on never speaking

No beloved Queen Virtue whose

door red porphyr is,

but I, vainly clothed,

send my shadows dancing

through a guarded glow.

My walls are paper - thick

as rock, and maybe Plato had it right

or maybe I just fear to talk

(In the moment of the crisis forced

an image of the swollen

mind torments me

until I withdraw

trembling) by the fireside I

pump pump

pump my pen

sweating earth pigments,

burnt bone,

ground calcite,

the ashes

of the heart that moves me.

I am not I no more nor am I wholly one.

Read me like a hidden painting,

awful in the dark,

and hear the glaring handprint sneer:

how petty, your tale of me!

umi

:

the lazy beginning:

the no where of no ones:

seeking the inspiration of

an inspiration: I,

into the density of

you, ambling, plunge, a

stranger, from the outside you are

seen

by the unambling, unknowing they-me.

But here I see

the outside lucid like a

DREAM; HERE

grown men and women

pound the floor unhappily.

Spirits hurled like

poster paints, childishly,

colour me you. Friends,

don't I know

the yearning frustration,

the frustrated yearning,

the yaustraned frerning

to say

just

just

just

what you mean to mean to say!

and the seeking of an inspiration...

the no where being no

one...fearing the lazy life that

steals like sleep...all this world

began with a colon conclusively: but now,

oh, where to go to be?

Frightful Farming

Sometimes I see

my heart is full

of poetry ripe for the reaping but

I am

an eyeless ant

in haggard denim overalls

and that

is a garden brimming with Aphrodite's

choicest mousetraps. The musky scent of

life and love reminds me yet of death.