Rotcod Zzaj

You can tell the habits of men who never listen

They close all the doors in the faces

Of what you might have had to say

This is no exaggeration

They smell of silence

And neglect

Habits hermit shell them

Eggs globe hard boiled

Between thumb and pointer

Eggs globe what will

Never crack out from within

To out hibernate those habits

We formless form no exalted exit

For no exalted exile

Here for the duration

We work with what we have

Tools traded for instruments

Guitars for songs

his room a clot

of ice, color-

less as scar

tissue where

something was

cut away. "Do

you know how

much I love

having you in

class?" dissolves

with his grin

at each new color

of Rachel's lips.

"Ballet isn't

life." But when

the government

said no teaching,

he started getting

paler. They took

Medicaid away,

Anyway. "Don't get

To the next position

Too soon and just

Hang out there,

"he said as he

rushed and

froze to

his last

I painted a picture once

Of ships, nude women and semen.

A very seductive painting.

So I had to paint it blind

because my virgin eyes

couldn't bear to see the lust

it portrayed.

Even though my imagination told

what there was to see.

Michaelangelo would be ashamed.

So would Raphael,

Donatello,

Oh, and most likely, Leonardo.

Rain has subsided

Storm clouds suddenly diminish from view

Sun begins to take over

What was once a gloom filled misery of discontent

Now a joyous

celebration of peace throughout the land

nature springs into place according

to plan

sky becomes a deeper shade of blue

flowers bloom

leaves decorate branches once again

in accordance to all of this

my love for her is enhanced

erasing all the depression and anxiety

filling what was once my internal hollowness.

The people and their crazy ways

Look at me in my staid phase.

Hob nob-nobbin' 'mong the weirder crew,

Looks me for normalcy in this strange brew.

Straight straights in clean pants,

Wonders me why we choose these ways.

Doing crazy time in stuffed boxes,

Swears me I'm the only one sane.

Somewhere - above my being -

celestial maggots dine on hope and milk the stars for gold

Violent pauses in existence

feed hungryworms - feed empty minds

A death more painful - meaningful -

than the visit we call our life -

Slowly being chewed away by

eager teeth - by eager lies - crunching bones as they go

In the above, far atop this untruth,

sleeps a meaning far deeper than insect-eaten deceit -

Constantly draining the riches

from one last light - and pushing the chair from the table.

The man who once grew roses

now raises thorns instead

Those remain forever,

Whereas the flowers will soon be dead.

No words

just pages

alone to be read

no explanations needed

no excuses said

Just a book never opened

nor heard of but read

"I could've, I should've

but didn't is all

it says

White is the color of death.

Grinning skulls, bleached bones,

even weathered tombstones

shimmer with a pale Goblin-light glitter

of white.

It has been said that fear will give you

an ashen face and snow-white hair.

Meanwhile, Death just grins in the pale shadows,

wrapping himself in the faded cobwebs

until he is completely enshrouded

in white…

The sound of dancing fingers

upon strings, silver and gold

only echo empty chambers

with the ghosts of yesterday.

Left with only memories

We will cling to the façade

Of the smiling magic man,

The mortal magic man.

one good Chet Baker session

is worth more

than the whole tired beat scene

pant

him

timely

28.8

explore

hit

hard

crash

Software

girl

his

sacrifice

micro

breath

give

Re

frame

the

trip

Too much

depends

upon

a T.V. set

turned on

in the winter.

Forks and spoons

samba

in the soapy cycle,

so,

it's no wonder why

tines

tingle

when the dry

dancing

ceases.

In wake of blizzard a feeling of being

raked in drifts snow blind

snow ball

snow geese

like leaves

singing sentimental parades

paradoxical paradigm

the old puffy-fluff-feel

evolves its blitzkrieg.

teats of shadow like velvet leaves

lie in light that wants to seem perfect.

parturition ovulates blades

nibble love in violent crystals

trapped under harbor ice

last weak aura of meal rapport

of rope rappel

souza or something pomp in summer's

neurotic rudely zipping-up

sunrise slashes pale violet

thigh-sinking sigh azure foreplay

lashed to sleds of hazzard

hard rudder's pale feel.

the aura of lyrical Laura lingers

queening up the otherwise-doldrumed day

I say feel it, climb it to the attic

of your inner space

like a muscled full-merryground moon

winking spray off midnight waterfalls

heavy she's got off her vocal rainbow

all funkrock rivulets publicity suspended

"full to bursting I am too

how about you?"

