Rapid Rapid,

I
Defiant yearning youthborne lustful ways,
My soul endures in listless languishing,
While longings of the mind, the blood betrays.

Dark eyes of sin cast their entrancing gaze
Upon my weakened flesh, enravishing
Defiant yearning youthborne lustful ways.

Of life and beauty springs a tranceful daze,
And all my senses rush forth exulting,
While longings of the mind, the blood betrays.

Within my heart a growing rancour stays
And traps infectious torment, entrenching
Defiant yearning youthborne lustful ways.

To shame, to guilt, to ever darker days!
As vengeful swift remorse in comes rushing,
While longings of the mind, the blood betrays.

O Heavens merciful! Lend me thy praise
And aid, in my repentance banishing
Defiant yearning youthborne lustful ways,
While longings of the mind, the blood betrays.

II
wax light wings white exultant sight
to beauty fervent without sleep
high flight death nigh sun blinding bright

washed out let out from sinful night
a simple life: the yearning deep
wax sight wings white exultant light

a premonition from the blight
unfettered: for creation weep
high blinding death flight nigh sun bright

wind flows without repose: its might
transfigures with a flashing sweep
the sight of waxy wings and light

and flickering beneath the sky
the sunkissed windkissed wave crests leap
up nigh the sun in blinding flight

a soul supreme redeemed: take flight
and dreams of truth and beauty reap
on wings exultant waxy white
though blinding sun and death be nigh

2 December 2004

The round oval shadow
on the countertop was blocked
by an orange apple, unwaxed,
or was it just an unusually
crunchy orange that gave way
to an orange mist when bit into,
the mist which stings the eyes if
one gets too close, like the tiger
behind the bars at the petting zoo,
who's not a tiger because he has
no stripes and he's not from
Siberia because he is endangered,
but his fur is orange like an apple
and I bite into the flesh--
it tastes sweet beneath my skin.
26 January 2005

Nate Cutshall backhand, 5/13/2005

Snap off the line
Like a coiled spring;
Into the fray
Of violent play,
Your body fling.

Follow through; sprint
Against kinetic
Urging, fast
And quickly past
The abrasive electric

Tethers beneath your
Feet. Punch
And swing, crash
Forward and smash
It down for lunch.

All the while smile;
When you're through,
Victories take
a handshake
or two.

Who will rescue me?
Worse than a kick to the groin.
Someone kill me please.

Stephanie Kleinschmidt eat your heart out. And I'm not emo, I swear.

ten lanterns above your bed
one two three four five
one two three four five
one two may june july
one for every month
every month we're left with
a white one in the corner,
shy and naive, burning a youthful
diffident white, but just as bright
one two three four five
and I count them again
the orange one in the middle,
crumpled up its ridges furled
a furled brow frowning
ten lanterns frowning weeping
count with me there's still only ten
why only ten? ten lousy lanterns
not a single one more
red paper lantern like a blush
a sunset smiling in disguise
or a smile in your eyes
like the sun, or the moon, or the star-shadow's shine
five six seven eight nine
I'll count them like a fool
the lantern-counting idiot
keep counting as they the lanterns
the crepe paper crumples to a shadow
crumbles to a shadowy dust
but until they fall in dusty death
I'll not stop to draw a breath
but to keep counting and never stop
I'll keep counting ten lanterns
I'll keep counting nine lanterns
and eight seven six five lanterns
four three two one
one lantern above your bed
how many months above my head?
count with me--
one.

eyes closed, right beside me
quiet loveliness in the passenger seat
russet locks drenched in sunshine
drifting, waving their silent entreaty

leaves sprout from passing trees
wintry branches come alive again
the fields are soaked with spreading ink
of summery green, a grassy stain

drive, drive beyond a hill
until we float, borne in the wind
stay awhile, and hand in hand
we'll leave time and memory behind
21 April 2005, on the way home from the symphony.

Visual aid Amherst, MA, 5/8/2005, courtesy of the lovely H. Hwalek
Do look upon this flying plastic platter
Of pain, and picture grassy fields of green,
Expansive, stretching far as can be seen,
Where nothing but the ultimate can matter;

Imagine crunchy layouts and the spatter
Of blood, mud, grinded up with sweaty sheen,
And wince at cleat wounds, or the thought of mean
Cuts so abrupt that kneecaps nearly shatter;

So throw it now -- there's seven on the line --
And play it out -- to fifteen we shall go;
Force flick! Fake right! Cut left! Not twice the same!
Don't leave your mark -- he's open deep solo!
Between the rushes of adrenaline
It hits you: you can't live without this game.
14 June 2004

The trees on the square are in bloom again,
Their newly budded leaves a verdant splash
Suspended amidst the branches; tiny white flowers
Hang in the air like droplets of an ocean spray, awash
With the earthy reminders of the morning's rain.
On the brick walk, nervous business suits dash
Past, watching the ticking of hours
And minutes on their wrists, vainly trying
To trap a moment of fleeting sensation.

The young people are chasing it too,
Searching in a trendy boutique,
A café, a bookstore; maybe tonight, a club
Where the vague truth they seek
Lies waiting in a glass, where the quick dew
Of experience drips off the tap into meek
And eager minds alike; meanwhile, in a hub
Of red brick and white stone, of iron fences and
Grassy courtyards, the quest continues undisturbed.

There on the sidewalk, at the entrance
of the subway station, underneath
the shops and the trees and the quiet dance
of pale blooms above, I breathe
in the air's fragrance;

Presently, a torrent of vivid
colour unfurls through me,
a tangle of transparent and lucid
yearning where every whim is free,
each instant unbounded;

The clocks have stopped now,
the falling petals frozen in mid-air;
I see faces paused before a window,
unblinking, but here and there
in the grass a motion still--the flow
and ebb of unremitting life,
of resolution and expectation.

Criticism welcome.

Hanky Panky.
A colourful fruit?
Orange orange.

The background image in the top left corner of the page is the street on which I live, Earle Avenue, pictured here after about a month of continuous rain.