind-the-dunes-on

MISS

February 8, 2014

When I don’t hear from her

When we don’t talk

Instead of what might

just happen in late night

screwball comedies,

A black & white

Cakewalk

Where he keeps

Just missing her,

& unknown to her, her one & only is so near,

& you watch & wait for them to wise up,

For when their timing improves.

When I don’t hear from her

When we don’t talk

Instead of just sitting tight,

& trusting the plot twists,

& trusting our protagonists,

& holding still for all that insignificant subterfuge

Until it all plays out that

They can finally take cuts in the

Everything’s-Fine waiting line/

Instead of that

He keeps just missing her.

.

.

.

.

Yesterday at the yoga class

I was asked to exhale out

All the inside I saw as unsettled.

And all this matter turned to air.

Then, to take in a new air. A More awake. A More aware

Just

Miss