October 28th, 2013



He watched them dance their lives. He had the heart
of ice that makes true art. Most of them died.
He'd not have made such art if he had cried
over their deaths. His was the darker part

to note their deaths and then memorialize
their blow jobs, and their drug deals even when
he was the dick that dealt. A fierce stoned zen
that calmly made us see them through his eyes

as if a photograph. Impassively
he saw out all his friends. He sent white flowers
to hospitals and graveyards. Now he glowers
a deaths head with them. If the angel's glee

that helped him write once of a perfect day,
had stayed, would he have had so much to say?

For RG after a year

Eyes watch me from the screen. Upon the page
is it my ink or is it tears are wet?
A poet's always in her muse's debt
her poems never quite the living wage

a muse deserves. Who unannounced arrives
back in imagination, drags my pen
back to that old familiar pain again
from which each time a different joy derives.

A poem's a puzzle that we solve in time
to feel a consummation in the heart
better than lust, or Cupid's savage dart,
We stretch out sated, we are stroked by rhyme

And send the poem to our chaste, sweet muse
who does the same thing, only with smart shoes.