“No, You Phoria!”

 

“Euphoria.”

&  for her, right back

“No, You phoria!”

Our joy rightly stacked

Pallets!   Muy high!

We’d ballet,  &  Bali Hi

We’d dip, over deep,  & sleep some

We’d awaken  our way, um,

We’d make our way, best we can

To our best Russian waitress and

Have our own hashbrowns   eggside

She’ll pour our coffee for our ride

homes

red sweater

There’s  this  Delores

At a fire, down the dunes

I can see this far

from up here

They like talking about her

By her name, while she’s there

Then, when she decides

To add another take to the fire

Her sound is sure

Though  her hair  is in her eyes

And on her red sweater

She’ not yet pure enough

to sense

I long for her  here

Forty  years  on

Radiance In A Dark Room

It’s a snug dark room.

When our voices need to pause,

The outside’s  breakers  keep good time.

To imagine our intimacy   in measures

Is far-fetched.  We’re free form

At last.  Our wretchedness is pushed

At  more distant fogs.  Senses locked

At  actual  joy.

In that snug dark room,

Our eyes  down  for the

Radiance  of our need,

The cadences  for our feeding.

Something Of Our Own

 

when we come home

There’s a mini bar,

&  a not so good book in the drawer,

&  it’s always a shitty windowview.

Yet  It’s  me & you.

We wear sarongs so right from the shower.

We have our oils, our creams,

&  all our powers,

Fun to unleash.

We’re one, at last.

.

We both brought flowers.

.

.

.

When we come home

There’s a mini bar,

But she’ll spill something of our own

Smokey & Irishy in a good glass.

We’re one, at last.

we talk

In a world when women and men

Are children w/games,

Playing hard  truth seeking

And harder  at hiding,

In a world where words barely matter,

Rarely more than chatter,

Her talk is straightforward tender

As after rain haiku.

.

Gee  no   gentle  rain.

Our muffled kisspers serve as

Counterpoint to gods’…

.

Lightning up this sacred joint

Talk.

“Kids, This one goes way out there to Dorrie & Lars”

“Everyone starts out   Pure,

Everyone starts out   Ridiculous.

Everyone starts out   Beautiful”

                                                                           –Rickie Lee Jones, from “Firewalker”

                                                        .

                                                         .

The boy came that night

to try, with all his might,

to learn, for godsakes,

to see what it takes to free

all the burn, all the ache

                         .

The boy came that night

in black  buttonfly  jeans,

He impressed  for  her

He pressed  against  her

The boy came that night

in black  buttonfly  jeans

before he would dare too far.

                              .

                              .

The girl waited for him,  for her prom,

Wanted him/ He was the way

She would need to wait.

He stuttered.  His timing was wrong.

They kissed hard in a car

Clutched tight

Watched that night for satellites

A cop had to stop them there

Before they could dare too far.

                               .

But tonight, They are too far

satellites

“No, You phoria”

“Euphoria”

& for her, right back

“No, You phoria”

Our joy was stacked,

Pallets!   Muy high

We’d ballet,  & Bali Hi

We’d dip, over deep,  & sleep some

We’d awaken  our way, um,

We’d make our way, best we can

To our best Russian waitress and

Have our own hashbrowns, eggside

She’ll pour our coffee for our ride

homes

Belmont Ave Wordgirl

She didn’t have to shift out of the shadows

To emanate.  Belmont Ave Wordgirl had a

Focussed beam  projected by

A heart & laugh  concocted by

A furtive stew within,

Furious with worked words.

Evenings leaning on a pen,

Serious with her worked words,then.

We were calm enough then

We sat splayed in a sun in a rose garden eden

That they rightly used us in the nightly news,

“Spring’s Here!” I bet her we told ’em

In that weather scroll.

I was not calm enough then.

(Yr silent prose never went so sure)

Opening yr front door;

A vision I want dear

Forever;  Man, Yr really  wearing a mans white shirt,

And a guitar, on a big chair with a white sheet draping too.

I regret  that i let

Our moment

Shut too quiet

That I don’t now want to see

Like that front door

Shut behind me.

————————————–

“You broke my heart… Carol”   

                                                -Rickie Lee Jones, From :Magazine

“Sorrow spoken here”       

                                                -Todd Rundgren, From “Who’s Sorry Now”

One Shame

Yr. really great to travel

                         across the state

To stay some and play some

Before  It’s trying time again

Then again away some.

 

 

You haven’t seen me unravel

                          from this state of

Exaltation!

Cards splayed on the table,

Elation!

Our “under the table” masturbation,

Cool coffee table conversation.

I’m a fool for being able to fashion

A scoldingly, scalding cool passion

I can let go.

 

I can let go of you

Each occasion

NORTHWEST TRILOGY

 

                      I.   IN  FLIGHT  MOVIE

I’d say Seattle’s a city that’ll likely

Set you so free that you’ll likely

Be reminded of the high flight where you might just

Find me,  plowing clouds way way above the bird play.

 

                       

                         

I see Seattle as a solution

Not too much a town to touch down to

Warm outstretched arms on a runway

To catch a wretched, falling runaway,

A getaway  on holiday.

 

 

                  II.     W A K E

“Guests must remain on the patio”

Insisted the sign in a winded sun.

I read it right there in my Adirondack chair

On a cliff so clearly steep.

I feel I might have fallen  deep

Narcoleptically Asleep again, Though surely

The luringly named

Pacific Ocean below

Drew me here, to it’s wake up here

This pace  maker  peace

could liven this

 

                           III

There’s this tree, I took three pictures there.

A tree creatively crooked

& pointing down most of the Oregon coastline.

At least three pictures.

It rather weathervaned the ocean edge

& pointed, as a staggeringly lovely hag

might with her stick. A crow

lights in her hair, & All of it

blown forward

down the edge.