Therapy

  There you are
sitting on the edge
of a park bench,holding
     up the sky
not feeling the wight
         of it now
because there is something
        else holding you
          up.
              our quiet argument

           We carry a burden
  on our backs
          useless rucksacks
we hump the broken
   lansdscape littering
it with mementos of our time
        together
here a picture from Spain
         a child's sock
  a soft piece of purple rope

     We are sometimes bent down
            sagging earthward
              if it's lonliness

           If someday it
carries us tenderly and lightly
         over the ground,
        it might be love

  the burden is still there
         keeping us from
 diverging ,
      from forgetting ourselves
            and here it is
               only Tuesday.
 

Deraileur

This thing keeps on coming
 off and making all of us stop
  and wait for thick fingers to
force it back on
unfamiliar with the progression
       of time in a journey, it
fails to see what all the fuss
     is about.
After all, it's not really going anywhere
     just moving around in circles.
It doesn't seem to want conversation, but
   gets my blossoming rosary of
curses and horrible utterances
            anyway

  Time is not any real thing at all,
      the smart people say this
   by way of excuse,but tell that
            to someone who is thirsty
      or hungry or horny or bored
           or who really wants to pee
           
At the mercy of this piece of
    metal, being a fucking
         bastard and making
            me walk three miles
looking like a giant piece of fruit
         or a court jester
in pants so tight
       i swear they can tell if
            i've been circumcised
          at fifty paces,
at this moment I can sense my
      place in the universe
and it ain't very prominent..

          There will be no
             parade
      at the end of the
              tour.

A haiku about failure or love or writing schlock.

It sticks like dogshit
to a big,red bouncy house
  a bad simile

где есть место
          в каком могу  молиться
за спасение всех
         под облаками
 от опасности
    дождя
        подарков сделеннык
                   из железнь ?

             " Как жаль"
себе самому скажешь
           ему не возможно
 смотреться на мир
        как взрослые

             Еше , не ясно
 почему
       в     неб о c p e б а x
На во́ре ша́пка гори́т.

     __________

 Where is this place
  where you can pray
     for everyone to be saved
  beneath the clouds,but
       still free of  the dangerous
               rain or all those
   little gifts made of iron?,
       
    "what a pity, you say
              to yourself
     he just can't se the world
           like a grown man

             Still unclear why
           in all the skyscrapers
                   they know the truth
a thief's hat  always burns*

    ( a liar knows he is a liar...or...the truth will out)*
     

Goodbye Larry

You are light now
   dancing upon the air
           whirling with an accordion shadow
   deft and strong pushing
           the giant  hammers of chrome
     snowy planks and monumental ebony beams
      making music sweet and slick
        singing, deep and covered in
   the soul of happiness

   You are no longer heavy with}
                the sorrows that you carried
the things that you have seen
             and said goodbye to
  you are pitch perfect

             the acoustics are divine
over the clouds and in
          the  luxurious  riverbeds go
and all will feel though never
     see your emancipated glow

inhaler

There is something in the air
         dust, leaves, the breath of pigeons,
  a small tight fist inside your lungs
  there is something
that does its work,
a string tied around your heart, a small ring
that keeps you from breathing
  that makes you turn
away from things
that make you dream.

  there used to be a rain goddess
   that lived in a pool of
pure spring water,
  the tears of an innocent earth
    before the cross and money
            and steel
  they would
   whisper her name and

 pray , these benedictions
   and the sound of her saintly'
           essence
       are almost all gone

  now her home
 has 30 weight motor oil
,beer cans
  hobo piss
     the jellied wings
of plastic bags
  and smoke
 
      she waits
and you try to make
       sense of this world
and the voices of the living
    are like the voices of
          the dead
  clogged with meaning
       numbed and
            piled
They say nothing to you

  there is no
    escape only a
        .....
  at the bottom of the water
    

we used to go outside

There is a point
in some conversations,
  a pause,
  they used to call
       "pregnant"
  I feel secure now, in naming
     it "empty"
i  n  s  t  e  a  d . . .
  

   Before I am convicted
       of being airy
  or going for a cheap
         laugh,
             hear me out.

              the pause that was
pregnant was heavy with meaning
        velvety, deep, ,solemn, gravid,
sloshing with the syrupy burden of it.

    a pair of strange ear rings
the look that is given between
  what should be strangers..
        It's the moment when a turn
will be taken, or before the door destroys
       the silence it
          was put there to keep.
A sharp breath after a kiss that shouldn't
             have happened,
a sharp breath, before the wall of
              tears...
 yeah, like that.

