November 17, 2017

I say  “shudder to think”  is a gothic cliche’

But at times  all too accurate,

The  strictest  depiction,

When I would  shudder & shake some

As I stood  on my sidewalk  in lieless sun

With what I witness,   with what I thought



There’s not  much white light

In the shadows I can cast



Still  and  night  wind/

And still standing in/ Deep in the shadow end/

Waiting in the wading pool To see my moon bounce to me some/


Wait!  At the airport bar the atmosphere swooned bountiful/

Maybe sating   metaphoring mating whoring fourth down plays/

Bountifully Enhanced  Last Chancing that face it,  basicly it’s too late not to dare/

Back here I’m not so rough, I swoon my own way, I tarry, and my moon’s enough

Jared French, Clinton, by PaJaMa

(photo credit/Jared French/ Clinton)


.mangata: reflection of the moon on the sea at night (Swedish)




February 28, 2017


She goes shy of the very shadows;

completely infused  in first section hard-copy news,

She peruses  column  leads,

Refusing all  too-sad reads.

Usually  my  views.


So sure you got some guy here who’s seriously shy

To fill skies with a gloom-jam  just eye-jabbed in.

It  can  kill a  guy.

But the goo you stand up against and

The two tons of blue mood  you face

Too often.   Too fierce  to soften & go.

This man here could not just stand there,

I know.



She can’t relate

To the cinema  I saw so late

She says they blur  more black  than white.

She says they end not..just not right.


February 8, 2017


A late,  the too latest,  drive

Car thick  with ambient music

On  back  home

On back roads   I can come upon,

In deep,  way back,

The darkest pond,  I can  plumb

The darkest pond

I can Cool off

I can char

Edgy angular contours

In deep



January 4, 2017

Unless  these  kisses

Fortuitous   but for the most part,

Stay imaginary, yet not useless,

Stay  &  not  start.


I  will  wear  Hope’s

Clandestine  cloaks

& will not fear  openly  for the most part,

Right in defining light/ Right off the shadow

Where  cooly  I  coddle  our  heart.


ok, i’m caught/ it’s way too early. it’s way too late/

i must share the draining straining steetlights/

they must only stretch a ways to chase shadows/

but that’s how it goes/

i must only street-clutch with garbage trucks/

the cops are parked deep in the darkest dead ends  in cemeteries/

getting hand jobs from nobodies/

the stop & shop stopped selling beer but i bet they got the lottery/

down low my radio has mirAge jazz/

i’m  wouldn’t resisting this wooden windchimes thing



May 25, 2016


“There’s a moment for everyone when you fall into your own shadow and the fact is that it’s your shadow and you’re forced to live in it. And this is nothing to celebrate or not celebrate. It simply is.” – Robert Rauschenberg


There is indignity  this city

Shouldn’t see  from me.

We wouldn’t want it continuing.

I’m advised to restrict public showing.

When sunrise is up

And  1st  to say

It’s not good,

It  should not

See the light of day.

Tonight though   I say

When storm winds

Blow  shadows,

Leaf  shadows wild,

What might be imagined

Stands on stage,

And enacts out


There lain out




In Nightstreams;

Characters cast into indecipherable scripts

All are strangers

To stare at, to starve for,

More, to promptly forget.

And Daydreams;

Live characters I’ve cared fiercely for

Live  too far enough I know  away in shadows

To re know/ to re love/ to re have

In this half life



Trouser Cuffs, turquoise moor muddy.

Shuddering shadow. He is soon just

A moonlit man. Trapped door

Was his  “I’m not here” fuss.

Dry sob. & In a stall.

I marshal  his resources for

All  outdoors  All






January 31, 2016



I could could guess  you’re just near the end.

Tho’, You’re  so  dour

You don’t even stir at yr own humour,

Or don’t/can’t you comprehend?


When you nightly set out

Under yr mighty moon

To brighten and heat

Yr best features,

Yr long face  goes  on & on,

Though the shadows are gone

And when you face yr  distant stare

It doesn’t stop

At dead stars

But goes to their backrow bleachers.


He’s aroused as the voices

In trees, on the breezes,

Distract him  post haste  w/ poetries,

They do extract his true face, those  ghosts in a wind.

Mostly,  They’ll  lift  him,

But their leverage runs thin.



.                          (2006)