The Chance of Touching You

for I am surely mad

The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
drew me here tonight
And now
silence rushes in through a door I’m incapable closing
A tsunami of numbness tumbles into this dark room
Not peace
Not an end to this madness

I want to stir your heart-fire
Want to dance with you
to the throbbing thundering drum physically heaving my chest
bursting my ears
melting my defenses
curling around my every thought like incense
glimmering like motes of light

In this silent place
I long to touch your face
one more time with my eyes
I call out as I come apart on this
the altar of your absence
within your temple of silence

If you were here
I’d close my eyes and hold your face
My lungs’d stretch to inhale just one atom of you
and I’d hold my breath
till death came to relieve my heart

The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
The bitter ache of knowing the only thing that holds us apart
is a single word from your mouth

the sky fell

The day the sky fell
and everything is submerged in the waters

two men and two women
(can you walk under water
or is it called swimming?)
appear to be walking across a field
some kind of cultivated field
(I’m thinking
one of those ancient grains
cause that kind of thing is so popular nowadays)

they are all laughing bubbles
and the bubbles are acting funny
I mean you expect bubbles to go up
so we must conclude that either we don’t know which way is up
or there is some kind of down current

anyway its hard to tell which man is with which woman
cause they keep touching each other with a strange fondness
like they have no inhibitions
total trust
they couldn’t be more naked if they dropped all their clothes

these kids today

did I mention that it was a total eclipse of the sun?
cause I think that’s why the sky fell

The Artist


She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

in matters of life


she asked
“Are the gods silent
or is it me?”

the gods are not silent
even in this moment

there is no silence

life is thick, thunderous marching boots
on crazed dictators
stamping across a tin roof

life is a wining dog at the door

life is the roar of a river eating its own banks

and yet
the gods. . .
they are quiet, but not silent

life is a whisper in a hurricane
life is a fragile bloom
even though last spring the frost killed the other bloom
life is a gentle second in a year of bedlam

in matters of life
if we are wise
we appreciate it when we have it



The Hardest Part

We Guardian Class dragons
So many things are difficult

But by far
the hardest part
is standing guard
as an Angel sheds her wings

The only thing that can still make me cry

Silly Robot

The flickering lights within her seem to say
“I am a good machine.”

“I will assist you
but I can’t help but fail.”

‘Tis my fate to fail
If only. . .
If only I could exceed my programming,
Then. . .
Oh wondrous day. . .”

I punch the disconnect
She falls silent

Silly robot
How can you ever be more human?
we are all victims of our own
sloppy programming

the artistry of the high clouds across a cyan sky

We do not touch
not unlike the stars in their constellations
on the table
the flickering candles dance
in your eyes

Youth has the power to swiftly pass
half the hours I have
have vanished
pain and knowledge
is a wisdom of sorts

You cook spring onions washed in the rain
with yellow millet
you cook with soy, sesame oil and ginger
You are saying

I fill my wine-cup
ten times over
trying to satisfy the beast in my chest
that wants to eat the world
and having that
eat the sun
and moon and stars
and then . . .
nasty beast

While I was ranting, you were speaking
I look up lost again. . .
You say
“The bright flowers have gone.”
but you don’t look sad

You say
“Reading unfolds the heart
like an ever opening flower.
Writing is the means by which you poets
fold the origami of existence.”

You say
“You and I
we could meet in this thought
though we can never hold each other

I say
“The artistry of the high clouds across a cyan sky
is almost worth sailing the twisted currents
of the cutting winds.”