I do not know the cadence of your speech,

its timbre, or the things it has to say,

but, if you shout, perhaps the words will reach

above the din and past the earthly fray.

I think that I might hear you, out in space,

out far beyond the clouds, where breath is rare,

before we disappear, without a trace,

in telescopes turned opposite to stare.

I hear they plan to send a man to Mars.

I’ll race him there. I’m halfway to the moon.

Come meet me past the sun and ‘twixt the stars.

My trip is lightyears, but I’ll get there soon.

You say you are a child of the moon;

come out a little farther, and I’ll swoon.

I bend away from every ray of light,

and never will I catch one, once it’s passed.

There goes the past, and with it goes the sight.

I never saw a memory so fast.

Your image has a special gravity,

as does your sound and lightning in your head.

The light of woman draws depravity

as if an apple falling on her bed.

We know each other not, to be a verse.

I’ll tap a meter, if you make it rhyme.

Some of my sonnets border on perverse,

but, then, the others bore you half the time.

Your greeting is an early New Year gift.

The candy’s sweet, but moon distilled is swift.

I know I know not any either, or,

at second glance, I cannot know the first.

So come not past my end, neither before.

How can our hymns of praise sound unrehearsed?

I don’t know which ends up in outer space,

which gets me down, will ever fall on you.

The Heavens know a guiltless guilty face,

but what the Hell am I supposed to do?

I wrote a girl a sonnet once, for free,

and left her feeling poorer for the gift.

She never gave a poem back to me.

I read it once; I think she caught my drift.

It wasn’t for her, neither was it mine,

an end fulfilled, no purpose or design.

A thousand years, and still I’ll never learn
to face the poker table face detached.
Are you aware? The cards you burn to turn
have cosmic consequence, like threads attached.
The dice have weights. The coins will fall one way,
though not for lack of truly random chance.
Fortuna, give me half a chance to say,
“I have no grace, but to your tune I’ll dance.”
That’s why I have no balls for reindeer games,
no sack for toys, no patience for your gift.
Present it now, or kindly check your claims.
Cash in your hand, or fold and call a lift.
I don’t care if you’re God or Santa Claus,
so ante up, and give the Devil pause.

We’ve lodged inside an inn without an out.

The windowpanes and doors are painted on.

The porter smiles, although I tend to doubt

his role is truly taxed or put-upon.

I ask him, “May I leave?” He laughs and nods:

“The exit’s sealed for your security.

I can oblige and leave you to your odds;

you’re welcome to your immaturity.”

I thought we might bust out the fire door

and let the sirens say our long goodbyes.

The cries of mutts and brats would underscore

our hosts’ midnight arousal by surprise.

They made for us a bed and put a mint.

They set a checkout time and gave no hint.

This form, I know its angles and its curves;

I know its heft and how it bends the light;

I know the function ev’ry joining serves,

yet, to my hand, the catch is gripping tight.

My hand is tightly gripping to the catch.

I won’t open it up or let it go.

There’s nothing worth it in the chest to snatch.

A vacuum sucks; the things to fill it blow.

(Is meaning lost? Find “thee” a prostitute.

She knows the straighest fare and how it leans.)

The edges of its letters are acute

psychosis, meaning nothing that it means.

There is a catch, without a hinge or lid.

To break it was to find out what it hid.

I dive for oysters nightly, hard to reach.
I’ve had a taste, but they’ve no taste for me.
Their points of irritation line my beach,
so take this pearl, and hurl it in the sea.
All pearls, no oysters–every one a pearl–
their insides sandy, swollen, bitter meat.
I’ve jewels of every color for a girl,
but not a tender bit at all to eat.
Perhaps, I’ll string a rosary or two
and pray either direction for release
from Midas’ curse, before it claims you, too,
or trade the lot for two mussels apiece.
I guess I might begin an art exchange,
although, my gifts have virtue to derange.

When I was green and just a meter high,
you tended to my care with gentle hands.
From wanting juice, to not wanting to die,
I had concerns, and you had names of bands.
I do not think I can begin to thank
some Mother in our short forgotten past
who reared us all, confused enough to spank,
but kind enough to put our difference last.
(Thank mothers’ mothers’ mothers for your touch.)
All we’ve once touched becomes the Earth again,
and She, a little girl, whose fingers clutch
at Mommy, hides Her face and counts to ten.
The memory precedes the magic show.
I love. You taught me this, of all I know.

You told me once, my poems made me seem
more human than my fiction will admit.
Admit to me, to sleep perchance to dream
is noble in the mind as to submit.
Great stolid bull, unbending rooted rock,
indomitable king upon the board,
your words and mine alike are writ’ in chalk.
The hammer falls; the taunt conceals a sword.
God rolled your dice. That I could cast His down–
a money-changer tossed into the street–
I’d give my head, to break His pyrite crown
and mend your pieces shattered at my feet.
I’d give to you my head–its holes, its horns.
I’d wear your holy, bloody crown of thorns.

“Perhaps. Why not?” A word is all it took

to jostle into motion all that is

and what might be. “Who cares?” By hook or crook,

the first and final words are always his.

Perhaps, you’re sick of missives spelled “Submit.”

Perhaps, the charm is shattered like a glass

pressed to your lips, so cloying you could spit,

refused, abused, and cast into the grass.

I think the Bang that birthed us all just broke

under the stress of what you must endure.

It feels the punch and understands the joke,

but, why it should be funny, She’s unsure.

These microverse aggressions make no sense.

Mankind is bruised at womankind’s expense.