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Friday, December 28, 2007



Know what it’s like to hurry home
Hoping to lean on the one,
The object of one’s affection,
Only to find an empty room
Waiting and waiting?

Love, shall we deny it when it visits?
Shall we not take
what we are now given?
In the street, beneath the stars,
However daily business
mandates the hours,
Love, there is only love, all else unreal.

What is life, but being near you?

Oh! That I have been given to you,
and you to me,
How sacred the exchange,
how holy the alliance!

Monday, November 12, 2007



How about some love poetry?

Right now I am so desperate for your touch
That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.

I could walk out the door into the hallway
And scream with such ferocity
the neighbors might think
I have taken leave of my senses.

When I think of food,
Nothing compares
to how I savor you.

When I contemplate delightful vision,
You are the only vision in eyes.

I love all music,
But there is no sound better than your voice.
I await every telephone call,
And lead you
with questions,
Just to hear
the timbre of your talk, which I adore.

Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.

Oh! Baby! I love your smell.
Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed,
And fluff the pillows.

I do so expecting the redolence of you.
When you are gone,
Even after a day or two,
And your aroma is lost I am lost, too.

At wits end, I circle the bed,
And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet
Whose master has not returned home,

I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.



Well! Was sagst du?
I think I know better, but it is God Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

But, sweetheart, Hej! I tell you now.
Forget it! Fly straight! Think of the Frick,
with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though the painting is, it amply captures the fury
When Jesus castigates the money changers,
Das wort ist klar!

No man may serve two masters.
God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame.
He loves the lilies of the field.
Grass need not care how it may clothe itself.

Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it,
When the first shall be last and those with least,
Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth,
And children be fountains of wisdom,
And rabbis know not the Lord
when He stands before them?


A Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey

An impossibly large bed
Stretched sideways across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle ran the length
From the front door entrance
To the back of the room.

And you, there, in your underwear
Standing up against a cantilever table,
A vanity, half the room's width, with over-head,
Recessed lamps and a mirror mounted to the wall.
You were brushing your hair,
And with each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms so my hands
might clasp both your legs at the ankles.
Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center between
your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin touched on
the right back of your knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands was wrapped
around one of your respective ankles,

When I told you
That I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better
naked than clothed.

'Wow!' Burst out. And you admitted
That I sure knew how to compliment a girl.

Woman! Trust my veracity.
For though dumb struck,
In my heart I recited the poet's
immortal words,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all
You know on earth, and all you need to know'.

Thursday, November 8, 2007



Another Sunday early evening has arrived.

You, you are gone abroad,
I sit all alone at Starbucks and drink a coffee.
Instead of us sharing our diner,
I write about missing you.

The notion how absence makes
The heart grow fonder is nonsense,
No more than a hill of beans in my book!

I am no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.
I am no fonder of you than I was yesterday,
Than I was last week, than I was
Three weeks ago before you had departed
on your business trip.

Tonight I am simply sad.
I am very lonely.
I feel terrible without you.

Thursday, October 4, 2007


Sweetheart, I know that you love me...
I mean, I know you truly appreciate the poetry.

I have been composing this ditty
For well-nigh a week now, and, as I had
Experienced so often before, I am
Having difficulty saying what I want to say.
But I must repeat again that what I write
Follows the credo, the explicit attempt,
The power behind German historiography,
-- How's that for a mouthful? --
I want these lines to frame the claim
That it is how it actually had happened.
That is the phrase that now comes to mind.

But how do I write a love poem to you,
Especially since much of this content is old,
Comprising events whose date marks a time,
Before I had even heard your name,
And from geography you could not have known,
A land upon which you could never have walked?

May I continue to affirm that I had had composed
These lines for you -- solely with you in mind?
How can I say I wrote things for you
even before we met?

Still I must have created this verse for you.
For the matter had left me no choice.
I did what I am supposed to do.
Call it a form destiny manifest.

Earlier today I found few words. They were
Penned on a lined yellow sheet, pulled from
The perforation of a legal pad. Upon the paper
I wrote, 'I sit at the desk night after night,
And sometimes it's even day and night.
I write. It may not be about that much.
Often the topics are small and
Want the propriety and moment
Critics call central to the poet's chore.
But I sit at the desk night after night
And sometimes it's even day and night.
Now the many years have passed.
I have no choice in the matter. I write.'

And, as I had already told you,
earlier this evening,
When I had telephoned to tell you
I had packed up your mail, the stuff I
Received here at your Brooklyn address,
And that it was on its way to Coral Gables,
I do not know if you remember,
You asked me how I was doing,
And in light of active compulsion,
So lonely, and so in love with you,
I answered 'pathetic'.

