Tourist Posture

Russia ascends.

Russia about to be

a bottomless pit

of misery.  African

lives on the up.

Agriculture, industrial

output motherly.

The Amazon thrives

with life.  It slithers

dead zones

of epicensure.

China falls to modernity,

treats the world

like fuel, face-

savings in the bank.

Things to worry about

are things to love

and love is something

to worry about.

Billions build

towers of elsewheres,

hungry droves

in groves of children,

orchards bathed

in American

chemical ingenuity—

ambitiously

proper calibration

of the sights  

to safeguard peace

on earth, good will

to those whom we ask

their souls.  See,

the slouching bear

on TV, decidedly

polar, on a drift

of ice once

a continent of snow

the whole year.

God’s people, thank

God, on the case.

Not for beasts, perhaps

but others

who turn out not to be

too greedy, too needy

for their stay.

Hope is elementary,

and wants to keep it that way. 

Events Like Me

And then the president

Or someone blew up the buildings.

Then the mongrels took over. 

They made it plain as day,

Heartless tongues awag. 

They cut along the dotted line,

Two snakes emerged, each

A hissing lullaby for the baby

Bundles out on a limb. 

Then the whole nation wept. 

The whole weeping nation then wept

For revenge.  Patriot nobodies

Built bonfires at the center of the park.

One neighbor has two of everything. 

One likes the challenge of bows

And arrows.  Spark ribbons

Twirl in the black sky.

Fire burns up all the best ideas. 

The fire’s idea rises on its own heat

Like a balloon or a diver

Has to hold it in, yellow flames

Glide by on the fender of a 50

Something outlined in silvery light. 

Smiles recreate the moment,

Mother folding laundry, her back a curve

Of aches and pains like a sea-bitten

Tree.  I taste salt on my lips, as it

Was and should be, of earth

When it comes to me, in my heart that bleeds.

Around the planet the same probe

Takes place, the same pace

Of inquiry, the same

Interrogation. Money talks

Up what money makes

Like we speak lovingly of babies,

Milestones of growing old,

Of apples and pears,

Money is life enough for money

To bear, playing songs

It loves itself to hear.  Can I last

Out those who now rise up

Like their grandfathers

Against enemies of the word,

Enemies of rolling Rs, coughing
Gs, the straight and narrow Ss?
Friends of a god whose martyrdom
Masquerades as a misery party

Of unrequited love?

That’s when I think it’s good

To be a mortal, when I appreciate

Such a limited event as me.

And yet I have my days 

When even that's too much

Nothingness to be.

Portrait of a Dog Heading West on a Road by a Meadow beneath a Blue Sky

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Heroic Age--available for purchase on Amazon, B&N, Booklocker, etc.

Rationale’s Pal

When the Greater Good showed up,
we were just standing around 
tapping our feet 
thinking about 
what to do next. 

After a while, 
the Greater Good 
got impatient, 
demanded action, 
and did so 
in such inelegant
ways spittle 
rained on our faces.

Some of us 
resisted, afraid 
of the coming bloodshed.
We wanted to use 
our heads 
and hearts, 
our tapping feet.

But others began 
to sharpen 
their blades. 
The Greater Good 
knows all 
about heads 
and blades.  

Some say 
the Greater Good 
is nothing 
but your average 
vampire.

I doubt it, since 
it loves its own reflection 
and never shrivels 
in the light.

The Price Is Wanting It For Free

He writes a poem. It turns out terrible. He’s hateful, you’re loathsome. He writes a good one, it’s a great one, he’s great, and so are you. Poems get between other poems on a shelf at home. It was always like that, on a shelf at home, in a cabinet, a chest, a box with an airtight seal, a bedroom without a window. He squawks like a peacock about the hummingbird’s flight. It was always like that, cloaked in fine feathers. The poet and the poem have words; hey, you’re an okay guy, the poem says. The poet agrees. They walk off, mind in mind, beneath a blue sky with pink clouds. They’re like lovers. We sit on the sidelines, booing, applauding, yawning, as the phrasing recommends.

American Citizen

One thing I like about being

A citizen of America

Is how everyone you meet

From around the world bows

And curtseys, mouths agape

When I enter the room,

As if I were about to say something

That could fix it in a blink,

That could help raise the average loser

High above the heads of even the greatest

People the world has ever known. 

You can live in a castle, I'll say,

And you don’t even have to know

How to add or spell—

My importance to the world

Is the stuff of legend, my methods

Of rule universally praised

As the most just, most modern
Most sophisticated so far
During civilization’s great parade

From Plato toward perfection. 

I try my best to be aware, to remember
That others occupy the planet too,
And we all have to get along. 
Listen, now this is what we’re going to do,

I tell them, and when I say that,

Everyone pulls out a pen

And a notepad and gets ready

For the important info

On how to proceed with running things,
How to think about things, how to
Make sure it all transpires accordingly.

Even though we discuss the finer details, go
Over the numbers and work out the kinks,

They rely mostly on me,

On my armories,

On my universities.

Feels good to be American.

One day I thought about how horrible it would be

To be from Portugal, a mythical place

That once ruled the seas, explored

The frontiers of unknown worlds

For treasures in its bowels,

That once set the standard

In Europe and half way
Across the globe, a land
Of knights and ladies

Who, today, have don aprons

And patrol the restaurant floors,

Man the kitchens,

Check in visitors at front desks

And clean pools they
Can't swim in, and leave home
First chance they get, world
Citizens of equal opportunity!

