monday poetry thang

Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

This poem was dropped from Everyday Angels and Other Near Death Experiences.

I will mail a copy of the book to the first person who can tell me what famous affair had I just learned about (had just been confessed to the public) when I wrote this poem.

August in America

were you lonely
was the music crisp
was her skin soft and welcoming
curves of an angel             falling like a friend
did you close your eyes
slow down a
moment
no where to go             no sin
no voices          no death

did you hold her in that end of time
forgetting          forgotten           and full

is there space for tantra in the new millennium
is dancing      far away as birth

is your face feeling old              do you look there often
gaze at the mirror in stranger
your skin             notice something there
a mark not there before
and it’s not going away

did you want to be good
did you miss you mother
did you crawl into her               go away and come back
with more than you left              becoming less
turning in on itself
leaving a hole to gaze into
thinking of
how much less time
there is to love

Ride the TRAIN.

Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here.

left out of Her Red Book

On the Day of Silhouettes

Out the train window she sees cut-outs
mountains gulls
Man in rowboat fishing water like
something one can touch     but not hold
defiantly
on the still lake she hears
the word “moon”     from a child’s lips
and there it is
she practices looking w/out
naming now that love has surprised her
once again
she goes to church and sings
grateful for the roundness
of the choir

she picks this future
a calm fortress against the long hours of drive
ambition
the release tastes like a careless trip
honey

sunsets always remind her of sunsets
they replace each other that way
like the speed of conversation
between black cut-outs
kisses on the neck

preoccupied with the fragile
blood vein and the question of what is real
she stands guard beyond expectation
a kind of cross-check
like a night-light
like a raincoat

ride the train. it will vibrate your bum.