Talk to me Rosalind, 'Lovely Rose'
Tell me what it is that makes you smile, that makes you cry?
Talk of your passion, what makes you put pen to page.
Talk of cornbread and little clocks and singing,
And what it is that makes you want to sing and cook,
And the secret hours that slipped away,
Unmeasured by the little clocks.

Do you ever begin to write and find
The opening through which the words are pouring
Is much too small, and you can't make the the pencil squeeze them onto The paper
Fast enough?
(I've only suffered that joyful pain a few times.)

Normality moves in a smooth wave like poured honey, spilt paint, flowing lava;
A long slow moan of pain of pleasure of life making itself known, till it hits the Interface.
Then: Change.

The edge the boundary the fence the door the cover the window the eye.
Where the rubber meets the road, where land meets sea.
Where the blue sky turns to black of outer space.

Where the ocean becomes air.
When water flows over fishes gill.
When comes Last Breath deprived of oxygen when Life becomes Death.

When the idea moves the pencil rubs the paper.

When two Stones touch, there is only the
tiniest
point of contact.
No yielding, no Coming-Together.
No Closeness. Only cold Hardness.

When two pieces of Cotton touch
they blend
combine,
and can quickly become One.
Warmth. Love. Unity.

In the basement of a ham radio guy
Late of this world.
Tons of techno-fantasy equipment line the shelves
And litter the floor.
Many things set up just so, many sat
Where they were dropped
When they arrived.
    from another dead man's basement?
Years of Christmas joys and must-have toys.

The sad wife looks on dazed
Unblinking, unknowing
Of just how much
Of her old friend is lying here.

So I'll cart off this booty
This sad largess.
Drag it back to my cave

You a flash of light upon the velvet darkness;
A tinkling bell against the never ending silence.

You the fiery loss of childhoods unfilled dreams;
The summer rain which feeds the lush and grassy fields of new ideas.

You the timeless tidal force upon the sea of my existence;
A promise not yet made but now fulfilled.

You the flood-tide of images and ideas that wash in
From the shores of ancient nebula's of unimagined beauty.

You the aching jazz-song floating through the night;
disappearing the moment it is heard.

Degrees of softness phrased in terms of darkness
Glide across the Christmas world
Wherein I save so many thoughts of you.
Each memory carrying a tiny promise
Wrapped so carefully in paper of the past,
Each memory fragile,
Wrapped and held together by a single strand of your hair.

A cold wind of puzzlement comes by;
I draw my coat and tip my head,
Then peering down a distant road I see
Old Loneliness fading,
Standing lost behind a gate created
From the letters of your name.
I feel your hand upon my face, my life,

I am a hunter.

Not of ducks
Nor geese nor birds
But more elusive:
Thoughts and words.
Not of deer nor bears nor boar:
That kind of thing I
Really do abhor!

I hunt the wily wild ideas
winging night and day
Through my imagination;
Strung then each to each so cleverly
To read and feel with bell-like resonation.

And even though my well aimed
Pencil-gun
Is very sharp and always has a point,
So many flap away into the setting sun.
Forever lost, a painful counterpoint.

Too many men
Don't know
Or maybe they forget:
You cannot
Just
Make love
To a woman's body.

You have to
Make
Her mind as well.

Sensuality pours
From fire-hydrant girls
Standing broken open
Beneath a chilly neon sun.

Flowing noisily
Past concrete ears,
Past vacant staring eyes
It rushes down a drain
Pouring out into a distant
Cesspool
To lie
Stagnant
In the shadow of a dollar.

Two shaking hands
Dip into this sadness,
Asking curves and softness.

Unable to feel anything anyway
He stumbles off
To drown
In all that surrounds him.

Yes I tried
So hard
To speak to you
And show you
All that I saw.

And you --
You laughed
Then called me
Insane,
But
Really I'm rain
Which trickles
And runs down
Your face made of
Glass.