What does it feel like, I ask, to grow up
In a country that had its day

Like Rome or Athens, whose glory

Was 2000 years ago?

What does a Roman feel today?

How does an Athenian feel?

I’m an American, so
I feel like everyone is standing up

Just beneath me.

What I’d Give My Right Eye For If None Were None The Wiser

1

Sue me, I guess, kill me, hate me, mess me up,

Have your say, judge me as you see fit,

I have no excuses: I’m a goddamned man!

Kingdoms of love forbid me enter,

And yet your posterior surely calls out

Like what gods employ to wake the dead—

A loaf of bread to feel at home—life’s goal to

Kiss that spot only offered to the chosen,

Such gifts to die for, no less than soft words

Hanging pink upon your tongue. I can’t help it,

My body goes into convulsions when you walk

Amid averages, hair wrapped on your head,

Nature’s own style improving the pavement.

2

Since your beauty exceeds what’s necessary,

How ‘bout I try to make you explode?

If that’s not too much to ask, I mean, let’s talk,

Kick off a briefly glorious orgasmic moment

Always to be there, nostalgia’s muse, ruses

Like the kind that get you hot at night, wet

All alone, eyes rolled back, tinglings, all those

Knife-wound ticklings already well-rehearsed,

Sworn to secrecy, fingers feel for it, drum,

Hit the spot: a flick, a strum to make the juice

Mill run as from a punctured orange, fatly ripe,

Aimed at my face, targeting my tongue—mercy

Needs no awakening in a bottom like yours.

3

Say it: you believe you’re beautiful, hot.

Have you considered what it means to be beautiful?

It’s not having the most delicious bellybutton,

Kissable and loveable and lickable, it doesn’t

Always mean happy loins (had my fate’s

Love struck a different year, perhaps my own

Agonies might be quelled while your pink

Kindnesses dole charity in succumbing

Sweetly to quake-making machinery, hung

Hopes hard as stone as you crisscross the yard

Mimicking goddesses of old when we all felt

A trembling, a shuddering, our knees buckling,

Now dizzy as you pass, so just beyond reach).

4

Somehow tonight I restrain myself, I cope, I

Hold myself back because the face you look into

Isn't the one I’m looking out of, the body’s mask

Keen for fragrances, sweet aroma of an ass’s

Angel, endless pleasure protected by layers

Layered in style, fitted to the felicities of spirit—

Am I a machine? Programmed? De-? Pre-?

Klieg lights shine, I whine to stay amid the wall

Shadows, unseen as electric pulses, working

Hobo of non-deeds, a gelded breed Hollywood-

Made from clay whose origins can be traced

As far back as your last lover’s face, stirring

Nirvana’s fingertips wetted by an apparition. 

5

See, naturally, I shouldn’t be willing

Hell’s fantasies, puckered genitals at my lip;

Imagination as self-abuse! The tongue’s

Karma-tip plunging cavities, wiggling round,

Ain’t exactly a crime, is it? So human, this

Lazy surrender: I’m at your mercy! Please

Annihilate me! Make me thy commode!

Kill me, drain me in a pool of steaming

Sex beneath your feet, soaked by dripdrip

Hammers of joy, ready to drop, to be

Martyred for the sharpening of each nerve

Aimed like an arrow, to make another

Negligible peace with the needle’s eye.

6

Say that beauty is why, merely to love it,

(Hey, isn’t ugly sad? But where’s the fix?)

Indeed, learning it to become it, to rise up

Krypto-godly, absorbing colors, sounds, feelings

Advancing nonstop. Nomad orgies seed

Languorous pauses on pillows of misfit lust

As your toes get kissed, my lashes learn

Karaoke as incendiary perfumes, lovemusks

Sail like scarves mimic the wind flipping

Hair from your eyes; goddess carved of sun!

Madness seizes, too sensual our senses—

Amateur mystics who failed to look away,

Noosed by the heartbreak-lovely of an ass.

7

Shall I spread your wings, lick your exit hole?

How about while also doing that, right there?

If greenlighted, I’d work thee to a shudder.

Knot of muscle, life’s door an inch away: nectar

Amended with sweat, shit, piss, soup-salt

Ladled for inhalation; molecules on the tongue, 

Along the lips, the breath of your seat. Zat o-

Kay? But why should I not think of having it,

Shagging it, who cares how it makes your jeans

Hug more style than another’s loss, less

Made for that next phase, that next stage of

Animal-games played as angels: I close my eyes,

Nearer now to those indecencies I'm blind for.

8

So much in life to let go its merry way, its

Heyday never to come, never to plumb

Itself against the crooked wall, always uprightly

Keeping to the proper stance, the appropriate

Angle of approach. How nice to set my eyes

Languidly to glancing for deep yet brief trances

As you make your way from place to place.

Knowledge is nothing without the fluids!

Some days all my hours are given to dreams

Heaven-aimed in a dense forest of animals

Mapping the treetops with song, your beautiful

Ass as hot as two brown buns from the oven
Nicely proffered on a blanket of wet moss.