So Scott Adams also took note of us. But I sleep a lot more than that!

My Daily Notes

--

He wants to tell the truth. But the truth refuses to undress, Refuses to go to bed with him.

She looks at him. He doesn’t know how To talk into her.

Mordant desire twists Around his spine, ivy Which can kill an oak.

He wants hear Through his skin. Only the wind knocks.

--

There are only two walls To this room, distance And time, which is also distance.

Sometimes he stares at that point Where perspective begins, hard. Past is a caved in subway station.

--

Each of you heft your respective backpacks And wriggle your shoulders as if what Has passed between you doesn’t yet fit.

--

A day goes spinning, a discarded hoop Which I race through the dusty lane Till I reach your door and yell your name.

--

To remember the first time You met someone, Tattoo the date on your skin. For time erases the windscreen Of memory, its steady arm Swinging in the rain

---

There are many ways To measure time.

The first one I have known Is between meeting And parting. Another is between Remembering and forgetting Both the meeting and the parting.

Tonight, you gave me a third, This gasping between laughing!

My Poems

-- Your ear, a window pane, Through which sound enters, Filtered light enters.

I hold that bell and shake it. Then my mouth kisses The following echo.

You quiver, a sliver ring Holds it. A forest borders it. I begin to lose myself in the forest.

--

Your hair is my forest. A green ribbon holds it, A net dripping with black rain.

I loosen the ribbon and burrow My nose, seeking an aroma Of bread, to break and eat.

You swell. Swells of hair Reach me. And I go shouting, Deeper and deeper into the night.

--

Your nape, a bridge of bone Arching between a continent And an island, both you.

My fingers pace restlessly its span. A sea stirs overhead. I lick The foam flecked air.

You shiver, a wind escapes From your throat carrying A chant. I stop and listen.

--

Your throat, a convexity, A cave full of music And weeping.

I drink from that bowl. Water first, then heat of your Skin and drum beats.

You murmur, a string Vibrates. My mouth walks Into the violin.

--

Your jaw, a mountain of glass, of glaciers, of soft meadows.

I begin climbing from one end, So slowly that it will be morning When I reach the other end.

You stir, ice moves under me, Flowers open their eyes, Sun rises from the other side!

--

Your mouth, an oyster, A chest of stalactites, The secret of a hidden river.

With what can I open This? My lips are but Crude and blunt knives.

You cut yours over them. Words stop. We become A silence.

-- 2004:01:19 12:00 Atlanta

My Poems