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


Winter For The Northern Lake Country

will always be the one
I remember

she walked out
the door

and I
didn’t follow her curves
the rain of
the cold night

the lights of the street
fill her eyes
turning the sentiments
of men
into loyal tragic sadness

I watched the mirror
I watched the clock
I failed to watch her leave

the winter settled in

I bought wool socks
winter of the northern lake

Summer Little Beauty

She had a monochromatic mole on
her face

Just above her brow

It played with a poetry of brown hair
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
the sun

Divorce Or “The Non-Perfected”

We are divorced.
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

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

The grime on the light switch

Another family moves in.

The heroic
Industrial Revolution is

It defeats the unpresentable.

The solo. The non-perfected.


Cookies Are Easy

Cookies are easy
they go upside down
all across the City
in New York City
we could be baking and making
cookies again
with something between us
something different and new and old
people would eat them
chocolate and walnut with sea salt
in our domestic space
your hands or her hands
my hands or his hands
mixing the batter in a bowl
a green or blue glass bowl
the pasty granules turning over and
over earthen or delicate hands
and yellow light from the 20th Century
cutting highlights in
the glass of the bowl
surrounding around us
around our heads the memory of
urban still-lifes
so we take the scents
the butter, the burning
the cars, the smog
the flowers from yesterday in the hall
and we kiss
with batter under our fingernails
the wallpaper stares
yeah, we chose to wallpaper the walls
to liven the place up a bit
I mean this is the freaking City
it needed a little coziness
I understand a couple more things
this time around

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

Between The Floors

Our apartment was rickety and impoverished,
almost like an old Michigan lake house
perched above a block in the City.

The glass in the windows had fallen downwards
over the years
to bend the view of the street below and the
twinkling lights of Manhattan in the distance.
The wood of the frames was rotten.

Below, they cooked greasy Thai noodles and
you could smell sweet curry and grilled eggs
in the afternoon when trying to nap between
orgasms on a Saturday.
Cars always stuttered and honked and
scented everything in charcoal.

Above, on a wooden plank floor painted with
lime latex paint was a cheap twin futon bed
where I had her every night to every morning
from the summer of 2004 to the spring of 2005.

The curves of her body filled my hands like
the moon in the night sky.
I breathed her fertile scent. It lived on my
lips and hands. I would go off to work a
mindless job, she still lived in my nose.
She helped me be mortal and still lives in
my dreams after all this is left for the dead,
the dead between the floors that scatter the
wasted hopes of a city in squalor, coughing on
the honesty of sunrises.

Fields Of Fog

As I sat looking out over the dreary fields of fog

I remembered the pores of skin on your legs

they laid out with the occasional reddish brown freckle

There was something incredibly normal about this skin

Was it just that I was used to it?

Was it of common genetics, duplicated over and over?

Or maybe was it rare and specific, did it hail from a
certain village in Ireland or Sweden somewhere or
maybe it was even France, moving amongst the
barley fields?

The timid moments of self-doubt I have felt on those legs
and then lay with them as conquering heroines

In a way it was like looking at your legs was like
looking across a field in ancient Europe
an amalgamation somewhere
a gathering for mine eyes to look upon them

To remember them in low light in bedrooms

as the fields of fog advance on wayward hearts

out in Briscoe County, Texas and the field larks sing

Age Of Woman

Sometimes I want to make love to you

Some kind of awful awful making love

Making love with the leaves falling in
northern Scottish churchyards

Making love while the rain is lashing a
boat in port, Clew Bay, County Mayo, Ireland

The florescent lights don’t love us
The magazines filled with lingerie models

I believe your white skin is the skinning
of my soul, the peeling of my bark

if you will

the peeling out of a purple hot rod in the empty
navy streets at night

Upon the farmer’s old stone wall, seven
centuries old
I’d like to make you cum

your ocean pebble eyes threshing stars from
the August night

the moon being her Celtic queen self of

Only God and the creatures up above know
this is now the age of woman


Power Lust

there are things i don’t understand

we were bonded bacterially

i’m fairly sure the unification of some sort of
bacterial ecosystem
had something to do with our draw and lust
toward each other

something like that

it was a power lust, a power lust

the joining of two or even multiple bacterial