The page is filled, the inky well runs deep,

the cup of vision overflows for want

of dreams to wrest the ghost from deathly sleep,

to animate the carcass–rigid, gaunt–

from eons passed in stillness, stiff and dry,

reposing on a vain and arid mound

and waiting for a reason for to cry,

to shake and make a mournful, rasping sound.

The fuel to be my pyre wants the same,

a spark to give my funeral a start,

a burning bit, an ember, to inflame

this tinderbox that is the living heart.

Each day I live, I die; no tear is shed.

I write my eulogies to wake the dead.

I gush; my river flows from heart to throat.

My whine is young and sweet to one who sips

but bitter blood to one who drinks to bloat.

I placed a single drop upon your lips.

You wanted me to overbrim your cup–

but you would not. You know not what I gave.

You want a carnal tongue to fill you up.

I want a word of love or two to save.

You say you don’t recall the night’s exchange,

but how could it be diff’rent in the morn

unless my hope for love was passing strange

or your affections passed their hour born?

For one night, drink can black out what we do.

It cannot blot the years I’ve cared for you.

As foolish and uncalled for as it is,

I wrote this verse with you and me in mind.

So run away with me; get in the car.

My note of explanation has been signed.

There’s kismet, but if you have bigger plans

I’ll drop the world and follow after you.

Or we’ll fly south and work on killer tans–

whatever we decide we want to do.

I’m stupid, ’cause you’re not even in love.

We kissed–so what? You’d rather not recall.

The both of us could use a loving shove,

a body in the pit to break our fall.

You’ll find the guy who’s perfect just for you,

and him… I hope he’ll write you sonnets, too.

Although I find the climax rather droll,

’tis not a farce to love in honest zeal.

A breath of passion gives an act its soul.

The props are faux, but are the players real?

She wears a paper blossom in her hair.

He threatens off the monsters with a sword

of wood–fights dragons–for the maiden fair.

The plot is old, but few are ever bored.

He slays the beasts and wins her gentle hand,

(the drums and trumpets sound an underscore)

and fairness reigns throughout the verdured land.

I doubt that most would ever ask for more.

The Bard would give us pause. He’d rather show

the tale of Juliet and Romeo.

I would have you laugh at this poem.

Human nature is a limerick.

It rhymes lyrically.

It anticipates a punch.

The last line is a real killer.

“There once was a woman who ducked it…”

–But three lines later, she fucked it.

There’s a pun in the middle, that’s kind of a riddle,

‘Til the wringer lets go of her tit.

“Perhaps, you were trying to suck it!”

…Is the thing you might say, so we all feel okay

When the butt of the joke kicks the bucket.

(“I think that she came from Nantucket.”)

She was fragile at core, and you called her a “whore”

‘cause she’d deep-throat your bill if you’d tuck it.

“…In her slippery crack with her thong?”

“…In the same hole that swallowed my dong?”

Then to cover our shame, we’ll throw dirt on her name,

Laugh about it, then all hit the bong.

“You and her can both suck on my schlong.”

And she did, ’til the joke went all wrong;

You called her a “derp” ’cause she gave you the herp’

For that bill and the price of a song.

“…But there’s no way she actually did it.”

…Felt ashamed enough to admit it?

‘Twasn’t something she chose, so she just wiped her nose,

Sucked the shaft of a gun, and then blew it.

“…But there’s no way that she even knew it!”

“…Unless, you’re the one who would do it.”

…Tell her just what you said? Man, it’s all in your head,

But you called her a “slut,” and she knew it.

She knew it.

She was vulnerable,

But she wouldn’t suffer me saying that.

She didn’t need my pity,

But she would have loved it if you’d said a kind word for her instead.

I would have you laugh at this poem,

Because human nature is to exaggerate,

To twist unrelated events

Into unfunny polemics

Bearing no relation to the joke that spawned them.

Everything’s a joke.

The people who write our laws are a joke.

People who love cats too much are a joke.

This poem is a joke.

Human nature is a limerick.

It rhymes lyrically.

