What's Left of Me

No ones appetite is gone
but mine.
And that's the way of the world.
The sense of conjunction is blurred
We're all going to see this today.
Today, in the sense of "out there"

I'm just a little thirsty
Everyone's got a bottle of sand
to sell and I've got coins
outdated and coarse.

I am the last man standing
Everyone's still sitting
and swigging on what's left
of this poem

Portrait: Tascha

It's her palace and i'm her jester
most of the time
she is unimpressed
and indifferent
But there are brief
and shining examples
of a smirk
"I'm kind of a big deal," i tell her,
half serious---
half recounting a joke
And she laughs just like i knew she would
and then she goes back to her business

Show the jester out, please.
She is all about face-value
What can be touched
isn't always kosher.

Fugitives

In our collective fall from grace
we collected the last parts of our dignity
we strapped them to our bodies and
erupted from the buses, a mass of weeds
growing without memories
We are the collective idiots, praising
one another with "bless yous" and "thank-
yous"
None asked for more than what was
necessary.
Necessary? We crossed a thousand miles
from the sky to the river to the mesosphere
to get to happiness.
Let's talk about necessary.
Let's talk about it all.
We're lost in what we maintain is nirvana and
we're waiting until something better comes
along
Until then we're along for the collective bus ride.

Remix

On a black and spacious night,
our memory left us
We didn't respect it enough
We created in haste
while listening to nothing
and then to Al Green

On this black and spacious eve
our memory left us
We do what we do
the same
Pound just calls it bad habits
We've only got one good poem
in us
(God hides it in his reserve)
and when we don't look
we repeat
vast amounts of knowledge
sung by Al Green

We are repeated offenders

We forget how we came to this point
We should stay together
"Let's stay together"
Our memory is hiding in the black
It is laughing at us.

Portrait: Noah

Caravaggio painted him
the Boy with Fruit
the graceful line from his
furrowed brow
to the tip of his nose
is where a brush dipped.
But between his lips---
that is where my tongue dips

The narrow
space between
our hearts
is turbulent,
that is, until
I run my fingers down the trail
of an ancient paint brush and stop
at the parting of his lips.

Night

the tonic was effective the cantos were screamed the shades were drawn the scene rested in shambles and so did they the dam was not secure the air was full she was full the bones were tired the muscles were strained the faces were buried the souls were almost dead the joints were pulled the time was imagined and fleeting the backs were arched the night was finished the walls were falling out and over and beneath the backs the backs that were arched the hands were free to roam the exploration was thorough the coming and going was never the same and yet consistently satisfying the darkness was lulling and sinister and playful the bodies the hands the mouths the souls the bones the backs collided and the tonic was effective

Afternoon

He's alive
most certainly
awake
and pawing at reason
making accurate
movements, chopped and deliberate

The thumping bass
matches the uterine throb
like old music,
really old,
contractions of walls
she is awake

Morning

light that pours in
green
pilgrim
pours over skin
into the spaces between
they are few and far
this is meaning
rolling thru
under and around
old news and no news
the time that's stretched
beyond the sun
the light
that pours in
its not here
its not green
it is not a pilgrim
it is not on the road to my
hip from your thigh
trust that light
is old news but new
just the same
we've been stretched
and time is following
far and few
green and supplicant
pliant and penitent