Actually my personality probably has
its mirror image in yours,
I multiply my schedule,
not enough hours in the day,
I isolate terribly,
some times I talk to no one for the week,
And when friends telephone; it's not what
I really want! It's not what I want them to do!
I rush them off! Honestly! No time for idle talk,
no time for chatter exchange.
No choice! I must return to my desk.

Incidentally, I dread having to meet
any one for lunch.
Sorry! You must know, I want only to
spend my time with you.

But I do have that other side,
And that, too, may reflect the reciprocity
The sentiments we share, the reason
I qualify for your companionship, and
How it is that I do not fear the confidences
I so comfortably share with you.

So I do believe I can say it right.
Now let us see if I can say it right!

I'll tell you about some memories.
I'll start with Central Avenue, Phoenix,
I'll say Danny's store packed with Native
American silver, the turquoise and coral --
Bracelets, necklaces, and rings -- properly
Displayed on racks and in trays within glass
Enclosed showcases, on the clear shelves,
On velvet pads, themselves many colored,
And I remember my son, maybe at ten,
But no more than twelve-years of age,
Alexander, playing behind the counters,
Next to the shotguns, propped up diagonally,
At the ready in the event of robbery, and
On the floor open boxes of twelve-gauge
Shells should there be need for
extended engagement.

I recall those summer Sundays, flying in
From Dallas-Fort Worth, landing at
Sky Harbor,
The ground crew rolling up the
debarkation platform.
I would run full tilt down the stairs,
straight onto the tarmac,
Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees, and still
early morning,
A rental car reservation awaited me, and I was
Off to the parking lot at the Dog Track,
To the swap meet that was unfolding, and I
Would seek out the cowboy called Roadrunner,
Who always seemed to have a ton of loot,
A big haul of different goods every Sunday.

And I remember, although it all seems
dreamlike today,
That very special meeting when traders
Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other,
Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and
Proclaimed that whosoever was welcomed into
the lounge camper,
Who greets the Navajo, both the man and wife,
Who knows the children, running across the
Gravel lot, left and right, then unto the asphalt
Sidewalk, refreshing themselves from
the water fountain
Which stood just to the right before the
pari-mutuel windows,
On those persons, I recollect the traders
bestowed the title, 'Friend'.

I remember one Sunday afternoon.
I felt good magic at work when a child
Ran up behind me,
and quickly touched the back of my hand.
Later I went up to South Mountain to the home
Of a Mexican. It was painted blue. I bought
More jewelry and then headed out to Bell Road,
To the outskirts of the city. At one point I
Passed the shopping mall where I had made
appointments for Monday.
I thought about it being the salesman's lot
To sit around waiting for a turn with buyers.

And to the radio which was turned on to the
rock an' roll station
That night I buck danced on the concrete patio
That surrounded the big swimming pool.
Although it was dusk,
and the temperature had fallen back,
It still was over ninety, and I sat back on the
Lounge chairs and watched Alexander, over
and over again,
Practice perfect dives off the deep-end
high board.

And, darling, even then, it was so long ago,
and in Phoenix,
It was you. It was you
I had been waiting for in my life.
The desert air brought me dream of you.
And when I awaited personnel behind the drawn
curtains of the air port security booth,
My carry-on bag had to be checked,
Because the x ray screen showed
concentrated bundle of metal,
I sat back and was wondering when
you would enter,
When you would walk in
to make my life complete.



To describe this awful sadness,
The melancholy which strikes
So hard, I must posit,
In contradiction to tradition,
a physical soul.

Your absence floors my spirit.
I struggle to rise before the ten-count.

I bleed, darling, I bleed.
Your blows have opened a cut
above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle
to fix it.

They might not let me
face another round.

For me the fight is over.

Thursday, March 8, 2007



I know it's cosmic!
It's like, heavy man!

Mystery inscrutable to regular
Analytical tool. Logic beyond scope
Of regular academic exercise.

Even with reference to twenty ancient
Texts I could not begin to fathom
How in that parking garage
Jareck, who always had kept counsel
His own, -- this, the one instance only! --
The days' normal business routine,
And gathered up patience enough so
To explain to me, more than half-dozen,
Separate times, a truth that had eluded
Ken, until the very early morn when
During a heavy rainstorm I drove
Through Brooklyn and brought you flowers.

You, sister, Oeland, Baltic island woman;
Me sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois.

Consider it, the millions-to-one odds
Stacked against our favor. I... I, I mean, duh!