It anticipates a punch.

It’s so scared of a punch

That it targets the weakest person in the world

With a cruel joke

To feel better about itself

Consistently

When it knows that it’s in a mean spirit,

When it would appreciate a kind word for itself

When it becomes the butt of the joke.

“There once was a man who blew smoke,

made the weakest among us wear yolk,

‘Til he fought for a friend, ran afoul of the trend…”

And the last line is a real killer.

Because one lives one life

it might lead one to think

that fate’s a straight and narrow fare

that one walks blinded, gagged, and bound

for one inevitable end

obscured by only wanton lack

of a complete and perfect map

behind the lids of one’s closed eyes.

Open them.

From where you set your step

is whence the path proceeds,

but the ways of fate are numbered

like the digits of a hand.

God’s fist is loosed to roll the die,

to pluck the single shining ray

reflecting on a far-off place

to light upon an open eye.

What do you see?

A song sang in a distant hall

is reaching its crescendo–

listen.

The pitch pervades the rolling air

cascading, growing ever fainter,

’til the quietest emphatic whisper

touches on a listening ear

and sounds a single roving note.

What do you hear?

A chunk of frigid rock and ice,

the amnion of cosmic birth,

hurtles through the upper air,

burns to a trifling, meager speck,

and falls upon a far-flung sphere;

put a bare foot to the ground.

The gentlest wave

emanates on impact,

permeates the earth,

bounces off its iron core,

echoes to the surface,

passes through your sole,

travels to your chest,

and drowns

in the beat of your heart.

What do you feel?

The smallest bit of being mocks at destiny.

The quantum has no determined course.

The atom is free.

Fate’s foil

is in the dim,

the faint,

the gentlest palpitation,

the microscopic specks of dust

only having consequence

in a moment when all else is stilled.

Blot out the sun.

Silence the drone.

Halt the turning of the earth.

What do you want to do?

Words.

Another word.

I’m sure you’re all so sick of words.

Fair Narcissus lays dying.

Send a kind word to his mother.

The pope has fallen ill.

Say a word of blessing in your prayers.

When the bomb drops,

I will throw words at it.

I will strike it with my magic wand.

I will look for answers in a deck of cards.

I will curse your name.

Failing a miracle,

I will pour words on the ashes,

and I will say,

“I would have rather said ‘accept,'”

“I would have rather said ‘forgive,'”

“I would have rather said, truly, ‘love.'”

I would have rather said something of beauty.

I would drink of you to intoxication.

I would be the stiff sip in your glass.

I would shield you in even my vitrification.

I would love you when drunkenness passed.

I would stand between you and the venomous dart.

I would throttle the asp that attacked by the heart.

I drink poison for you. On bitters I sup.

Just don’t look away when I spit them back up:

Arsenic, cyanide, formalin aldehyde—

With my sweet syrup lilting like medicine’s cloy—

Hyaluronidase, phosphodiesterase

Is the stuff of this cancerous, timorous boy.

I ate out your tumor; you stood my harangue.

We swallowed the tonic. We danced and we sang!

The worst poison of all is what’s stored in my fangs,

But a friend in great joy is a friend worth great pangs.

Tempestuous Fortuna,

Be gentle with me.

I yield to the gusts of your bellows; buffet me not too hard.

I bend to the strength of your touch; do not break me.

I commit my vessel to the throes of your ocean; see me home.

Even-handed Fortuna,

I entrust myself into your keeping.

Give to me and take from me in turn.

Give me a chance, that I may have a hand in my destiny.

Take from me all sense of entitlement.

Sweet Fortuna,

Be my advocate to the Fates.

Pray that their hands be supple with my thread.

They know me for what I am.

You know me for what I might be.

To the Cat God:

Perhaps here, in a linen city beside a river of indigo

Set in sugary sands that cloy like the touch of velvet,

Under wisps of numen woven ’round a bone button moon,

Wearing your banner, the color of crocus,

I shall find another no less than you in stature,

One just as kindly, to lead astray.

From a lab rat.