The singer at the closed rooms

He twists
and shouts
and twists
and shouts
to the rhythm of one two one
three four bars in a minute
faster than the drapes on the walls
all shutting the lights away
faster than the claps, louder even
the singer at the closed rooms knows too well
that the sound of his voice never leaps beyond the walls of the room
never leaves the beat at
the dancer's heart.

the daily situation

 slightly drifting

rolling with the time, at last

like tide, like dead, buried corals

Dedication, forbidden tears

Part of a longer work's dedication:

For strength benching

lifting weights and shedding skins

all  effective adjustments

to the broken, effective packaging of the whole.

For it was a long

candy-wrapped dream, peeling slowly

truth reflecting

truth  reflecting

 echoes.

Like a badge

Poets wear their pain like a badge
seen by others, only the wearer feels
the tip of the pin near its breast
under his shirt throbbing, it is a reminder
of existence, a marker of the fight
for a slot among the normally unnatural
those who hear music and interpret it into words
those who hear words and interpret them music, lyrics and light
All one shade of mad, poets make of their pain a shape,
give it a false name, smile at it during cocktail parties
and store the sting away, for lighter days

Fished out

You tell me you do not fit
between the bubble
and the tide
that your skin stiffens under the algae,
I rub you in coral
but the sea never washes into you
You are too solid for water
and I, like you despise the scales
the shiny blades I earned without contact with air
breathing is difficult when you inhale
processed oxygen, true we've both despised the sea
all that comes from it, the broken glasses rounded to a new shape
the shark's tooth, my sunburn and the salt into
our mouths water-washing our words
we leave what we do not understand,
and now, sitting near the fireplace bathing in October's thrill
and the biting chill you tell me again
how you do not fit between the foam and the sand grain
and I nod, I'll never let you know
how the sea creeps on you,
I'll keep my thoughts to myself
A fish out of water
is dead, anyway

Tardiness

Nothing justifies
tardiness
like a late morning coffee
like a missed alarm beat
it is the other end of waiting, tardiness
call it lazying, call it asking for time to extend its wing
into another flight
but never stopping, never fighting
nothing justifies your letters arriving late
your answers shocking up
nothing justifies the running fingers of the clock.

Bicentennial

So this is
the second hundred in the turn of days
the turn of events
and the blossoming of words
how do we celebrate?
by smudging old paper
with new ink, more creation is
our celebration