fledgling

"fledgling"

i sit in a hotel suite writing
                                           about fame
& tradition.  ramshackle
                                        assemblage of
papers

            trailed by the affectionate cuddle
of cigarette smoke. i must've
                                              seemed old
& grey from her angle.
                                     even concrete &
glass put me to shame.

but that's not what other people
                                                 think. i am
a different season-- a hugeness of fiction.
an unending catherine wheel, that goes
     

           & goes.

"letters of note"

marvelous,

you are fooling around elsewhere.

we shared interesting places &
       listened to one another's antecedents.
i am certain
                   that is where this comes from.
i am half as good as i once was
                           and you see well enough.

to hell with it,
                         this is what we do
when we are at our best.

i am sure
               you were wonderfully
                                        naked

as you both tumbled the way novice acrobats
tumble. my memory will
                                                  place the shit
in the wastebasket, but this time you
                                                          cheated.

then my head flickers & i remember some old
words: "we have to hurt like hell
                                                     before we
get serious."

heavy handed

"heavy handed"

hands give & give back;

calloused fingertips twirl

obstinate purity as it falls

in & out of place.

what i have is a dream of you.

a clock tick rouses an empty

feeling to which i can't relate.

when i wake the room is bare.

white gloom in our thirties

seems elegant now. does it

strike you as profound to

run in our hour of need?

employ a fortuneteller; attempt

to predict time- but never wind

back the clock.

i'll climb toward stars &

make a home in your hair.

then again, maybe i won't

but i might.

i say that because there is despair in

wedding bells-- a stream of pure discord

that would run through my head & roll

from my mouth like a long-distance train.

there is a price for paradise.

if you do not believe me, i

will show you the scars.

recurring

"recurring"

it's strategy

the way you'd trade me

for better associations,

try to piece together everything &

realize that nothing turns you on,

to distinguish lies from truths & learn

of the secret, quiet places that i wander.

sometimes i wake up without your voice

and when i do, i always want to.

true widow

"true widow"

a true widow

stares into oven burners

& notes that love is the same as

writing novels for the deaf;

an epic soundless emptiness.

a true widow

stares into oven burners.