The Thing No Longer Howls

In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
old books
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
now.

For
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.

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Summer Little Beauty

She had a monochromatic mole on
her face

Just above her brow

It played with a poetry of brown hair
and
blue eyes

like the breath of the beach and the
blue sky above it

Every single moment that I walked
away from a window
where she stood
was like a new eon being created in
the cosmos

A crystal star, a crest of drawing ocean

One unique feeling
amongst all the lives that have lived
under
the sun

Divorce Or “The Non-Perfected”

We are divorced.
Divorced.
Now.
The children don’t walk into
the kitchen to see us.
The children don’t exist in
the garden
or the backseat of
the SUV
moving through moonlight
into the
mountains.

Your hair falls for some other
kind of
silence on the bathroom
floor.

The grime on the light switch
stays.

Another family moves in.

The heroic
Industrial Revolution is
winning.

It defeats the unpresentable.

The solo. The non-perfected.

divorce

The Earth Of Your Love Does Not Love Redemption

to have come close to your life
on a crag by the sea

dreaming by your hips
your scent of cream

believed in you at midday
on bad days
in imperfect ways

a corridor of wood
in an old building
that is the feeling gone now
of cold coming in
through the windows

to have come close to your soul
with the leaves underfoot
in a forest
a breeze
whispered

“she will not travel naught
into solar incineration.
she will not sing the song of spring.
she will not lift her heart.
you must carry it to your grave
and remember
all the seas of the mediterranean
when walking in the ozarks,
the blues and yellows,
the browns of her hair,
the earth of your love.

she does not love redemption.”

Locholai Poem Of Body

The poem of the body

You, I made in silence

Your eyes hold the lights of every
baroque room ever entered

The air tries to talk and cover your figure
but your shape is uncontainable,
statuesque and curved,
rustic long-endured perfection from the
old world,
mountain roads of mud for horse carts

Supsense always the nature of your presence
The sweet kissed tension near your mouth

Your lips are stones that the Earth
as the Sea
lashes at and they turn men to boys
who wonder
who brought all these pebbles to the edge
of these far off shores

These shores laid out to gray skies at the
end of the world

Our days set out near to die

I’d fallen in hotels your soft blouse in my
hand
to bed
your brunette strands break the dour moments
of funerals and mourners

I admit I mourn now, but still I drink white
wine in the spring to honor your passing
to clasp down on my heart
to keep hold of
what May believes continues to exist

Imperfect Legs

Your imperfect legs
squatty and muscled and fecund
a couple places of cellulite
were mine
for thirty-six seasons.
Mine kept from the stars
kept from eternality.
Lying warm
in darkened bedrooms
in New York City
or in sundresses and statuesque
under the everlasting skies
of Mexico and Texas.

They are beautiful and sacred now
in my memory
underneath the overarching sky.
Your life remains lasting
in me
corporal and ethereal
what the summation of human journeys
calls perfectness, imperfectness
and
love.
A journey arched before the cosmos
in
my heart.
I chased the waters of the Mediterranean
in Turkey
to recreate you.
The light continues to praise you.
It journeys and journeys.

The birds make their way
towards the sun
in the morning.

The winter’s here.
Your imperfect legs are gone.

An Astoria Love Unborn

You ran away. That’s it.
Places of America.
Answers in cafes,
treelines along highways,
the unbroken horizons of the stolen
Americans.
Medicine far away.
A different cosmology.
To wade in saltwater far away.
Pancakes in Delaware.
Toss that electricity into a portal
on the other side of the Milky Way.
We will die before anyone truly understands
any of this human or American stuff.
We will die before it’s you that realizes
you ran away.
Does consciousness realize itself?
Is there a memory called love
or an overturned wooden rowboat
on the beach in Oregon,
is that a metaphor of a Saturday
that is too old?
That is gone before the jealousy
of the ocean’s fury
with children in red hats
chasing the seaspray’s reflection.

Little Ways

All the little ways that love falls apart

To perfectly part, not to perfectly part

Left a bag in a cart on a subway

On Sunday argued in the pouring rain

Fucked up the umbrella, then annihilated it
against a cold gray light pole
off the avenue

Were we trying to understand something?

The dog you didn’t train very well went to
a good home
where a young boy loved her with all his
heart
and she passed away after about seven years

I left a bowl on the table
You said don’t do that
I said “so, sue me”
You wanted more salt in the dish

The rain soaked kisses made your kisses taste
like tomatoes
in the air
when we breathed over fresh cut fields
at a different time, different place
making up
when we should have always made up

when we did we made up really good

A Hair And Shinto Prayer

I found a piece of her brunette hair
embedded in the back of a painting she gave me.
I could no longer bear to see that painting
so I took it down from my wall.
But I took her hair and laid it on a shelf
all alone with a Japanese Shinto prayer for
everlasting life.
On the 4th of each month I gather to meditate
for 42 minutes around the hair and Shinto prayer,
focusing on all the preciousness behind that hair
and praying for everlasting life for our love.
I don’t believe I’ll ever see an answer to my hopes
and prayers in this life.
But still I pray and protect the existence of that hair
with all the allegiance of a monk in a remote monastery
where time has passed by
and he knows no other way of being,

where time has passed by
and his sacred, unending faith continues.

My Love Has Diffuse Modulatory Systems

The sunrise is transitory
when it touches me
and I use it
to talk to you clandestinely.
The light talks to
your sacred pituitary gland
then
you know me
in your head
and heart.

Even though
you’ve set out
to forget me,
in
the sunlight
you will
know me
everyday
on this sweet Earth.

It’s what we share.
It’s how we love.

I give thanks
to
your
diffuse modulatory systems,
they make you human
even
when
you work your hardest
not to be,
to be callous, resentful and cold
as
you grow old.

I grow eternal.

I know you’re not a robot
and
the sunlight traveling
tells you something otherwise
in
your corporeal heart
that rushes upon the universe,
that your head
occasionally listens to.