Between two open secrets, closing paths,
and all the water bridged from shore to shore,
the waterfall is cold, for taking baths,
so drown in shallow waters, wanting more.

The “silent member,” drenched in blood-red ink,
penned sonnets for the cause of Liberty.
The rights he did declare, they make me think
of wives and workers in captivity.

Redacted, to its most essential form,
the Gospel, did the prophet not forget?
Spinoza, William Blake, Voltaire, Rousseau,
are patrons to a purchase we’ll regret.

Mock on, mock on; you haven’t knocked me, yet.
…A sonnet in return, to pay the debt.

I bit the apple,
sweeter than white, refined cane,
sweeter than nature.

We all ate apples.
We experienced apples,
each one different.

We were different.
We experienced apples
spontaneously.

I traveled the world,
experiencing apples,
like Gandhi Lennon.

My friend grew apples.
He said, “You can grow apples,”
but, why are they free?

The second met, disarmed, me at her fore,
too turned to meet the buzzer in the dark,
(“… I need a line, a sink, and twice an oar…”)
turned ruddy, tinder keen to turn a spark.
Saint Elmo, masts will bend, and masts will glow,
twin oceans, each without each other’s boat.
The deck is stacked above, and stacked below,
and stacked between the first and second coat.
I deal in altars; others butt in “ifs.”
‘Twere wont, I’d harvest sage, I did not grow.
No change, immute, these nettles in the pith
are rarefied to holy err’ and, “No.”
These crowns, these purple hares and golden tiffs,
are jiffy, riffing neon on our spliffs.

In absence, passing hours, longing days,
in years I thought I might not live to see,
I verdured like a pickle mantis prays
and wondered what or when you meant to me.
A nightshade, giving leave in early spring
bears not a red or purple fleshy fruit,
but as my tongue will rot, and eggs will sing,
forbearance ripe by August may be moot,
but, passing seasons, toil at the roots,
what gives man right to dream of harvest picked
not “grown,” not sprouting leaves or forking shoots,
as if the god from which he takes is tricked?
I only knew your heart, your mind, your eyes
would see right through me, old, without surprise.

To the Cat God:

Perhaps, too many verses don’t remain
where they are cast, spelled, “Labor; Die; Renew.”
So, sing the chorus inverse; undo pain:
“…Aright, anew, unwritten twice, for you.”

She I Could Not Attain, nor to atone,
kept in an alabaster urn, (or flask,)
I do not think I know your flesh from bone,
nor imitation from your truest mask.

The winter’s almost over: plant a seed.
Spend trillions, if there’s magic in the bean,
and, if it doesn’t sprout, there’s no great need
to mourn it, in the time we have between.

It dies: no one recalls the point we popped;
It lives: no one recalls the point we stopped.

Love,
A Big Bang

For all the space betwixt the mouth and feet,
six paces, down and up the market stalls,
my heart is neither stopped, nor fully beat;
our pressure rises, but our volume falls.

Dear “cat,” balm to my ear, and Eye of Ra,
pretend a new bisulfate’s in the germ’
to treat the crown-of-thorns, by coup d’etat
of Cancer, Emperor of the Infirm.

Hear, oh, poor Israel—it’s even odds.
The balance rises, and the balance falls.
‘Tis no man’s fault, nor woman’s, child’s, or god’s,
not yours, nor mine, nor Adam’s, Eve’s, or Paul’s.

It’s not Muhammad’s, not by prophets, made;
It’s not Yeshua, casting half in shade.

Careening, burning in and turning out
an afterimage, fast by rods and cones
slipped past my nerves, to mold my muscles ’bout
geometries of heart attacks and bones.
I feel you where, or when, or why, or how,
but not before an altar, not ornate,
and, if I know the meaning of it, now,
I must be dead; I cannot contemplate.
The simplest truths attract me to your ear,
by flight, by night, a reel without a kite.
Great Cat, forbid the dogged one appear
alike in being dogged for’ a sight.
I ask, “Is this my reason to regret?”
Turn slowly, if you haven’t seen it yet.

I think I knew an easy way to be,
in moments light and green, upon your face.
The present was a gift, our futures free,
til, past avail, I drifted out to space.
But miles framed the fathoms of your depth:
fair wells, foul mouths, on open shafts to Hell;
and solitude made whole, your shoulders’ breadth,
in fields of view remote and tread unwell.
I used to know the look upon your face
would soon admit, as open as my eye,
your innocence—vanish without a trace,
but linger with me, as it said, “Goodbye.”
Don’t leave me, yet. Say, “Stop,” and I’ll refrain.
I promise, Earth: I’ll live to stop your pain.

For wont of what will not, will not—but may—
you are, by will; if not, then sleep to dream
a light, in flight, for song, carried away,
a tuned and strung euphonic cosmic beam.
What is the little wording of our means?
Should morning come, too late, when will we wake?
To cast aside the bed sheets—rend the seams—
rise with the sun as if the sun’s at stake.
For want of time, will not, will not—but will.
Without us, or within, tomorrow comes.
Perchance, askance, offbeat, but beating, still,
if Liberty can’t ring, Subversion hums.
What does a vow of marriage mean, to you?
I’m sure, alike, of what you always knew.

Serenity’s prayer,
far from what comes as it may,
rejects her silence.

“I cannot change Him!” she wails!
“Flowers will grow from my corpse!”

When one could escape,
even by pains, his love lost,
call it “suicide.”

Accepting humility
makes execution easy.

Unswallow “Happy” pills.
Spit your last epigram.
I will love you, no more.