There is no magic word or rabbit trick

to tempt, to coax, the cat back in the bag.

“What’s left to say to the old lunatic?”

you’d rightly joke. (I did induce the gag.)

“So here’s a flower; love it and get lost.”

“Your love is for a concept!” you could shout.

“…like God, or pi, or winter’s second frost.”

“Give Bast the poems; kindly leave me out.”

“You’ll hold your court of angels in the reeds—

accept my blessing, I see daemons, too—

but beings made of flesh have tastes and needs,”

you might not say, but I could think for you.

My love’s not for the memory of a kiss;

your conscience set a bar too high to miss.

The hardest thing to say to Her is “Hi,”

but, if you blink, She might not take offense.

With grace, She’ll wink. (She often gives the by.)

Don’t do it twice; She’ll leave you in suspense.

I take my bread and water in a cell,

and, when I feel the knell, I won’t presume

the meaning or the object of the bell.

But once, it tells me, “Bury;” once, “Exhume.”

It is some holy trick I cannot match

that you could have the innocence to reach

inside a tabernacle—break the catch—

and have the Body thank you for the breach.

I only heard the prophet talk about

true beauty; what’s within is what’s without.

The Mother is the first great mystery:

pervasive, warm, concealing life, she bounds

a universe without a history—

or so it thinks. She moves, and it astounds

a world unnamed, like God—like gravity.

I move, therefore I am; I think I am.

You move, therefore I am. You are; I’m me.

We’re extant, one, discrete… You are I am.

I cannot say if that is what I thought,

though thinking of it drove me ’round the bend.

We strained, and cursed, and pushed, and pulled, and fought.

How could I know or tolerate the end?

To my surprise, it was not death, but birth.

I would not give my Mother up for Earth.

I must relent. I must admit it’s strange—
exceeding strange—to give a pint of blood
as greeting card, for nothing in exchange,
and stop. Although you fear the crimson flood,
a pint is what you get, and nothing more.
So quaff it, since you’ll like it or you won’t.
You either take a draught and hit the floor,
and say you want it stronger, when you don’t,
or gag at the aroma of the hops
and sate instead on sugar and a wedge,
or pound it, dredge the last few tannic drops
indiff’rent, shrug, and say, “It kills the edge.”
My blood is not a holy sacrament.
It just diverts the otherwise hell-bent.

If you are unabashed to claim this verse,
then all its love and hate belong to you.
Some think it overlong; some find it terse.
Some understand, but most don’t have a clue
just why your rhyme and meter carry on,
when all the world’s an oyster to be shucked,
sincerity’s the foil to a come-on,
and “beauty” follows “beauty” to be fucked.
You have a verse, but do you have “success?”
The adolescent heart beats fast and bleeds,
and then, at twenty-nine, gives up excess.
It’s nature’s course. A poem, no one feeds.
You have a verse beyond their expectation.
Please take my word; you have my admiration.

Two words, unique in thirty turns on Earth
Round-housed me like a kick ten years delayed.
I died; I rose; I contemplated birth.
She ordered me to dance, and I obeyed.
She was my first reciprocal commission,
a poem for a poem, word for word,
a spirit for a form, the definition
of quid pro quo, with interest deferred,
but her words tipped the balance, and I reeled.
How could her offer shine but weigh like lead?
Her showroom was deceptively well heeled.
She was authentic, yet I cringed with dread.
What is the price of one, young, naive song?
The singer can’t stay innocent for long.

To the Cat God:

There’s one last sour drag left on this rollie,
and, though you wouldn’t hit it, it’s for you.
Tumescent lungs, I offer to you wholly,
but who could save the Devil from his due?
There’s one good finger, left out to decant.
It’s yours to save or sip or shoot it down,
an off’ring to the dead, a pitcher plant,
an ointment jar in which I’ll lastly drown.
I’d leave to you the remnant; claim your right.
My squinting eyes cannot discern the source,
but I can hear the roar, consumed by light.
I tremble and anticipate the force.
I’ll write a hundred coffin nails to drive.
Each one I burn reminds me we’re alive.

From a dead buck

There soon will come a point of no return

for this defective canister of nuts.

My options will be eat the loss or burn

the grocer’s house—and I don’t have the guts.

There’s nothing to convince me that the voice

that sings inside the nut jar is my own.

The songs make too much sense! I’ve made my choice.

If filberts cannot sing, I’ll be alone

til someone else decides to eat the things,

for, now, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep,

I cannot answer when the nut jar rings.

She’s trying now to call me, and I weep.

I would not recognize—I can’t pretend—

the voice that’d tremble at the other end.

Out past the heights where hopefuls can respire,

on some exalted cliff that all can see,

to which all teenage martyrdom aspires,

but no adult will look, “There ‘go-eth’ he…”

A seventeen year climb it’s been, and I

have yet to reach the point of no return,

your silence screams. Each footfall says, “Goodbye!”

Goodbye, each sacrificial doll I burn!

Farewell, my children—languish in the void.

I can’t annex the nearest earthly womb

to give you birth, and I am overjoyed

that you might never have to build my tomb.

Hold on a moment longer, child; be brave!

I will not raise my children in a grave!

What is this virgin sacrament you seek

to eat, to drink, to drown in? Is this “love”?

But “true” love, perfect, timeless, and unique…

She fits his empty center like a glove.

Though, no less hollow is an empty fuck.

Good job—for now she must admit your worth.

You conquered her. The ground shook. Lightning struck.

She even called you “Greatest on the Earth!”

My love is not a holy mystery

nor change cast in the street to see a trick.

Your fate fulfilled is not my destiny

nor is your lust a match to burn and flick.

We sit, with arms entwined. Our shadows grow.

You ask, “What do you mean?” I do not know.