featured in the poetry forum June 4, 2014  :: 0 comments

Between things that never
existed, inside nightmares
that last lifetimes but never
come into being, among sensations
that remain nameless, and intuitions
that never take to words,
deep in the heart of a planet,
or a pebble—
there is a conversation.

Before the wind obtained
a body to breathe on, before the heart
of the human body
put on my clothes,
before the alarm clock went off,
there was a conversation
not whittled into words.
Before the evolution of the tongue
(following the evolution of the saxophone).

Here I stand on a round ball with my heart raining—
sunshine spilling out of my chest
from a center that I cannot touch.
(but unbroken from the source).

Inside I place the tablet
of your parents
and grandparents
and their parents,
tracing all the way back
to the original explosion—
the simple proof.
The heart which formed
xxxthe endless ocean
of the urge to exist.
xxxxxxxxx(without which nothing would exist)

was willing to become known
for this:

conversations with the source that sent you—
xxxwith yourself.

editors note:

Did you say something? Or, did I just think it? – mh

Localized war heroes

December 11, 2010  :: 0 comments

Localized war heroes
waving trumpets
and the velocity
of kings
do not lie under oath
of government
lie still like localized war heroes
buried at the gas station
next to the gum.

What happens when
the sun sets
on the sunsets
after the privilege
of watermelon
eyesight like tequila
flowers that burn
my peaceful world
and the subservient president
minding his own.

Down the street
the children were playing video games
in the front yard
of the home of the localized war hero.

I wrote the date
before it was written
and I play with
the flowers and the leaves of grass
from the silence
of my studio
where I am studious of myself.

Next to the dead
of my afternoon
I ask the evening to lie still
and stop the electricity
I carry
the power lines
and lightning

like pistols
and no one
has much to say
because I am me
me am not still
next to the radio
and the doubt of the dead
with the painted mask.

One painted mask
was a candle burning
that burns in silence
growing sunlight –
let me be close to the thing

And then there were streetlights, newscasts,
and localized war heroes.
Several paintings
and a pencil
and a brick
and a polite death
push me
push me.

I am disappearing like fog light
next to the flame
the window
is jumping
and I am
close to where
the dog
lays down.

I have seen people and things
go near to death
and then return
burning candles
and laughing
at the life of the sun.


The Lie

featured in the poetry forum December 11, 2010  :: 0 comments

The lie is a simple thing
but difficult like a dragonfly
to hold.
Oil burns loosely
and gives way to the study of teeth.
A deck of cards
and a bug light
drank whiskey in the desert
near a pile of empty wallets –
and the Dow took note.

The lie is a simple thing
that is easy to say,
not so easy to read –
often with good manners
and good teeth.

dogs barking don’t lie
and birds don’t lie.
neither do the sun
nor a white moon.

But the spider’s trick
is to pretend
it does not exist.

Spiders come to every window and every doorway –
the lie is a simple thing.

The lie is a simple thing
and easy to use on your friends.

The lie is never (rarely) punished by jail.

Most good people tell
lies sometimes.
Prior to the mythology of serpents …

when was the first

The visible universe
is an entire deception
unto itself,

and lies are things
I say to myself.


until I read

featured in the poetry forum February 17, 2010  :: 0 comments

a soft purple stone
or a newspaper,
watch the sunset
or stand on a mountain, I have nothing—
I am a wristwatch: monotone
and worse
I don’t have anything
xxxto say

that hasn’t been said
within a day or two.
don’t toss coins into a lake.
don’t drink wine
from a coat pocket.
don’t walk with trees that are concerned.
who have you been talking to?
tell me what they said,

Tell Me!
of all the things
that come and go
you tell time the worst—
this has to change the way
that we think about things.
No duality.
the spirit of the wind
but not separate from the wind.
there is a door that is opening
and closing ceaselessly—
and I hear the same sound
from a candle
or a crowd of people
or a car passing.

or a wristwatch.

underminer of faith,
murderer of belief,
flower of wisdom,
drain the blood
from my legs
and replace it with sawdust
from before the fever
of the ocean.

how many times in a day
do I notice
the sound of my fingers?
I sit before a candle
consumed with the ticking of a wristwatch—
not images
but the fading of images.

and then my body becomes a bag—
I like to be free of it—but
I can’t seem to separate the two!
what happens to the song
of a bird
if there is no
this is a very complicated
and there are many wrong answers.

xxx:be careful:
My wine glass is empty
and the wax of the candle
is my body melting,
beneath the flame
I am shadows
—and near proximity,
smaller than a room,
more quiet
and much closer to home.



November 7, 2009  :: 0 comments

Don’t know
what will come of all these
things, don’t know
pinwheel. I am
and silent,
I do not radiate solitude
or stand still.
My tongue melts
and I am at liberty
to speak.
No one can say no
to this,
nowhere to stand
that you cannot hear me
I will not be painted,
by preconceptions or be subject
to textbooks,
no applause is necessary
to do with anything.

Your beloved expectation
makes me feel as though
I must force flame from my tongue
and fingertips.

