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.

Old House Made Of River Stone

  
Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
Fort Worth.
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
boy cat
there
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
darkness
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
the night
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.

Messenger Messenger Satellite

I trust when the autumn
goes away
with
your feelings
my feelings

past the Italian bakery
the pets in windows
the warmth in coats
and scarves on cold Sunday mornings
when your eyes like
crystals
under the million miles of sun

I see the blue
the new civilizations
the new ways of living
the clean clean consoles
and the white ambient light

I trust the past has melted

I sit in the den

The brush fields of the south
now the purgatory of
northern cities
and messenger messenger
satellites
turning high above

Her Boobs Were By Computer

We were able to talk once

Looking on the street, it
is gone

Someone wanted hugs, did
someone want a hug

The landscape of the moment,
an orange mountain

Has turned to shadow
where the old ones with
leather and wood
kept talking as humans

Yet in the morning
with their children
they hold computers
amongst the silver bridges of
California

We have gone down to the
computer store,

but it is gone now too

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

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

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.”

Hope That Is Navy

When the sun sets I
become sad
Nestle the blue of your eyes to my
dreams
Build the beams of houses from your
curves
these are the touches that
give me remembrance of death
or rather
the veiled cycles of life and
death
I realize the ocean in your eyes
how they are
little pebbles
from the stars and then those
kind of oceans
from the heavens
The northern skies
The navy blue hopes

The hope that is navy

Wedding Song Of The Ozarks

Wedding Song Of The Ozarks

Going back over the roads that wind to
Eureka Springs
where you loved me and
could no longer stand to love me
The oak trees are alive and they don’t believe you
hating
the nature of your own and others existence
Ronnie Milsap playing
playing fertile tones across these blue hills
well, green hills
My three best friends have since married
found partners to take their hands
The wedding song of your body
denies it
deny it
deny the moon in the west in the night
skirting the legends and ghosts of the Ozarks
The water skiing redneck who failed as a father
but turned the Earth’s holy water to sunlight

The questing of Space that is torn from our
body
We cannot lust now ’til there is perfection
The perfection tis gone
You chase it
You chase it

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