I thought about commitment

or to whom I shalt hold my self

accountable. Breath held, solid,

in, for a count of ten, and then

a letting go. Of anger, my anchor;

weight, the devil behind me. Speaks

in sign language. I read clouds and

tea leaves. Signals that have found

me, a right moment of suspension

and if sin is forgiven, already, then

Lucifer is still an angel. And I also

am always in the process of failing.

Sand. The pinnacle on which we establish

the fullness of our measure, suspended,

is nothing more than uncrystallized glass

and we build, momentum, burnt, of

excess heat, from plaintive need, to see

the reflection of our limitation, mental,

as dullness of unsharpened metal, and

the self-condemnation, of which we are

Guilty

in the end, our becoming,

building as if we were stone, and hatchet

we don't fly in, like birds, shattered, no

we love our windows, as favored seats and

preen ourselves before the confines, of

our mirrors, having learned the shadows

and telltale highlights, yes, we profess that

sand is built on sand, and stone is

every bit just that and nothing more,

in the quake, Earth and pebble, both,

are space debris, and we polish, till sore;

Satisfied, that we have, gracefully, fallen.

if I dig too hard, I fear

my conflict will surface

far closer, than thought

--with Madness--

On the other's side

the bruised night.

Like a guard dog

I let it lie.

I can't

exactly place

when...

I wrapped up, my Love

I wrapped it

like a Birthday game

played at European parties

in Polish called

Podaj Pudło

literally pass the box

but it's not a box

and it's more like

Pass the Parcel

and every player

giddy at their turn

peels a layer, off

of glossy wrapping paper

shaped in childish clump

and as one might expect

oddly enough

inside,

there's nothing

and all

...it is the day

we sanctimoniously

state:

Never again!

and then, add,

Post-mortem

is better than

boredom;

but that is of course

odd hearsay

drolly

repeated

to expedite

the errata

of our ways

I dreamt I

was inside out

that I could see

me as only you

usually see me

quiet, composed

polished, solid

...and you saw

the skeleton,

that holds me

the spiny

exhibition of

a traveling zoo

'No Touching'

the sign says

but there's strong

impulse on

seeing that

ribcage

to stick a finger

or pebble through,

see if, something

moves...

You are the Monarch

in need of salt

and in here

I stood

very still, your

antennae landing

circling a smile

upon my beating heart

and to the empty room

whispering:

Thank you...

the closer we get

the better we see

the reflection

of ourself...

and my ears folded

deep inside, on

hearing that

tingled, and flutter

already miles off...

and yet, still, content

in the ample umbrella

of your shadow.

Clarence scoped the Ohio landscape. The sun was rich and luxurious over his chest as he tossed his blue broadcloth button down over an outcrop of rock.

Cluster, like any town, for miles, was as flat as an empty palm. It had vestiges amid those fruited plains where trees perched instead of corn, and deer could hide. Half a dozen acre parcels in these parts that were an oasis for wild life, even the human kind. Day or night.

When they'd been teenagers, he'd been one to sneak over, evenings, with a girl like Rhonda or Jacqueline. He slid his hands in reverse into his back jeans patch pockets and arched into the sunset.

Good times.

Ssnapk!

His carnal remembrances of chortling brunettes shut by the crack of a stiff twig. Clarence twisted his head sharply to the left. He was a free man now, but guilty conscience still had him on the run. Unsettled business.

It was a woman. Young.

She was three yards off and hadn't seen him. He smiled at her lack of caution. No natural instinct. Funny he hadn't heard her approaching sooner. He furrowed his smooth tanned brow. She'd been crying. Blonde, petite, and a stormy kind of carriage.

His kind of weather.

He liked them kind of bovine. Passionate and dumb. She stumbled forward, eyes downcast, heading towards the edge where he now reclined, back against a slim sweet gum. The heel of his right boot digging into the delicate trunk.

"Well, hullo there."

She started a bit. Eyes forest green. She did the involuntary lip lick, taking him in and he stifled a smirk, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch. He could have her panties off in three moves, he thought to himself, with the right words. Could make a sport of it. See how long it would take.

He could hear her breathing in the unnatural silence cutting through the woods.

Suddenly, he recognized her. The colored feature section, the business column, community service, portrait shot; the Cell Tower mogul with his arm charmingly around the shoulders of his daughter.

Play his cards right, with reserve, and she could be useful for several fronts. A ticket back into civilization, as it were.

The wind changed direction. Clouds rolling in offering reprieve.

He ran his tongue through his cheek, trying to cover his delight.

"You from round here?"

"The world around's on fire and here am I

...writing this poem,"

Said, who?

From where?

----a sound all in my head,

and now charring the paper---

maybe it is the I who is on fire...

the World, in no apparent hurry,

its grief played out as reruns on repeat,

over and over, over decades, and centuries

the soap opera saga oozes, and no account

of tears washes it clear, nor quenches

flame and heat---

---the head spins

---the heart bleeds

---hands hold out helplessly

in rotational feats---

effete

couched aside churlish hi resolution screens

of channels that do not change on pressing

and stations that depart, Cerberus

without you, without me,

hellish Greyhounds,

of reality

--and for this soil, we are not to blame

after all, something of these remains,

in tatters, redressing every Incarnation.

And I know that I was one,

and for many of these, no-one

in particular, to remember--

And still, I have kept our faith,

clean, with skin beneath my fingernails.

a word

it's true

I fall--

I trip over this, and others

yours and mine--

and those now

prostrate,

in public

domain

that have slipped,

on spit or ink

into future hands,

and still,

I feel somehow

it has grip

action, individual,

personal meaning

enough,

to stab me

in the back

--even