I trust you may come to believe
That matter rests outside human command.
Whatever the divine designates together
No mortal may draw asunder.

This is it! I do! I do love you!

Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.
I fly the aircraft. The bright,
Rollover arrows signal the glide path.
And over the wire direct to my ear,
Ten thousand watts propel the voice.
It says, 'You do! You do love her!'

Tuesday, March 6, 2007



I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother, ever attentive to the moral
order of the home,
Will have censored some details of delight,
until the child
Attains the age to possess the missives
in her own right.

And our son will study the photographs, taken when
His parents' passion was young;
he will marvel at his Mother's beauty
And from her beauty learn standards necessary
when choosing a wife of his own.

And our children will cherish the memory of how
we read to them
Night after night over the years until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
in tales of heroic adventure,

And how stories of fantasy and magic create
memories of wonderful delight.

Their rooms teem with books, which later comprise
a library that remains the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children remember
the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode on our shoulders
their arms around our necks
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint imparting
a calm warm within
And the happy soul evident
from childhood in a good home.

Monday, March 5, 2007


for H.E.

The first time I truly saw you.
It was in a remote world.
It was years ago.
You, yourself, were manifest in a niche
In a Hindu temple, a marble figure,
With your eyes carved wide-open.
You were adorned in regal, pageant gown,
Dyed violet to match the color of your eyes.

Brass bowls of red-hot coals burned
Perfumed incense sticks at your feet

Your supplicants cued from portal to portal arch,
And eagerly sought their chance
good fortune to implore.

Each carried on polished metal trays
Oblations of flowers and fruit,
strings of marigolds,
Presents of large lotus,
bananas, coconuts,
and pomegranates.

All was splashed with bright vermilion powder,
As if to remind the procession, that once
blood had sanctified the sacrifice.

And me, I await, patient. Like the other mortals,
I pray for your favor, and hope to tease meaning
Out from the stare of your carved and painted face.

I go deep within my pocket to pull wrapped hard candy,
Add it to my tray of gifts, and excitedly, aloud, tell
The temple priests that I now wear appropriate rainments,
That my nostrils detect a whiff of your mango fragrance!

And in the clamor, over and against the
background noise of the street.
I believe I hear your coded parlance,
'I miss you'.

Goddess, Love, grant me the serenity
To accept the long absence before you are
flesh in my arms again,
The courage to change those things about me
so better to be proper devotee,
And the wisdom to remain faithfully yours
today, tomorrow, and fervently always.

Saturday, March 3, 2007



I have an astounding dream to report.
It has me running in the semi-darkness
With a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,
And has a single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind of key used to wind an antique clock.

Next to the wall at the end of my run stands
a giant, cartoon heart,
Painted, yet color so natural, it rivals
the red of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart
A gold metal strike plate sets up over against
an aperture, the channel,
Which leads to the lock that might open your heart.

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake
To nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?
Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does deep desire
Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease,
And promise of new, peaceful kingdom be
fulfilled, here, in this query today?

Now I stand before you, You, my Higher Power,
And the congregates sense the blasphemy; they
Whisper calumnies. They say
that I am my father’s son,
He is the boy from the hardware store!
Who bestows on him authority
to tell midnight imaginings?

And me, their belligerence does not concern me,
Not a whit, though they rise up
and ready to condemn me.
I pray ... I might have definite answer,
That I am prophet in this house,
That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,
Carry hope for life anew,
And have news extraordinary for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run
I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical,
A single, protruding notch at its end,
The kind used to wind an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!
Have I the key to open your heart,
Or do I dream the impossible dream?

Thursday, March 1, 2007



Da Dit Da Dit Da Da dit dah,
Dah dit Dah Dit dah dahh dit dahh,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
da dit da dit da da dit daa,
daa dit daa dit daa daa dit daa,
da dit da dit dah dah dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit Da Dah dit Dah.

Da Dit Da Dit Da Da dit dah,
Dah dit Dah Dit dah dahh dit dahh,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit da,
da dit da dit da da dit dah,
da dit da dit da da dit daa,
daa dit daa dit daa daa dit daa,
da dit da dit dah dah dit dah,
Da Dit Da Dit Da Dah dit Dah.



I sit here at a desk right off the kitchen. It is late night, or rather early morning; I am tired and my mind draws blank. As has had happened at other times before I am ready to write about not being able to write. But now I call upon a force greater than my mortal self. I trust it to accomplish those things that I am utterly unable to accomplish on my own. I say 'God help me to do what I am incapable of doing by myself.' I ask that God make me a channel of the Word, to be as a pen in the hand of an Author omniscient, Who knows the text entirely at once, the beginning and the end simultaneously. I bid to be endowed with a flow of right language so unencumbered that it strikes even the skeptical reader as inspired. I trust a providence Who rules the workings of a universe vast, folded unto itself, warped and strung, within a matter black, which, so far at least, proves mysterious, impenetrable to human ken.