Give me my room to myself
where I can be alone
next to the candle.
Bouncing a blue rubber ball
to waist height
and standing
what I can’t stand
or stand up to,
deep inside the universe
there is something
that does not go away
and cannot be distinguished
or extinguished.

Uncertainty, insincerity,
decoupling, lack of
purpose, subtle belonging,
quite traffic quiet jealousy,
and purple hatred.
Song that I cannot sing,
universe of what is not,
come to me dearly and kiss me,

tell me you love me.

The universe is not too much left of me.


alone time

featured in the poetry forum November 7, 2009  :: 0 comments

my alone time
next to the candle
in darkness
is worth a universe
of televisions,
cocktail parties,
victories, triumphs,
recognition, acclaim,
or all the things you
sit in,
stare at,
or bow down to.
all of this disappears
when I am alone
next to the candle
in darkness.

There has never been peace on Earth

October 9, 2009  :: 0 comments

there has always been sun
rain, wind
and storms

as long as I can remember.
There has never been a better time
because there has never been peace
on Earth.
Simpleminded men make war
and sell bad things
into sainthood,
painting pixels
and settling scores
warriors make sun
yield dividends
run through mountains
naked. Don’t
drink the sun
as it is.
There has never been peace on Earth.
Heaven was human.

The Earth is an ancient battleground
of moaning sirens
and horns that scream,
devour everything
between the two
worlds and make minds
explode, painting
the world with hideous violence
on rainy villages that like to get stoned.
Paper buckets catch blood
and fever burns trees.
Poisons are complicated
and designed before
medicine or tools.
What is this drive
that has made teardrops
of matter that is aggressive and cold?
teardrops are made of beauty
and death both—
the two of three are related.
The third is the societal norm
which has no teardrops
there has never been peace on Earth.

I myself am peaceful
I am a hunter
I am peaceful.
My father said
two things that you can never tell people
is that your are humble
or you are honest,
and if someone says that to you
it means you shouldn’t trust them.
This face
is a mask
with spirit that moves liquid
slightly that is not transparent
and was NOT made
to stand before peace.

Now I hear songbells
from the Church
that marches children
into the desert
with an axe to grind
against a heavy stone
that does not exist.

There was a kettle bell that contained lightning
that draws things into being
from nonexistence,
such as insects
that make orchestra
and moan for being
and not being,
whatever comes and goes
wailing and moaning
like mothers

xxxthrough the darkness
open of nonexisting
bright purple fireflies
upon black nothing.

(two fingers)

(9.14.09, 9.18.09)

I am yesterday

featured in the poetry forum October 9, 2009  :: 0 comments

please don’t turn me away
from where I belong
color going
I don’t see the difference
between yesterday and tomorrow
gravestones say terrible
things to yellow mosquitoes
that come to kill
bad things happen
so long as good people
are afraid of mosquitoes
there will be no revolution
there will be many SAD THINGS
I LOVE, but nothing profound
will come to me
I am yesterday
and before that I was before that
now I am a Persian rug
a quilt, a scarf
a rag doll, dirty


neither are words

October 9, 2009  :: 0 comments

Good things
happen to bad
people rainbows
make puddles and dogs
make war. Theory ends
here where there
are no rewards
for praising the capital
When I win I lose.

Shadows run sideways
while terrorists take their time
on national television
where science is not political
and neither are words
opium poppies in Afghanistan.

The shape of things to come
is not mapquest or a tennis ball
a clown or a comic book
or colocasia
like dawn
When I win I lose—

xxxsomething different.


There Is No Explanation for Any of This

featured in the poetry forum May 18, 2009  :: 0 comments

The shirtsleeves
fell off my shirt,
and you burned my coattails like a matchbook cover,
and I was not happy about it,
but I was still standing
above the ocean, standing.

The moon reset
and stood silent before midnight
stood silent.
And I said my prayers
and fell off the face
of the Earth.

No explanation was offered
for any of this
and none would have been necessary,

but the desert next to the ocean melts
and becomes glass,
glass that you can dance upon,
and build houses with raindrops
where no explanation is necessary.

Sirens and horns
scream from centuries
we have not seen,
seasons that we have not worn.
Disciples do their best,
but they are no match for this:
the day dances upon
the endless night like the flame
upon a matchstick
that doesn’t exist.

And there is no explanation
for any of this.

Where should I begin,
There is a song-storm
brewing without secrets,
seeing without the sun,
living without the night;
distant no-answer
of forever drinks from the fountain
at the center of the city
next to Martin Luther King
and John F. Kennedy.

Where am I standing?
Where is the forest?
Where is the blue angel
fish with the orange tail?

I stand next to the color of starlight
and HOPE.

The implications of this
are subtle
and they make me SCREAM.

There’s no explanation for any of this.
This is the purple fountain place
that stays close to the volcano,
this is the eye of the sandstorm,
there’s no explanation for any of this.
Painted upon darkness,
resolute but floating,
dying with direct intent,
and knowing why
and what for,
there is no explanation
for any of this.
But this is
what you hear
and it is here . . .

No explanation was offered
and none was necessary.