The Horn

I want a happy ending with skeletons

with the real green jokes

with the brightness that invades the purple

the invisible carousel in the busy marketplace 

the essay fresh and bobbing in a pool 

a song that grew out of a glancing shoelace

thoughts from the unconscious

story I will tell you about

the texture of an address

the glad world canvas

the instant bird eternal

the moon in the corner of the universe

the distinct smile 

the volcanoes of corn

things fitted into voices 

as passengers close in.

Dependency

I will be a layer of dust
when you are that thing
that sounds the alarm
I will return to you
like light evening
a shadow in 

a way that can

be beheld

fill it with tears
with the reality 
of language
from the speaker

who is now speaking

and the lady

who is now

wiping the floor

with his words.

My Defects My Virtues

The singular love
leaves from my torso
like free air
who is the director
who lives the fantasy
who turns the mill
that grounds us all into flowers
I am sad it is true
but my feet do not end
in sacrifice unless
you want me
to respond to
your name.

Love,

the marvel
of your eyes leaves me without
a memory 

Of a mind
that breezes 

that comes off of waves

That is the way
The green eyes know you 

The Poet Apocalypse

"I am sick all these goddamn poets
lurking around here at all
hours of the night!"
Sam said.  And he slammed
the front door. Lillian
was in the kitchen
shutting the windows and
closing the blinds
"They're even trying to get
in this way!" she cried.
"Quick go around the house
and make sure the place
is locked down good and tight."
"The cellar!" Sam cried.
He ran down the cellar stairs.
The hatchway was bolted.
A few hours passed
and everything became
silent and calm.
"Sam?" Lillian said.
"What do we do now?"
"I don’t know Lillian.
God knows I don’t."
Sam said and lit
his last cigarette.

The Ordinary Returns to Shutesbury, Massachusetts

As women flutter about like bats

and pollinate every table

with goldenrods, one begins

to acknowledge the sheer “O” one

feels from being alone in a field.

This adds to the clouds over

head because they are apart

of so many wider “Os”

A girl rolling her ankle under

a toboggan. The dog lapping

up the banana pudding.

Coition brings a chain of them.

While a roller coaster one long

“Whoa.” And, oh yes, the “oh” of forgetfulness.

In a few hours you see this  O another way.

A man wants to finish undressing you.

“There are so many fucking robins,” you try to say

but slip and “robbers” fit.

A heaping of salamanders break for the pond.

But suddenly, a smile breaks across a child’s

face, handing you his finished dinner plate.

Topiary in a Teacup

I want the green
luminary

vegetation
like a soul 

come over
nimble quiet
like a  small

remembering 
whose fullness
of tiny flowers

dint the landscape.

Shoreline Thought

I do not think I will pass
into day
with solitary hotels
next to the ocean
nor eat the stems of roses
with the spine,
the head, the waist

the bones
where the seabed
walkers walked

I do not think I will

shoulder the room

with rhododendrons

or water the whatever

In this house where

Lived for a time

a dumb play

of undulating plates

with windows

I do not think 

I will remember 

what you remember 

the fire

The smell of

unforgiving teeth 

I do not think

I will remember that.

A Wave

The cavernous unfolding
fond eye of the dolphin
rolling in

As green fish
with extraneous idioms
limit the soul's blue lozenge

devoid
of the reddening bronze
ends on an extended hand