My water bed is an aquarium

It is nice to hear bubbles pop,
and bounce together on plastic canoe,
but it is nicer to dive
and see together the crustaceans and coral caves that spurt foam--
it is then that we shall hear each other moan.

Sanity is a smile and nod at those who call you insane.

When I was young you promised that I never need tiptoe around the truth
and that every word would enter each ear without a single shout.

But what if I cannot tiptoe to you?
If the door between us is bolted
Or uncorked amber stops your ears
And that deafening shock of sound
of tremors from the bending walls
that creak and swat waves of uncanny aches
in hopeless defense against the attacker
that slams the unconscious by blind accident
and you with intent?

If I cannot tip my toes in your direction nor remove you from your situation,
then I will tip my noggin that this throbbing conscience is not all there is and exit exists.

Reasonably unsettling considerations
of that feather that slides along and tickles my gut
each time I happen upon your acquaintance
draw me to the realization that something
     is left unsaid.

Perhaps you can help: dip me in the boiling water
of your impacting steam-particle-pelleting questions
as to why I never laughed with you,
lacerate a line with your fine fingernail along my chest
and pluck out my sternum with your penetrating eyes,
puff with faery-breath fire
out that tickling scratching feather
so that finally my ghastly glazed-blue eyes can stare
     and not object.

Catch the Quasar

She was another of those: eyes pale blue like Neptune against caramel angular skin that urges me to dip into the aether and fly within the stormy blue winds. I shiver. I cannot hold my own against these. She asks me why I read Joyce and the wry curve of her thin purple lips lifts a tone of maroon irony that slips through the transistor radio of my ears and colors my already-turbulent waters with that yearning to return the idea and add my hue to the canvass on which she first drew. If only she knew that I was too far in deep space to mind Neptune: I'm blind to all until I meet Miss Begin. 

the point pinpoint pinprick where is the point

Here is the point: Between cone-shaped crater
on my stretched-white cheek
and this firm beige rod that my fingers squeeze
the graphite draws blood on flesh.

My eyes fixate on the paper
and try to draw meaning with ink of desperation
but to no avail; I decide then I must act
and make my point meet paper,
but when I sign my name it bleats sanguine letters.

Cain's creature then lifts the blood-signed pact
and places me and it in his flesh-skinned pack.

I fell in pitch the other day

And sank to my nose and before my eyes burned

With blinding blackness I noted the twisting brown boughs

And grey-blue sky that swung an arrowhead flock of jet specks

That soared out of sight. I last saw behind the high thinning

Branches the half-full blue waning moon.

I then proceeded to happily suffocate in the mire.

College Dreams

When the fickle moon-beam glances on my cheek

I have prickling moon dreams

Where teams of red-black flannelled collegiates

In rows of three’s and four’s wearing bandolier

Sashes filled with ashes of all the books

And thoughts I’ve ever loved

March atop my prostrate body and crack

My brittle bones into my splintered bed and the treaded dirt beneath.

When they fire the ashes into the air

I wake and realize the flash is only a ray,

But my bones still shake.

We didn't quite connect this evening

When will words be more than my and your story--

When will we as individuals break

Like two balls of vinegar that burst in an olive-oily medium and swirl

And discolor and merge

In a mind-mingling and sense-sharing convergence?

Not tonight, because I dipped my bread onto the plate

And soaked the oily fluids and swallowed them whole,

But maybe we can dine tomorrow and refill the dry indenture.

Marsyas' Game

I challenge you to a back-and-forth of ideas;

The rules are simple: each individual

Has an allotted time to transmit a phrase

That is concurrently coherent,

Intelligent, and imbued with undertone

Of nonchalance and wit.

One point for each successfully transferred clause

And one negative point for each stumble, mid-sentence

Pause, break of eye contact that exceeds three seconds,

Or irrelevant statement.

The game lasts fifteen minutes. The winner gains reputation,

And the loser will be flayed alive.

Flea

Should I feel bad when I pinch a flee on my arm

And put it on my desk and squeeze it against the wood

And feel satisfaction when I hear its carcass pop?

Or anger when I spot another on my shirt

And kill that one too. And then pour chemicals

On my dog's coat and commit flea genocide?

Should I question my sanity

When I ignore your questions about the weather

And watch you silently as you scramble for a word to say?

Stars are like a sea in which I delve,
shoot through unecessesties,
fly through specks of matter,
and perhaps see the earth
as a dot that disappears.

Secret

This thick talisman of slow-seeping sap is stuck on my chest.

It continually outpours from my skin pours in a steady

Oozing slow wax-melting flow. From time to time I

Chew the sap to relax, but mostly it sticks to my shirt

And keeps me from ever feeling very clean.

Vine-man lived on indoor Pothos

And whistled on torn-leaf flute:

Twee dee do dee

Sun shine on me

Twee dee dee dum

Warm and give freedom.

He stowed the green instrument

After giving a final captivated glimpse

On its emerald and bright blooming

Highlights from gravitating sunburst

In his weaved torn-leaf side-bag.

