Pillow Thought

a moment—
I had one

the walls of present-
future-past melted
into the aging skin
that drapes my skull

the thing I thought oblivion
became the everlasting and
all was moisture and body-heat—
love, compressed into temperature

the discordant many-voice these
ears have known, familiar-drifted
like dinghies in a passing mist—
rudderless creations, forever bobbing

strained through a lead crystal
colander, dripping out the holes,
emerging as streams of light-catching
prisms, projecting in full-spectrum color

life seemed a speck
as I fell into a white
space, without dimension
engulfed in dust-devil
energy ribbons—kinesis

five senses, my departing lovers
smiling, hand-combing tousled hair
under the discovery of dawn, and I hear
the thump of their feet down the stairs

and the courteous shutting of the
                                                               front door

they are callers with tangled
string—each afloat like kites
given to ficklest winds, knotted
up in high, dead branches

all experience—taste
smell, thought, touch
the muddled haze of after-sex
and my always nagging wanderlust



a knowing without words
and a feeling lacking expression, a
comforting blankness of All that
I would never name 'love'

neither was it a kind of peace—
indeed, no word has been or
yet will be invented to be
spoken by tender lips of any shade

I am before my
birth, and beyond
my death, and I
feel it all collide into


I think it's called


The Only

I would gladly spell out
my days as the words
of a one-page poem,
gusting with the flit of
just-opened and curious eyes,
that drink in draughts
the sight of fresh
life, slick with
the still-wet coat of
amniotic newness—
one that diffuses the
scent of Infancy and
of Beginning—
nestled among the
wise and gnarled
roots of Old Life

I would ripple with the
crisp sound of crinkling,
windborne paper,
an orphaned sheet
that rides the back of
Virile Spring’s balmy breath.

I would this, rather
than spend forty chapters
locked in cold—
desolate, immobile, and rote—
suppressed between the
hardbound lead cover of
an immutable and
Icy Expanse:
buried to the jawline
under the Forever Cloak
of a shiftless snowfield.


Never will I be
bolted to the slab
of a Winter Tomb,
even if the breadth
of my life
stretch ongoing as
the Longest Day.

If it is Fate that
the Echo of Me
resound through the
brevity of a but a
single, bright and
beautiful season,
then let it be
the season of Birth
and Rebirth—the
Season of Creation.


A day, a dream

On a distant yellow-cast day—
bathed in the soft-colored glow
that defines both joy and ease—
when the sky stretches taut,
so it’s like looking up
from the inside, at the arcing blue glass
of a hand-blown bulb.

On that day—and that day will come—
this mad gob of suffering and confusion
will be separate from us by leagues,
placed far over even those hunchbacked hills
that grow near the horizon.
Measured by the tape of time,
the now will be forever ago.

On that day, I will love you.
I will love you as I do now,
and always have.
I will love you in that moment,
as in all moments.

Be there with me,
on that day?

Strands of Self

Threads of energy weave like
nerve fibers in an expanse of cloth.
They glow, soft white in a rhythm,
pulsing to the ebb and flow
of these many human souls.
Dim and bright, then dim again.
Luminous as a live and pumping heart,
that hums with blood and life,
vibrating in vivid colors
that change with each intended meaning
sent from nerve to nerve—
first red, then blue, yellow, green, orange.
These are the hues that tether,
binding our spirits to the whole
of an altogether greater unknown.
I feel what you feel—
see what flows into your eyes and,
transient, out your mind.
Likewise, you for me.
Love is all, and I am full—
you know—you feel:
Love is all.

The Little Bridge

Once, I pressed a hand to my chest,
“This is all that matters.”

I pressed that hand to my chest,
against a cornflower blue button-down;
the one that left two threads behind—
two strands of me, I shed—
in the moment that never stopped being.

The rippling green water under the bridge still drifts in lazy currents,
the cicadas sing from their hidden perches in the tall hot weeds,
and that muskrat chases a quarry it will never catch.

I am there, in that bubble of space and time that is
without start or finish, beginning or end.

You said we never wanted it to end.
And it didn’t.
Like my love for you, it will always be.