Beads on a chain

‘the face that holds the mask of race
erases my un-fashioned face’ (M. Mendel)

the nature of life is change
permanence is doom

thoughts running on a string
left loose to stray
surviving in the mind
to settle in the unnamable depths of the soul

the answers to our questions
are lost in the rhythm of our dreams
life to come and life to live:
the ever-seeking spirit of fulfillment

links as beads on a chain many times broken
only to be recomposed in a new fashion

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Falling

Falling falling falling
like a rolling stone
in a breeze by a lake
falling to the ground
smitten and aware
unfolding the curls
of ear lobes of flesh

opening
regaining self
letting go
to grasp once more

tired as a state of mind

playing to play
feeling to be felt
calling out a name

fearing and wanting
to be heard

Trains that pass

Trains that pass
and leave you with no feeling

I learn to see the seagulls and the waves
the smell of the wet pebbles
the flowers on the grass and the Christmas lights
in the cold night

thoughts so distant from regular life
so far away
and so close to truth

the truth of the matter
the truth that matters

science is a just interpretation
and yet not the explanation

trains that pass and leave you with no feeling
soft rain on my cheeks and the sirens in the distance

No more play (for today)

I look out the window
and see your face in the glass
turning slowly to mine

I watch the marbles on the parquet floor
sliding in orange and blue

that dull sound of glass on wood
rolling with a slight bounce
as they tend to knock and strike one another
with a porcelain knock

running in the forest
–the tall trees–
zooming in and out of focus

a bending wall
–labyrinth of sounds–
similar to those dancing in my mind

light are the wings of butterflies
and petals in the breeze

violently happy

Point to the eye


And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

T.S. Eliot

point to the eye with a gun
aiming straight at my soul
where is the swan arching its neck in the jet-black lake?

the mist has risen and there is a faint glow
between the water and my mind

I feel my soul burning between the folds and
crevices on the horizon
where the lone cowboy roams

the moon is a crescent
looking down with dreamy wistful aloofness
on our meanderings

the footprints lost in the sand erased by time
that mollusc of memory
contracting and expanding
to meet the heavenly desires and woes

is this mess a message
a massage to massacre
masses of mass media
in a menstrual mime
to mesmerize the mire
of miracles in a maze
leading to the ever-present Minotaur

hold my hand
I feel limp
the fire has turned out
the embers glowing in the snow

shall we come out of the rain?
I am soaked through and through

 

Flower in danger

watching the skyline of a city I love
that now seems unknown
it could be Cleveland or Milwaukee

in the back of a black car
maybe nightmares have an end
we slide down the seats
that have seen many passengers

in the lick
of the ultimate kiss
foreign bodies learn to smell each other

I want your soul and I want it now
I want to tear you up
to eat your tongue
I don’t want you to spare me

slinky stinky sneaky air
as the sirens hiss
and the lights blink

I want to taste your mouth
(I tasted it even when we danced)
slightly sweet
mixed with a neutral softness

acting is your raison d’être
dancing with you is
like making love to Marilyn Monroe

I feel like Mick Jagger
I want the stud pants
the omega T-shirt
—the tight ass—

it’s light outside
people on the street are carrying flowers and babies
cars are zooming by

me alone with you in my mind
I know I don’t want to be polite
you said “when we meet again
–we should dance–
even if we don’t go dancing”

new day

riding the Q across the bridge
smoke stacks puttering
cars hissing below
another subway mumbles
and screeches on the metal tracks
I observe the faces of people
reading and tapping their feet impatiently

we are stuck: suspended in mid air
on the Manhattan Bridge

the Q-train an orange circle in the grey day

from the windows grey water
industries and projects on Lower Manhattan
the occasional barge floating down the East River

rattling and humming towards Grand Street
we start again
I can now see Roosevelt Island
and on the other side the Brooklyn Bridge
we are soaring in between buildings

we begin to enter the depths of the tunnel
into the heart of Chinatown
getting ready to begin a new day