At Blank House In Suburbs

Where are we in this empty room

I reach out to you

We’re not being
the ones in the track houses

We’re not being there

Nothing is being there
where
the beige bricks and the beige walls
could not
have held our marriage together

Where is this heavenly building
for your blue eyes

A place worthy of gold and infinite

The blood within my human
human heart

The tiered gardens and the colonnades
of much better civic planning

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Each Day Forth

Do I say I love you

I want to see you old

old old old

I think you’re gonna look fine

fine fine fine

when you get old

kind of like Joan Baez

I think you look a lot like Joan Baez

or a blend of Joan Baez and Margot Kidder

but really some beauty quite better, for me at least

that a stupid equation as such cannot compute

I have idea head

that’s kind of what you do to me, it sorta makes me dance

I’m not afraid to admit

I’d have sex with a 75 year old Joan Baez

there I said it

more or less

the manner of my conceptions towards you

something I’d like to give

a courageous human gift

a human gift

that would beat my heart into goo goo ga ga brilliance

from each day forth

in empty kitchens, on wooden porches, grassy pastures

places of general insignificance that become significant

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Pastry Cortical Pantry

Well, who’s name rang from my lips
working the filo dough in the pantry

Who’s softness I pressed into upon
her hips

White laid the powder on the cold marble
counter

Her forearms churned and folded
what would be burning
with goat cheese and caramelized onions
there in the air with kisses
to the neck
before fornication arrived with a bucket

We drank champagne that day
after we ate
made love
and our gonads swelled like flowers
while gas burners burned on the stove
and the radiator burned on the wall in the bedroom

But it was my afternoons in Mexico
when I was young
that made me know how to live all of this
and
so I am still living
even when like a typical adult
I am really not living

but peering into some process that devalues
the logic of value

the greatest gift of the scientist or poet
is to disrupt the systems of value

so
others can learn how to live liberated

Video

Ghosts Of The Great Heart

I woke up
to a sexual dream
about a middle-aged woman from my
childhood
so
naturally I spent the morning
reading about Emily Dickinson
until the birds
began to chirp
and sunlight came
to my room like
water’s farthest journey
upon the universe of beach

I laid on the other side of breathing

crested in sand and spent of light air

then I remembered you were dead

so
I gave up these breaths

to enter the regular day

the one without the ghosts of

the great
great
heart