But this self-same Sovereign also reigns over the little things. He reckons the countless phenomena that mark the progress of each and every creatures' individual life. Today we may easily forget that our forebears believed in a God who knows the number of hair upon our heads. Because of great progress in the science of astronomy our attention has become increasingly diverted. Modern telescopes reveal the sheer immensity of space-time, the monstrous architecture cradling the lights of heaven. We may fail to remember that the God of our fathers not only authored Genesis but also knew the precise moment a sparrow's fall.

It is to this God both grand and particular to whom I pray. In fulfillment of His will -- that His will be done, that I convert the blank page before me to chronicle American life and thought during this last half century. And tonight, though both mind and body be tired and worn, I am vehicle to the good story, reveling in triumph, happiness and energy, now sufficient to recognize and carry out a will beyond selfish aim. Volition has new power, taking it immeasurably pass purely human aspiration and design to wildly abundant, unexpected narrative whose insight and denouement bespeaks the divine. The dark, empty late night now gives way to bright light and fertility. All weakness turns to strength. The despair gnawing at the wheel of our diurnal rounds vanishes. Freely and utterly without discernible merit a fantastic, spiritual grace allows glory, a brand new sense of mission out of those things and events which remain behind.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007



Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching. By the time I had reached the storm cellar doors and stepped beneath to center of a crawl space, sirens were screaming. Fear and humidity had had me soaked to the bone.

I always was the kind of guy who sought white-light experience. In church I closed my eyes and reverently prayed that the statuary might move for me. I wanted a sign. I played a lot in my own and other people’s basements. By the time I was ten years old I would take a couple aspirins and drink a coca cola, then enclosed myself in large cardboard box hoping to be by vision transported back to ages of the dinosaurs. At the same ten years of age, me and Carl, a friend from neighborhood, would take turns attaching ourselves to one of the contact points of a Ford Model "T" spark coil, using a regular car battery to power the apparatus. We took care not to ground ourselves by standing on wooden chairs. Then, while a buzzing arch of mega voltage, created by the collapse of some electromagnetic field, leapt across the contact points, we took pictures of ourselves. Our snapshots caught the round fluorescent tubes, turned on, held one handed directly over our heads, halo-like, their gases charged, ignited by all the direct current roaring through our bodies. Ha!

I had always sought white-light experience. I was Narcissistic to the core. During my Hippie days I loved it when the room's walls became transparent, when all the furniture in the house became clear structures, seemingly composed of a see-through, glass-like substance. On the beach I loved to stand before the waves and watch the ebb and flow. Before my own eyes I might witness these waves cleave into vertices, faces and edges. The sea would open up down to the floor revealing assorted canyon-like structures, the sides of which seemed composed in a truly splendid way of basic, solid geometrical figures, one solid sometimes fitted into the other. Others were arranged side by side, or one upon the other. I saw the geometrical basis of the universe, the five, regular Platonic solids: the octahedra, icosahedra, dodecahedra, tetrahedra, and cubes. These solids were everywhere in the sea. Their arrangement invited me to explore, to step farther into the waters. I was like the scientist of yore, but now high-powered. I was excited, like some watcher of the sky when a new planet fell into his view. Once I looked down the beach and saw women in long black dresses. They were holding open black parasols over their heads. I ran after these women, but before I reached them they had disappeared.

But here against the fence on Sheridan Square in New York City I had been dropped. I had enough sense, barely enough sense to realize that the entire vision quest had come to an end. The general had been knocked off his horse. I recognized that I had been introduced to New World of consciousness. I was on the verge of psychosis. I would no longer be able to kick against the pricks, that in my blindness, I had found sight. And in that moment of pitch-blackness, I had found light. The havoc of that storm had brought me peace. I slowly came about, and began to walk straight across Eighth Street toward the East Village, and there on St. Mark’s Place between the Bowery and Second Avenue, I entered my friend Mark’s hair cutting establishment, and told him I needed help. I always liked Mark. He had been a boxer and a dancer, and he was a fellow Midwesterner. Back In Detroit, while in junior high school I believe, he dated Madonna. He told me he would help me. I had to wait for the end of his workday at 6:30 PM. He accompanied me to the Basilica, and once inside that church’s basement I surrendered.

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