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.

Redemption Of A Red Planet

mars.jpg

We can only but get to Mars now

Can I kiss you?

Can I under those blue white skies
skirt the hues of red and orange
and beige
and feel your textured, crusted lips

dry there

waiting for a humanness to know you

amongst routines, ritual, and duty
to clone
the next progenial elation

to sample
to sample
what were the forms and ways before
in a new kind of gravity
a different context
the answering of ionized metals
for redemption

for our redemption

the new ways of being

so
from this space port I buzz to you

my mercury and iron oxide singing

Cream, Sweat, Deodorant Infinity

Cream-Sweat-Deodorant-Infinity

Oh, the scent of her fall
cream, sweat, and deodorant
by the dark bedroom shadows
or morning living room sunlight
by the calls of our heavens
our ancestors
were lovers and deviants
breasts carved for spaceships
eclipses of planets
asses and shape shifts from
the young to the old
her crow’s feet aside her eyes
by porn star eyeliner
by the vestibule of my biological
carrying
I want her like the sunrise
everyday
for worship
for religion
until I die
or one of the middle age actresses
on “Designing Women”
these impressions are permanent
neural tissues or the Fountain
of Youth

Kittens In Radiation

kittens-in-radiation

Gravity has the doors
most everyone ignores

except kittens
who lay on floors

they breathe in this stuff
in daydreams

Everyone wonders what they do
with those eyes

A million point five years
of seeing wave frequencies

the things
that go in those special
gravity special doors

and make worlds recycle
like Christian forgiveness

computers tossed into pure
radiation

Kittens move to kiss each other

and this is only part of why
they lay around on floors

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 Hill With The Seafood Restaurant

The hill where that rundown seafood
restaurant once was
is gone

Not just the restaurant, but the entire hill

They razed it so they could build an
express commuter bridge across the lake

We once started arguing in the car
while driving by that hill

Our argument continued for about 2 miles
into the east, encompassing our entire
trek over the bridge

After that
their was silence and I sat there
staring at the plastic panels in the car
and reflecting back at that abandoned
seafood restaurant
we had passed

A Nocturnal Of Laser Beam

She became an idea.

An idea that wore dresses,
loved capitalism,
wanted children,
and had corporeal feelings
embedded in memories and
neurons.

This idea drove in a white
stationwagon
from Texas to New York City
and would never be seen
again.

She woke up from a ghost
on a planet
seven hundred and fifty
light years away
and had foggy remembrance
of a different way of life
and
a different count of days.

The landscape turned from
the white plaster walls of
temples to orange mountains
in the distance
and the navy blue night far
up above.

She breathed.
Her heart beat.
She remembered someone she
once loved.
She looked down at her wrists
and ankles.
Her eyes blinked.
She lived.

A transmitter brought transference.

A lifetime had been stored in
molecules, configured into
radiation and
prior held assumptions were
antiquated.

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.”

We Remember Love

She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because

we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.

We journey to the sun.

The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.