feel supreme to the opening riptheme

basic peppering bass

beatnotes and cruising professional hop

telepathy's readouts, up the wild eyes

of the masses, living it high

way into the 40-top crest

of my head far like

altogether…

the saggy skin of her neck

had deeply drawin in lines

like a necklace had been tatooed in

or was it a noose

strangling her slowly but persistently

through the course of time

her nose was dripping into her mouth

she never had it hacked off

to prove that she was demure

with a little model/baby-pig

like snout the kind that smells

the rich distinguished men

with money out

no she was something real

really unique

not pretty at all

pretty ugly to me

still her gray hairs were like tinsel

sparkling brightly in the sun

leaping out from her black

licorice braids

at Hindemith's centennial

I recall the Times film critic

who sent me to the Mann's Chinese

to see Mel Gibson sucking yogurt

Delight

falls in the body.

Truth dows not pull

so many muscles.

Don't fear,

moments quickly sunk

consolidate.

Her criticism left eyelashes

hard and unstable.

The body's spirals

unwrinkle in a closet.

I want a dance

where loneliness vanishes

and hope falls

where distinction

crumbles.

they tossed

my ass

out of Arby's

just for sitting

there eating

a ham sub

("hold the mayo

or whatever

else you like")

I'd bought next

door at the up-

scale deli

you work at

…not

due to any

store policy

but because

they were all

jealous

that you'd made

it

These pleasures now seem trivial

I speak of salty days

of boys and girls walking away

from The Merry Widow Waltz

and into the starlight.

We shared our goldfish

and strawberies in the yard

and our little idiosyncrasies

now only a memory.

We meet again Vanessa

in the revelation of spring

and you know my secret ways

the ways of the panther

and of the shadow that seeks the dawn.

These pleasures are not dead

though we have died a thousand times

together and alone

in the cold morning mist

when all the angels tread about us

in an ineptitude.

Clouds press down

On the lips'reed

in rows of too many drivers

trying not to remember last night

a wet drunk and a dry

slide next to me

empty rising view

Chinese scroll unroll hills

mist, small villages

dreadfully dressed in boredom

and absolutely no where.

They line up harmonies in

the grass parks where they press

complacency and repeat signs

near the beginning or the end

a shrew shreiks "Stop talking!"

Too many musicians

too many mouths to satisfy.

her of the astrodynamic breasts

and the seething wit

twice I've told your head today

There is blood in every window

And a rope around her neck.

Still the desire

to dance

in oiled black

burns her skin.

Until her eyes melt

silver.

And split the shackles

dripping from her wrists.

We'll cuddle. We'll curl like two spoons.

Maybe we'll talk about food - you'll whisper

in my ear "lobster thermidor, chicken cordon

bleu, baked alaska."You'll whisper "chocolate

covered cherries,"and I'll giggle deliciously

and wrap my legs around you. I'll curl the hair

on your back with my little finger, and say

"crab legs with drawn butter, moussaka,

stuffed grape leaves." You'll shudder

with pleasure and massage my back, telling me

of trout almondine and escargot.

Finally, you'll say to me "my little cocktail

onion, my pimento,"and we'll roll under the

eiderdown all night, feasting at the delicious

meals of ourselves until fully satisfied.

trashcan mailbomb Alabama Churches

uno-uni-unabomber

multibombers more subtlesubservsive

with ultimate destruction

bombardiers, they are -

bomblasting with news that is definitionally

important, but idealistically worthless.

bombardiers, they are -

their fragmentary device is the maimed claim

that de-fusion of the nuclear family

will destroy society. justlook at Japan.

elder-respect and geisha girl

equals high-productivity.

bomardiers, they are -

laying waste with the American church

On the bay's edge the lamps are a long necklace

Stars are burning above

and in one hurled range

splash the sky like magnesium.

Inland from the coast the tracks swing.

Always with the gallop of wheels

and the slow repetition of hours

thought, like wind, flows with memories.

When lights dangle on the water's edge

and the sky is a gigantic jewel

and the shore is plunged in the train's yellow,

why, insistent stars, mus you bring her back.

