Inexactly, a drinking priest,
You’d think he, at least & at last,
Classically, might be caught in
(Necessary) tight vises
Of a crisis of faith.
Vacuously, I’ll see it’s not
Necessarily true.
Knowing the knowing needs
the slowing some
the clogging some
of logic to help the heart sing through
(for Graham Greene & Tennessee Williams, & their wondrous torturous sermons)








May 31, 2017

Foraging is one way we fauna

Have found purpose in all this breathing

We’ll search, and trust that sustenance

Will surface to topsoil in time for reverence








always, it was his alleys  to town

then, streetlighted streets  through and through town

then, Dawn’s alleys all the way, aways and up  from downtown


call off yr search

It’s all been a hoax

I haven’t been far

I have only been barely fair

I’ve barely fought my fog-like fugue

It’s hugely due to pointless and errant

innertubing,  buoyant

On turbulent,   or at least

Aimless  sees

I don’t know what it is
But you got to do it
I don’t know where to go
But you got to be there
I don’t know where to fall
But I know that its comfortable where
I don’t know where it is

Putting all of my time
In learning to care
And a bucket of rhymes
I threw up somewhere
Want a locket of who
Made me lose my perfunctory view
Of all that is around
And of all that I do

So I knock on the door
Take a step that is new
Never been here before
Is there anyone else here too
In love with beauty
Playing all of the games
Who thinks three’s company
Is there anyone else who wears slightly mysterious brusies…”

                                                      -Rufus Wainwright, From “I Don’t Know What It Is”




It does seem all quiet in her animal queendom.

Her solace has a high place

In one rare plan,  I confess.

In fact,  I’d really want her

To relax  the shields  she needs  to yield to.

I’d unclothe her armor

I’d enclose her ardor  inside

The insides

of my own too tender arms