by Poetry

you wonder what fates have brought us here      I can see it in your eyes
& I strangle laughter in my throat      knowing fate is a strange bed
& one in which I have never dared to sleep      I sleep too calmly now to be tortured by fate
chance makes the pillows & the bedclothes      & luck dares to admire your silhouette

had I been well, or even wealthy      would my body have settled here
I wonder; would my lips still dare to part      or come to breathe some sad excuse
holding only the clutter of pigeons      when I longed to weep a sparrow’s cry

had I the talent, the credit score      would we still be here in this wild hotel
with our legs entwined & our flesh burning      from each other’s Tartarus
would you have come to settle      upon the crook of my arm
if your other lovers traced      lovely fingers over your heart

instead of simply grazing      the surface of your breasts in desperation
& could overcome their wild passions      for the logic & mathematics of poetry
or the campaign of ecstasy I execute      as Thanatos delivering your body
to chains of his own design

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Finding Life Prosaic

fingers bleeding prosaic, money
to clog arteries and veins,
to quell the rise and flow of


such beauty;
it yearned to be a poem –
it wanted to travel with me,
& in me,
& witness for itself,
its own beauties

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson, There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on...


Do your computers come to life when you sleep? Do the spectres of the dead inhabit the space between the wires; are souls just electricity – crackling along the veins and spinning around the bones? Do they flicker through the internet, in silent servers a world away;...