I have learned silence from these pages

like puff the magic adder

venom is mixed with vision & voice

ambition so blithe and brutal

I have shut up for decades

judged unworthy so often by so many

just trespassing through

across your excruciatingly exclusive treasure

the sea is already two thirds witch's blood

greed is the great intrinsic satisfaction

as gore to the hilt // skin to the blade

the dangerous idiot's infection

first you risk your mask

then you risk your face

6 million Europeans

murder 6 million jews

other slaughters have other sites

only when they're not working

are they worth a damn at all

they're either cops putting up a front

or else they're crooks like ditto

The worst thing

Mom swore she would not

it happened

a little sister (I fight

"Rid myself a cage

A mump is an imp a DISEASE

fight back) an ugly

Swelling

the size of a two-year-old:

Why not?

like a germ the worst

I lead her alone:

the garage.

sit her

on the floor

Rigged

like a stockade

kindling; like a stockade

break out anytime

a game:

sitting inside

Virginia fatwood it's called

which goes up in a

"If I bring cookies to class, maybe they too

will be satisfied".

under withering desert

sun

great white god

rules once more

NO

honor black brother

they have

equal status

what more do

they want why

don't they just

fucking go back

to Afrika maan

it smells in here

when de sun

go down

de shit come

out

'why

I am o

ffended

that they even

call him a

reverend'

you

know tennessee

no compare to

this shit

old rich white folk

an poor desert scum

running around with

guns

goin POP POP

let's go

vermin hunting.

Measured steps wept silently

Feet fell, like sorrow's tears,

So still you heard the whispers

As abandoned consciousness

Swept through the dead of night

In borrowed phantom slippers...

Through corridors illumined

With flashing moonlit thought,

Where so brightly, you could see

Your window frame of mind

Showing you the sadness

In the art of memory...

Masterpieces, in those halls

Recalled your yesterdays,

As sculptures carved by lonely times

Stood in brazen attitudes

Waiting for the reaper

To come and claim his prize...

You soon returned, awakened

Cast off the haunted cloak,

As you exposed your feeling

Fell into your lover's arms,

And shared the sustenance

That's kept the joy in being

Picutre a cave

Musty, cold and dark

As night

The hermit's retreat;

Now look at the man

Who sits there within,

See fear in his heart

Dry him up, like a bone

Or an old witches teat...

The one who sits there

Has never come out,

No resemblance to man

Til you look at his eyes,

Seeing myriad dreams

In his horrible stare;

And know in your mind

What you feel in your soul,

No matter how dull

This hulk may appear,

The stature he shows

Is not his true size...

You ask him a question

His lips form replies,

Rapid streams

Of pollution,

Come out all at once,

His secrets have worth

And you feel you MUST know,

Who he is, where he's been

You must see his dream,

So look back to his eyes...

Your gaze falls on pupils

So deep, chilling black,

As eyes, universal

Holde yours in a trance,

Make your will

Come off track;

As this small

Dingy ;hermit,

Pulls you into himself

And tales, grim and fearful,

Pierce your soul

Like a lance...

The pain that you see

And anger you feel,

Making you wonder

If he is someone,

You've known, who is real;

As fear that comes from him

Takes a hold on your mind,

You sit in his place

Your heart torn asunder,

'cause you see that the hermit

Wears YOUR lonely face...

Brave warrior, undaunted

You stand strong and firm,

Tear yourself from his eyes

With tears falling free,

Take a rest on life's berm;

Now turn rather quickly

Sort of proud,

Look out at the sunlight

Sally forth with the news,

And no longer feel

Alone, or unwanted!

women in the office

have a bet going

among them as to

who can set ue up

with a future

wife by Easter.

One at a time,

they stop by my

cubicle & grill me

regarding my likes

& dislikes.

I can't tell ém

I'm happy alone.

What married woman

wants to hear that

from a man?

So I've got my

little routine

down. "I won't tell you

I don't like Asians,

but my first wife

was Chinese.

"& it wouldn't be

fair to say I can't

stand Latin women,

but my second wife

was Cuban.

"But my real love,

the one I lived with

between marriages,

ah, now she was

Jewish. Yeah,

"bring me a Jew

for Easter."

So many years the crickets sing

the trees renew and grass reroots.

So many years the body sleeps and the body rises.

So many times passion turns and sadness delves

and always we stirve to leave our microcosm

to partake of tree or cloud

to surrender to a loved one.

Down cascades our moments fall

and bury themselves in pools of the past -

a soundless fling

that sinks without foam or mist,

but in the steadfast drop

strains to fly

like white water that lifts to spray.

Strings wing me darkly

through lake's morning haze

over the water's sheen

into the captured light of the lake's depth.

I am sunk in the wavering green

rocked in stillness and light

entombed, swaying before mysterious motion.

