Past Corporate Love

It’s been a while.
I saw you undress in my mind.
Saw your figure so perfect from
distance.
Saw it imperfect in glances
underneath me,
with folds and moles.
Saw the light of the closet
cracked into the darkness of
the bedroom.
Disheveled, unorganized, and
human,
decorporatized for a moment,
like grapes on untended vines,
a vineyard
beyond the reach of the census.
Decorporatized when we lay
with each other
in fire and blood,

smashed
in fire and blood
together
in darkness
where we needed a reaching,
so we reached for the light
enclosed in our cell.

Our ancestors last human
in the restaurants
of the middle class
dreaming the way that
kept them sleeping.

The lights, the lights,
they’re golden around there,
dreaming the way that
kept them sleeping.

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.

Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham

What did Abraham do?

He did what all other fathers
since him are striving to do.

Abraham just bought a color TV.

The color TV looks right
with the tones of the air in Brooklyn.

Abraham likes to walk about.

He likes the city at twilight.
The orangeness, those ancient
kinds of
things.

Now Abraham has been watching his TV.

So Abraham goes home to his wife
and her Salisbury dinners
and the cool truths of the evening
news,
but then Abraham has a previous wife
he loves more too.

He imagines her ghost will trail him
through
to his last breaths.

Their son has gone off to college
by the good hills and woods and
fresh air
of rural Pennsylvania.

Suburban House Love

We could be in a kitchen,
someday.
She and I.
A kitchen in a suburban home
in Wisconsin,
someday.
A Saturday afternoon,
for our little boy’s birthday party.
Wood grain cabinetry
and splatter sprayed dry wall.
Light blue balloons,
pink and yellow ones too,
taped to the walls, ceilings,
kitchen appliances, and doorways.
We could be there
with the
fluorescent light
merged with
the sunlight from windows
to warm us and turn our feelings
to goodness.
To know what it’s like to have
relaxed muscles and breath.
To feel cold iced tea move
over our tongues.

From A Spaceport

  
It is a spaceport
where we found love.
With its perimeters, sectors,
and airlocks.
A sky above.
Always some kind of sky above.
Kill me when there is no longer
some kind of sky above.
But we lived there still
with its perimeters, sectors,
and airlocks.
With its imported fruit,
monitored air,
and industrial hangers
bringing in the pollutants
from the men of Earth.
In all that is sick.
In the failure and necessity
of our species
we found love.
We found the one necessity
that still survives
in the words, attention, and
glances of the other.
We found the glances of the
other
and the hum, that one long
hum
of everywhere, every moment,
molecule, and memory.

Quasar Molten, Passing Into Love

  
I wanted to protect
your veins as you lived

They became muddled
and pooled in blood
before me

After the days, the years
I felt them in science

the velocity of gravity
met me in sunshine

it bathed me grandiosely
turned from outer space

and I knew your heart
bleeding there in your
wrists

Lust And Love Betwixt The Adriatic

Somedays the ship races of
Tyranneous are at sea.

Somedays Penelope sits at home
with her lume.

Somedays the wine indulges.

Other days the olive oil heals.

The hands with polished nails raise
over the rising smoke
and
half moonlit light.

The earthen kiss anchors.

A child tosses a straw doll to the road.
There is dust.
The road leads down to the port.

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

My Love Was A Mountain In China

I was on life support for two years

Then the unthinkable happened

One day I woke up

I no longer lingered on the landscapes
of Mars
waiting for you to appear

I awoke to another other land

Something like three hundred and
fifty-seven light years away

Flowers blooming
a million shades of green and tall grasses

Mountains rising all around

With even the dust doing its thing
in the air
the way it floats down in the sunlight
from oak trees
to marry the dirt of the woodland trails

It was in these sojourns that I finally
understood
your love

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