   What we have now, is the empty pause,
   desolate, untended, airless,
         so blank as to be
   an abstract quantum construct,
          the light blue and white
    of an unbounded mind
          unaware of itself.......

       a reference to a thing that
          is like a thing that the
        listener never heard of and
             does not even have
       the snap to know they should,
  a dull stupid stare, dead inside
          a soft silent nothing
 ignorant and unblinking..

           like the children that surround us
in this new dark age
  their heroes are famous for
 five minutes at a time,
       who DO nothing, but
 dance in ones and zeroes
        mimicking the empty
squeals and infantile screeds
      of their audiences,
 a monster that eats itself and
         then eats its own
                    dung..

yeah..like that.
   

O' Canada

She turns her brave
face against the cold
and up the perilous
     mountains of her stairs
shadow galleries of the fault lines of
      snow and dirty ice
 photographic
       in her vision

   Her glasses un-fogged
       sits in her tiny yellow kitchen
  watching firefly headlights
     in the grey fishbowl of
           her window

she contemplates the worth of
         even going out
              at all
her cat, indifferent, but not
          opposed to purring
    her favorite sweater has soup
            on the sleeve,
all point to staying, staying,staying

    of a good, fine , vintage
           she has no missing pieces,
 is completed

          of a true temper
 needs no filling in of spaces
          but still...

    the phone lights up
       her face blue and glows a bit
             The ones and zeroes
     are about to become a real person
       
            deep of voice she hopes, and please,
 no lying ways, and let him be
         not indifferent and not
               a whiner

like a true north, strong
           and free
              she doesn't make a fuss,
       pulls her boots on,
    sets out, because
         she can at least be
             polite.
 

Carovigno

Trickle sweet this
wine from a barrel
flow strong and thick
    as dust
our vintage with
   skins of good grapes
       dancing darkly in
 to the bottle you brought
         with you unwashed
  and all the better
   
      like the man standing on
            the stones beneath
       our violet Apuglia sky
           I know the heart of it

all the white napkins
  and icy crystal lit by
 candles and smug talk
       are thin
cover for the ugly rasping
    truth

the dirty wine of
   the village
          is the best wine there is
and her strong sour kiss
      is a mountain
 for my heart,

and i weep for the
         lack of it
and i dream of
        her dry, gentle hands
and i pity the man who
    has never stood among
       her struggling
trees,
     smelled her bread
          or wept from
    her salty breeze

The turning away

Squatting down in the
     ruins of houses, grit
 marked by dainty tracks
  of birds, beetles,
           the fetid rivers
        lapping at the edges
   of their sandals, this
       is their highest form
     of personal
             worth,
  this barbaric cesspool of a place,
      where empty shells of
            old dwellings are
         used as toilets by
   the lofty, enlightened, sanctified
          inhabitants.

   this chattering , stinking mass
        fucking the ground with their
             empty foreheads,
tapping their swirling bunghole rugs
         pretending pious
 acting rapist
           grasping,
             for the world that they only
        accuse of corruption, pausing
                   every hateful declaration
                                     long enough to suckle from
the people of the west who
                they call devils and demons,
                    cashing their checks and nose
 to the air, living freely in the
             elegant cities they have
                    defiled,
               who are they to judge...anyone?

     The next war should not be a war at all..
           next war is a turning away of
               all of us, from
 these turd apostles, leaving them
            throwing them
     to themselves
           all that we do
                is nothing,
                  no news
no food, no help
          let those who can
              stand up on their hind legs
                 and silence these unholy excrements
or watch their own children turn
      into ammunition
            piled,exhausted
 or living skeletons condemned
        by unreason
              to starve, to be
  disconnected forever to rape and kill
            each other in the
         ruined dark desert ,

    Every bridge broken,
               every attempt to come here
                    met with a firm unwavering hand
         to the face, if need be.
they can wage their holy war
        against themselves
             and if they starve, burn,
                      or fall ill
     of an easy plague
            which we refuse to cure
 so much the better,
                   so little the loss
                           so inevitable that the
           stupid and angry be mocked
                       and then forgotten