Is earth cared for?

Is air protected?

A rake circles, circles ribs.

Near moss muscles

hands close, now.

The high skull

is rarely visited.

Birds race and retreat.

Insects flutter down

roads of nerve.

Flute sounds roll through

bone centers.

Birds swarm, search

the city earth cares for,

air protects.

The robins nest each year in the fir trees

next to the house. They simply lay their

precious nest on a loose tree limb; they

don't bother to weave it into the needles

to secure it, and each year a strong wind blows

down the nest. You find it on the ground with

one or two perfect blue eggs not smashed. The futility

makes your heart sick. You wonder at their useless

effort; each year fills you with more despair. You

end up cursing the pretty songbird who can't do

any better with her life than you can with yours'.

rubber doorstop

class 3 slope

for skateboarding

snails

pales

beside 18 wheeler tire blocks

clad

in Egyptian cotton

slacks

for formal morning inspections

at state line

agricultural

stops

gasteropodous mollusks

in their tracks

7 years old

brothers speaking foreign tongue

oe-jay is etting-ga an ike-bay

or-fay istmas-chray

10 years old

still desiring a willed interpreter

eeet-may e-may at

our-fay

12 years old

and in glorious revelation

of discover

I finally understand…

ontday ell-tay im-hay ut-bay the octor-day

aid-say ee-hay is oing-gay o-tay ie-day

…why some things are left unsaid.

naked

nozzle

polished

between

Polish

thighs

my fountain dries

at midnight

stiff hoses

douse a

flaming

ferris wheel

and I conceal

a rounceval

inside a metal nut

The "Claus" is not in claws.

The sink is knot in sync.

The nose'snot in knows.

The weight is naught in wait.

The bell is not Inn, belle.

The Lear hiss not in leer.

The mousse is gnawt in moose.

The medal is not tin (meddle.)

The end is.

father printer

would be your

moist prison government

remember our

density

believed wastless?

sure you do,

like the conspiracy

from beyond

and ice broken up

without body

Yes Domingo, I accept

your remarkable invitation,

I will spend two weeks with you

on the River Salado.

Y buscaremos perdices.

Where can we find the jilguero:

Will it be in the forest

near your goyhood home

or somewhere in the wilderness

beyond our recognition.

Y Domingo

no hay placer

como el que buscamos.

Earth has sometimes its madness,

earth has sometimes its gloom,

and the shadows will quarrel

now and then with the shadows,

but two weeks Domingo,

two weeks to embrace

the earth and the trembling sky.

In the morning shall we wake

to the sunrise,

in the evening shall we sit

by the fireside,

and the long dark nights Domingo:

Y el cuerpo no mas que el alma

despertando con la luz.

heart of net

sure control

beauties symphonize

with silicon color

current grey

for contact froze

If February3, 1998

had been three centuries earlier

they would have burned you at the stake

occupational hazard

metallic appetite

larynx loosener

exhibitionist

deep throat

vomitless

pit nic

stuck

die

!

for the first time in eighteen months

he spoke to me as though we inhabit

the same planet but not in the relation

of man to roach he spoke as though

we could understand one another

but then we could have eighteen months ago

now this: what was it? a form of

temporizing through yet another what

is this hiatus? or was it just a joke?

or maybe it's not but it really took

eighteen months to come to believe

what is impossible to believe

looked at in this way eighteen months

seems short indeed

a tiny mark on the time line

which stretches both ways and never stops

or chases itself like a mobius solenoid

or never stops because it never starts

eighteen months: not even real

just another fact in our private dream

a poltergeist's daughter

modeled of sun

seanced blind shadows

liquid with wonderlust

and

the fog channeled fast

creating a sad hand

to power a miss star

I will leave the door unlocked, the lights off,

the window open. You will come to me on a mid-

summer's night, my wolf man, my animal lover.

The pads of your feet will soften the noise of your tread,

but I will still hear your nails on the kitchen floor

as you approach my bedroom. I will be waiting

for you, my heart in my throat, waiting for the sudden

leap on my bed. Your sweet, sweet violence against

my body will delight me all night. I'll cling

to you at dawn, and try to make you stay but you

will go back to your lair, satisfied and selfish.

The sound of dancing fingers

upon strings, silver and gold

only echo empty chambers

with the ghosts of yesterday.

Left with only memories

we will cling to the façade

of the smiling magic man,

the mortal magic man.

Too much

depends

upon

a T.V. set

turned on

in the winter