More Poems!

So much relies
on your feet being cold
so I can warm them again.

So much relies
on your eyes being closed
so I may kiss them back to life.

So much relies
on your smile being full
so I may smile too.

So much relies
on your being earnest
and for so long, I was.




As Of Late Or A Plea To My Fathers:


As of late,
I've been seeing the world,
at angles.

A subdued hand twists the corner,
the morals are down,
and slantism, is on the rise.

The lights are tainted with hope,
while the murk works,
on the eyes and ears,
of a generation, apart.

As of late,
I've been seeing the world,
at angles.

Fantastic, riffs roar,
while I walk further,
than I ever did moving.

Ottoman seated banquets
pour satisfied thoughts
down the crooked nooks
of a deserted mind.

As of late,
I've been seeing the world,
at angles.

And on the fulcrum of temptation,
I stand leaning, heavy,
toward a person I'm not entirely am.

Straighten me father of rhetorical refuse!
Teach how to Ginsberg the gates
of my limitations,
remembering to whit my lips.

Knowing a center cannot hold,
show me how to make it hold,
till my own words may rise, and rise, and rise.



(On goings & comings):

Oh ancient father
of drugged ampersandic inspiration!
How I miss thee;

You didn't bother
with old tantamount conglomerations,
(they cried 'Mercy!').



What thoughts I have of you tonight, Dylan Thomas:


What thoughts I have of you tonight, Dylan Thomas.
I follow you to the neon lit place,
of the charmingly drowned,
and watch you make a character,
of yourself.

How much did you know after waking,
chilled by guilt
for the thirty first time,
only to go back again,
and make it your thirty-second?

How much did you know of the bottle?
Enough to understand that
death shall have no dominion,
and every time you apologized,
may man be your metaphor?

I follow you tonight, Dylan Thomas,
through the bars of woman,
hoping to find the answer,
and the question,

to why am I only alive in arms,
and what the drink has yet,
to teach me about metaphors,
and men.


How a Man Courts a Toliet:

I beseech your worships name,
so we may be better acquaintances
Good sire;
for it appears your former masters fame
has left you blackened as a fire.

I know your patience well, for so many
a lackadaisical wander hath visited a gentlemen
of your house;
so let us sit and talk for a plenty
for quite the dream I do espouse.



Speaking, Archaically:

I am your Columbus,
and to me forever,
shall bit of you belong,
despite what future generations
call you home.

For I tested your earth,
and called it good,
plowed your fields,
and proved it willing.

Although you've had enough of me,
to me forever will a bit you belong.




To Susie Asado:

Sweet tea. Sweet sweet sweet tea.
Spring is everything inside me
that dreams for death to die
and wishes to follow flying fribees
fathoms further.





To a Dylan Thomas Paper I Should Have Failed:

How do I turn a great man,
into a little paper?

How do I do I let you go,
when I never want to let you go?

How do I dress properly,
when it's 27 degrees at dawn,
and 48 degrees at lunch?

How do I die with grace,
not wishing for all the things,
I wasn't able to achieve?