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the chess game

the chess game, of moving all your words around

can entertain, but never satisfy:                               

you bait and switch, with relative pronouns;

the proximity of the demonstrative merely teases,

and by the tip of your tongue, participles dangle

your adjectives: just more interior decorating,

like a child at play, who dances two dolls together,

but never for one instant, forgets that they are dolls

if playing were not more fun than that,

who would ever want to play; if words were not more

than just the product of their differences,

who would bother to construct anything out of them?

if touching emotions were as easy

as touching two inanimate objects together,

while waiting for heaven to effectively deliver the lightning bolt,

that would shock them, into breath and living

then what hope can live in words, alone:

if they are not there first, inside your own being

if they are not your children, conceived under your own heart

birthed in placental tides of blood, and hopeful love

if their easing out of you, did not make you nearly scream,

with the pain of the separation, then perhaps 

they were only miscarriages, after all?

A Polite Tour of Insanity (recited to the sound of panting)

Insanity's so fascinating
As long as it stays far away
And doesn't come close enough
To ruin your life, which it has attempted
On a few occasions, so that now
Instead of gravitating toward it
I walk steadily in any other direction
That insanity is not itself moving
I feel that we have had a polite disagreement
And I would like it to stay polite.

The difficulty of this will not become apparent
Until you too have felt insanity
Breathing down your neck
Watching your every move
Because it can never approve
Of anything you do
The word 'Insanity' is not very descriptive
Of this fact, but it will have to do
Until they come up with a better term.
Whoops; time to start running again..

Nine One One

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight, 

It's serious: A writer of poems 

At such and such street, has a word 

Stuck in his throat. 

Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out. 

He can neither finish the poem or even 

Make a lick of sense right now. 

What to do? 

The medical experts confer over the two-way: 

I've seen this condition before, one says, wary, 

I think I would use the jaws of life. 

That takes too long, said another. 

I have a carpenters saw in my bag 

I keep on hand for just such occurrences. 

Though rare, it does happen. 

We will just remove the head, push the word 

Out of the way and reattach the head. 

Believe me it is much faster in the long run 

Otherwise it could progress on to 

Editors re-writes, poetry readings, 

Deadlines, and who wants all that? 

Poets really just want to write. 

The others are in agreement. 

Now they'll be able to get right to work 

Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death 

In crisis situations. 

In asylums, they employ lobotomies 

To the same result. 

For the rest of us, there are the interminable 

Religious sermons and services.

who opens the door

who opens the door,
and who is knocking;
and who shoulders the dry, heaving breast of winter,
when whoever fires the gun?

is it really true the season's aimless,
when the hot breath of summer has begun;
and who'll dry the tears of springtime
when the vacant memory grows more dumb?

and who remembers,
and who forgets;
and what of earth is worth remembering
when everything's peace is forever forfeit?

I have a tattoo of you in my heart

I have a tattoo of you in my heart-
no one else can see it,
but it's right there on the inside.
If I concentrate, I can almost feel it:
A peculiar raised rawness,
like a cattle brand might leave;
the nerves all burnt and exposed,
as if singed by a sadistic cigarette wielder.

Funny thing is, I don't remember signing up for a tattoo

Though I do recall a lot of pain, one night;

remember thinking, I wasn't going to make it

through till the sunrise;
doesn't the worst pain always come

in the blackness before dawn,

and I was surprised to find
I'd survived the worst of it.

But now that I have your sign inside of me,
the bar code of independence is void,

as if my soul had been sold;

and nobody ever comes around me now-

how useless can one human being become,

and still go on existing?

I think of it now as a kind of failed science experiment;

for even lab animals are painlessly destroyed,

when their usefulness has reached an end.

But human beings must suffer through

to the very end, of their religion's required martyrdom-

And you are so heartless, my faith of one.

In Aubergine Ochers

In aubergine ochers I painted your eyes,

And smiles that your smooth lips would wear in disguise.

Eclipsed by the dark of your eyes, are my dreams;

Your words floating round, that my own being sings.

In time I would learn all your body's warm contours,

Or could touch the whole length of your form, sans detours.

I know I must stay very far from your face,

Otherwise I'd devour you, with but one taste.

Let no tears ever fall, from you for me;

I could never withstand that tragedy;

Your pity would turn my world inside-out,

And all self control and discipline rout.

I can safely live here only at distance,

With all your compassion still just a pittance.

Don't lift your hand; don't touch my ice-

Unless you are willing to pay full price.