no, it's not & yes, it is.

by looking at ourselves
and our lives
we might fret

by the pursuit 
of happiness,
the pursuit 
of answers 
to the wrong questions

of our life story
its very beauty
is a cure for
psychological malaise

the human heart
must find its way
back to beauty


perhaps an eventual epistemology

you embodied 
angelic consciousness

your heart
saved me from falling
far away

i imagined you
bare and familiar

of illness and circumstances

the painter 
does not know
the invisible source
of his work

the interpreter 
ignores the meaning
 of the painting

the source
is not unconscious
at all

inspiration deserves
i am giving it

life shows there is a vision
an ideal that 
stays vague
if not altogether


tears of theocracy?

thick, heavy book
our ordinary lives

the stories
of human nature
i want to ambitiously seek

eminent and exceptional,
the stories....
they show...passion

the extraordinary,
heightened examples
of another's character.

cannot be understood

all along,
this co-presence 
makes our 
ordinary lives

standing in the imagination -
personifications of marvel and sorrow
what comes to us?

our intimacies
burn into the soul- 
the beauties 
lunatics, lovers, and poets.


who was her leading man?
she who gave much
needed to be repaid
she needed devotion and love

the need for a human
a certain sound - 
because it comes from within

anchors of old friends
stability of health
the facts of geography
can never be enough

desperate attempts to 
accomplish it....
by entangling  emotional messes

in the midst of 

aggravated by fears of the dark.



despite the protest
of my conscious
i've decided  to
surrender to temptation
give in
consummate this love affair...

everyone tells me
my lover is 
beautiful, witty, endearing
our chemistry is palpable

it's as if
i acknowledge this
stellar dynamic
there will be no return
to my
carefully orchestrated complacency

a daring step
for a dame like me
to hell with convention
i am surrendering to this
menage a trois 
me, myself, and i


pulsating honey pot

to say that
she 'felt alive again'
would be
an understatement

it's as if
there are arms on
the inside,
reaching heavenward
through her thighs, 
with silent 'hallelujahs'
at their fingertips

beehives in her breasts
buzzing with a nectar
no tongue had ever tasted
in the middle of her forest
birds chirped
in blissful tones....
as if they had just
heard their melodies
for the very first time

it was a modern miracle, 
an unobtainable tale 
for non-believers,
a willing resurrection
there had never been death


flashing lights
through broken blinds
her head 
under old sheets - 
incomprehensible things 
such as
light years, galaxies, dinosaurs
words, desire, and god

she felt like 
a character in an
old bukowski poem

you know the type
- the girl in a cheap hotel 
after days of stale pizza
great sex
leaving a whiskey ring
on the gideon bible
for someone less fortunate
to clean

had taught her
to not be at ease
with this side of herself
his overwrought messages
about her soft undertones
had soiled
a soulful song
with stale seediness


conviction's caress

last night it recurred
the potential of 
this pain passing

you were there
at 3 a.m.
somewhere between my
cognizant cares and dreamy deliriums 
wearing warmly toned
prison orange
with a roughly honed  silence
sitting upon
an old and creaky pedestal

baring a placid peace 
from your private purging

i was far away
with this tattered, 
pale gown -
openly exposing
the messiness of my physical being
the purgatory of placidity

but somehow,
as things always were,
our rough imbalance
soothed me back to sleep -
a prison like cell
that freed
the bedridden parts
of my solidarity


water whispers

after heavy days
revolting sleeps
a wind has 
deliriously blown
my head of ugly hair
those blood filled scrapes
of raw skin
and bewildering thoughts

i know
i will swim again
beneath the blue skies
the distant shore
and the loss
of my life's raft