A short slide on trusted vine

brought him to brown-leaf bed.

One last glimpse over pot's rim

At the dusty censoring glass pane

And then he laid down his head.

A Man and his Pipe

Leaning back anthropomorph

I’m happy to take this time to unwind

And sip from Briarwood Amphora--

Pipe

Gug gurgle phwip

Puff phwup pffuff

L.b a

--The ambrosial curling milk from tooth-marked mouthpiece

That uplifts me on whirling grey-white nimbus.

Pipe

Pth pth pffrolickth

Gripth the glad fumes--

L.b a

Your wispy Cavendish winds enwrap my whims

and rebirth them into fluid reflections that float above the earth.

Pipe

--And intake: my nicotine

bestows the dopamine you desire!

Sit and make ritual; succumb to relaxation.

Stain your fingers, nails, hairs,

and grip my cusp with lips and tongue

so that my vapor seeps into your lungs!

L.b a

Tired now, I return amphora to drughm hick hmph

sptoo! chest pocket.

Tonight I may choke on pleghm

Or tomorrow my insides sprout thicket of tumors

But I do not fear death

and will experience excitement.

Pipe

Thump-crack.

I stained your shirt.

Spinning at whirling speeds along unknown trajectory

We fly past nebulae, stars, dust;

Plop I fell from starship upon rock

Upon which crawl odd no-eyed pale

And fingernail-sized crustaceans

That enter and exit holes in grey crust

And do not mind me.

I sat down and pressed one between thumb and forefinger

And was sad when it cracked.

To write in verse is to lesion ideas

Spawn iambic eagles that poke out my eyes

Henry waddlesworth knew he was

He was a pickulissifus he was

But didn’t know that in his palm

Was a grain of dirt from morn’s quook gatherun

That housed colony upteen of species eleven

Under the far-spread  Infinigranulion Federation.

Henry W’s palm’s crease incubated colony upt

Which would soon have built infrastructure enough

To send its own colonists to unknown regions.

Inspiration at the Local Cafe

This public place where space-less linger, rapt,

Gives me solace. Where fair cherry wood seats

Accept my back, and I cannot adapt

To clatter of Protean mouths and beats.

I thrive among this amorphous clatter,

Have grown fond of noise and unfamiliar

Faces but familiar seat and chatter

Of voices unregistered but so near.

It’s like I dive in fluctuating sea

Where rippling currents defy cognition

Until elusive old man Noise decrees

After I clasp and persist: perception.

Each visit I grapple the novel mood

‘Til chaos morphs at last into my muse.

caution ramble draft

Tired tired too tired to think? Unadmired. What am I trying to say?

Sometimes speech can be difficult, but a smile shines through. Thoughts can be difficult, but a good notion can explode into a big-bang colossal everywhere-extending breadth and blind the dark vacant mind with redyellowpink bright blossoming bliss that creates clouds that make burning spheres that form stars and planets and life. An initial minor impulse of effort is impetus for the unfathomable.

Well-Cut Sashimi

Why do I fear speaking?

Seeking, sea king, peeking

Duck?

I yearn to open my mind to another

But the gates are iron-bolted

And the gnome key-keeper keeps the key

From me.

I want to tell a story

Improvised and invented

Indifferent to its quality

Only speaking.

I, the sea king

Seeking fearlessly across reality’s wakes,

Peeking into the enigmatic,

Subtle, dark, and cloudy sea

And rising

With a silver-scaled fish in my beak.

Undersea

I admit that I speak infrequently

And will make you feel awkward. If you can

Break through broken conversation—

Crashing breakers that roar with white foam

That gurgles on turbid green shores—

And dive and bear building pressure and popping ears,

Then we may meet beneath the turmoil

In an undersea dome.

Lilacs grow here, and the water

Is somehow more clear. Speech is still scarce,

But as we sit side-by-side on a green carpet

Of algae and grass beside a river trickling through coral-rock,

I feel like we have found an Elysium,

That reveals the rolling anxious waves

As mere undulating currents.

Among these fluctuations

We seem to understand.

But remember: mind the stream.

A Fall Day

I sit on a wrought iron table

Beside white-paneled wall intermixed with brick.

It Never Entered My Mind coos

And temperate flushes of autumnal winds

Uplift evergreen scent and sunny specks and a red-yellow leaf

And coax me into contemplative mood.

A crusted demitasse and empty glass

Stand beside my folded palms

And through ringed somnolent eyes

I stare at sugarcane plant plumes bulging black against the clouds

Into blue-purple sky.

I Probably Shouldn't Have

Crashing crunch of tires skidding on loose dirt

And flying dust debris and jerk of rattling

Creaking broken pipe steaming

Were background to my mind screaming

When I saw your face slam against the dashboard.

As soon as my unconscious death-grip loosened

From the wheel I clutched your shoulders

And pulled your face into view. Your features are similar
But fresher than mine. Your cheeks are aflame and nose leaks blood,
But your eyes gleam life through bewilderment.

I am glad you are unharmed. I slumbered

At the wheel and car is bent smoking

But you are alive.