This is a fuck; the gods can have it back.

I blew my share—and off were blown her shoes.

I’m done with this, and these, and that girl’s rack.

You sin, you win; you take it back—you lose.

You never win or lose or tie alone.

You lose, and all existence hears the news,

from Hackensack to way out past Bayonne.

You lose some screws and flood the holes with booze.

How tiny, green, and scummy is my world?

My perfect insignificance winks out.

The brick flew straight; the postal metal curled.

The keeper heard within and turned without.

She said, “I’d give you credit, but you missed.”

I prayed for one more fuck, and then we kissed.

This is a cat-call wrapped around a brick,

and yours is not the first, nor is the last.

The thought it might connect… (Stand back—I’m sick.)

You spoke one word; I never heard the blast.

Don’t think my words won’t drip for her—for her—

a condom wrapper blowing in the wind.

I gave them all my tongue! Their faces blur!

Though, not a word in love would I rescind!

They’ll likely never think of it again,

won’t press the rose in yellow pages, blank,

will not appear by magic, (count to ten,)

won’t hate me, overlong. I give them thanks.

One more, two more… I meter out my love.

I’ve written sixty sonnets, none above!

My mind is like a haunted hostel room,

re-bunked after the murder of its hosts

with beds as hard as slabs set in a tomb

where lie the gods of gaps and holy ghosts.

Although I lock the doors, I draw the shades.

Like odors, they waft in and out of cracks.

A dank religiosity pervades

the halls, that cannot be dispelled by facts.

“If I could face the truth, they’d go away,”

I tell myself, to have someone to blame.

My demon taps my writing hand to say,

“Reality and truth are not the same.”

Does that have meaning? Is it in my head?

Were those words truer, which she had not said?

Why do you think, ten thousand miles away,

the sun will cast a diff’rent colored light

upon your birth, if all you see is gray?

Well, leave behind your old eyes, and it might.

It isn’t that the stars are all the same

from ev’ry mountaintop. The deserts’ sands

are not all just as sweet, nor is there shame

in tasting them, to sift them with your hands,

but rake the lot of sand upon the Earth

to find that single grain you miss alone,

in silence, late at night, that gives you worth—

you could have seen its glint and never known.

Run to the playground. Swing, and find it there.

Adventure in the sandbox, if you dare.

Anonymous and clandestine as thieves

conveniently allied with common aim,

well-poised to strike and lurking in the eaves,

I saw a golden prize, and you the same.

The tension slid in better than a key.

You set the pick; I fumbled with the lock.

I thought, less than a minute, or you’d flee,

but you stood fast, as slowly turned the clock.

The seconds dragged, and I prayed to a cat

to grant a burglar nine tries and a pause.

You heard my invocation—that was that.

I flinched, but, coy, you said there was no cause.

You laughed and said, “I know a magic trick.”

In haste, I raked the lock and heard it click.

It’s not as if a three-armed scarlet switch

is thrown at night, and all the stars explode

or flash like angry light-bugs in the pitch

to telegraph reversed electric code.

You set your letters carefully in type,

but, to my eyes, the signs fall out of place.

Euphoria turns slowly overripe.

I am still here, but not inside my space.

The walls do not grow ears, or eyes, or speak.

They grow no ears to eyes. I feel them hear.

I do not hear a voice. I know they shriek.

I know they have no eyes. I feel them leer.

I never hear a voice that does not speak.

My heel offends the gods; the floorboards creak.

I’d like to say, “I don’t believe in ghosts,”

and once, for all, forget the bogeyman,

or else, I might request the Host of Hosts

deliver me from Jesus in a can.

Our name is “Legion,” (“Hey, that’s my name, too!”)

or “Daniel,” if a prophet you’ll believe

despite the proof we never give to you,

or is it past your power to perceive?

There’s no one, at a frayed end of a rope,

in ignorance, “God’s” voice cannot deceive.

You think “He” means you well—abandon hope.

The infinite looks on “Him,” not aggrieved.

Love looks on sin, and saves without concern,

without condition, while “He” picks which burn.

This babbling stream of glitter, quips, and cats

assaults me like a furry, stripping clown.

I trip between the zoetropic slats.

Your Highness–going up or coming down?

What is this transitory half-dimension

like Escher in a mirror bubble brain,

a hive that plummets freely to ascension

inside a quantum, cosmic, perfect grain?

“Off with their heads!” bomb-blasts the King of Trumps.

“Off with their foreskins!” roars the One True God

of One Too Many Faiths, counting your humps,

like God could care to spoil some ape’s rod.

Are we on Earth? In Hell? No–better yet!

We’re jerking on the fucking internet.

I cork my leaden verse in crystal glass,

set it adrift, to see if it will sink,

litter the sea with anchors cast en masse,

ink bottles, all around, but none to drink.

My words displace a spoon and weigh a log.

Before I’d cut the ballast, I would drown.

My captain, with his high-proof jug of grog,

is gonna ride the Leaky Teaky down.

I love my ship! I love its threadbare sail!

I know its busted rudder and its helm!

I love its hull! For all the bilge I bail,

my vessel, you have yet to overwhelm.

It was my uncle’s ship, his father’s ‘fore.

You’ll kiss its aft, and stroke its single oar.

The first snow put a cover on your tracks,

and, where I go from here, I do not know.

For days, I judged the gap by parallax,

proceeding straight as you went to and fro,

and yet, the distance greatened, to my shock.

You crossed the south horizon, and I knew

your wing was beating to be with its flock.

The wind had pushed you back, and so you flew.

I’ve often seen the little birds take wing

in winter, same direction, flap away

to greener climes, careening as they sing,

“Depart!” they tell this cobalt, icy jay.

Each fall I watch them leave, each spring return.

The blue jay nests; the robin red-breast yearns.