cinnamon or taffy

the boardwalk summer:
low tide and high feeling,

a helpful bit of sun
along the way,

and music, like a
soul-possession engine --

a tastes-like-cinnamon-
or-taffy day

a kiss behind the pier:
a running stallion,

a dancing mare
with yellow tangled hair,

a range of wooden slats
for many horses,

a galloping within
the blare and glare

a multicolored night,
a mini-vegas:

a taste, another taste,
a plunging in,

a space for two,
a tentative exploring --

a map of worlds,
that's written on the skin

a cinnamon or taffy taste,
a blending,

a play-it-off amid
the swirling crowd,

a hopeful kind of glance,
a sudden sorrow,

a private look
that's somehow said out loud

a day a night a gain a loss:
a growing

that no one notices,
and everyone --

a summer on
the boardwalk of tomorrow,

a halting start
that stops

but isn't


Follow the Clues…

Within, you’ll find…

Within, you’ll find a magic sum,
Take every number there but one;
It’s left of what can’t be in space,
About the bench, and about face

To hector is impiety,
So manage with sobriety:
The love you find can be withal
A sign of high society

Don’t wait to hear the morning news:
I’ve given you this set of clues,
So where the clever dare to dig,
You’ll find the royal road you’ll choose …

The Angry Man

… has most of everything.

The Angry Man has most of everything.
But that is not enough, he still wants more:
For power is concupiscence with him.
Those many bodies splayed out on the floor

Are just so many stepped on, on his way;
“Be walked on, or be fed upon, your choice –”
A mill for grinding enemies to dust,
The screams behind the stage-augmented voice

Forgotten men are not The Angry Man,
But look to him, as though he’s meant to lead;
Like dust or dye that gets in everything,
The words of dirt that cover up the deed

The hangman hasn’t worked for many years,
But there’s no horror hidden in our past
That doesn’t sleep to wake another day –
That doesn’t hunger to leave off its fast —

The viewing screen distorts, the lights are fake,
The stage, or wrestling ring, it’s all the same —
The Angry Man has most of everything,
But if he gets turned loose,
Who’s now
To blame?

An Unopened Thankyou

Faces, voices …

Piling up the driftwood, I can see
The phases of our lives that were like tides:
That came and went, with regularity,
Till we no longer noticed that they changed.

For faces we once saw have moved beyond,
And voices heeded then – now others’ guides;
It isn’t that we were not true, or fond –
Just how far down the shore we each have ranged.

I turn to thank you, but you are not there.
I write down now, what you will never read:
Like driftwood, piled up, exposed and bare —
I’m cut off, but I’ve no life left
To bleed

love is only what love is

the rain touches her, and she, me –

love is only what love is

outside the realm of
resolute indifference,
she walks among the
clouds and stars and toast

but tells me not
to worry over details,
for it’s her essence that
she misses most

of rainy days and
stormy nights, says she,
there’s little left of
what was Givenchy

but round up what you’ve got,
and bring your graphs,
for heaven knows that i
could use the laughs