Well Trod Path

I’ve spent my life taking
the path least familiar and
less traveled on five
continents, but a path
that is best cherished is
the well trod one through
the woods to my neighbors’
house.

About a hundreds yards or
more, whether in the summer
or any season, the path winds
through the woods to their
backdoor. I generally don’t
knock, but give a call of
“hello” and most times it is
a call back of, “Come on in.”

A glass of water or wine offered,
and if it’s around dinner, an extra
plate appears on the table.

If a tool is needed it’s there
in their shed or ours, readily
available.

This well trod path through the
woods so familiar and known
that even in the pitch black of
night we can find our way to each
other’s door.

* for Michael & Phyllis Gigante

Email, texting, being important

Email, texting,
etc.:
The Importance
of being Important

Email, texting,
on the cell
phone, constant
yammering,

urgent addiction
to emails, checking
it every ten minutes,

as if something
important was
there, life threatening,

an urgent call
from a girl-friend
while you’re on
a date.

your date takes
out his cell phone
and suddenly
you’re at the
dinner table

can we admit
most of it is
very silly
nonsense?

And for me
this very
famous
person, in
my own
mind,

no, I’m
not as
important
as I think
I am.

Are you
as important
as you
think you
are?

Portrait of you

My lover died

yesterday. I had

time with him

alone, before the

nurses, doctors,

and other well

meaning people

came.

I caressed his

hair and combed

it one last time.

A few strands

fell off in the

comb and I

kept those.

I wore a faint

touch of lipstick

and kissed his

lips one last

time. I placed

a kiss on this

canvas. As

many as the

memory of

our loving

could hold.

I ran my finger

under his armpits,

I smelled it and

it was too clean

but it had his

scent on it and

I placed it on

this canvas.

I kissed and

held his cock

in my mouth

one last time.

I know he has

AIDS and I

do not, but for

the memory

of all of our

loving, the

laughter, joy

and for the

years we

would never

have.

I then kissed

this canvas

again, the saliva,

perhaps filled

with AIDS …

or

was the disease

at last

redeemed with love?

Was the disease

blessed with our

final loving?

From those arms

once so strong

who held me

I drew tubes of

blood, as much

as his still veins

would offer.

On this canvas

I have written

this poem with

his blood and

as I write it,

the tears run

down my cheeks

without fear

or shame.

His blood dried

quickly and

I couldn’t finish

and drew blood

from my veins.

This canvas

torn from our

soul, a fragment

of our journey

interrupted, but

a memory of

love

complete

RAFA: King of Pain

The King of Pain

Sweet boyish face smiles

in victory after victory.

In the middle of the match

he skips back to play

like a little boy in a school yard,

but this is where the boyishness

ends and the king of pain

takes over. He is like some

cartoon figure that turns himself

into the monstrous hulk…

the scowl returns, the eyes

narrow like an animal on

the hunt, and the bulging

biceps and muscles grow

with each point.

But what kind of

animal is this

…moves like a gazelle,

ferocity of a wolverine,

the grace of a hummingbird,

the persistence of a bull

and the cunning of a crow?

This animal can be no

other than Rafa raised

on the red clay of Majorca

and now stalking the

tennis courts of the world

with ferocity and grace,

inflicting pain and dashing

hopes of those who fall

before him.

Though at the end when

the battle is over

the boyish smile returns,

and with the grace

of a champion he acknowledges

his foes…

but there is no mercy

when Rafa takes the court

as he is the King of Pain.

I will Miss Heaven: An Atheist's Soliloquy

we laid in the garden,

my lover and I, she

amongst the clouds

and blues of the sky,

I in our garden of

red and white poppies.

One day there will be

no poems and all

my intimacies

with god will be tender

recollections of love,

poignant memories of

desire and ashes.

Though an atheist by

necessity, I have loved

you with an ardor and

reverence that not

even the Pope could

imagine or aspire to.

A blade of grass is

as inspired as a steeple.

God and I have been

tempestuous lovers,

rousing arguments,

but mostly they were

arguments with

myself.

I kicked open the

door to your boudoir,

with muddy boots,

ripped aside the

curtains, but you

were filing your

fingernails gazing

at the astral blue

clarity of the sky.

Two eunuchs stood

guard at the door,

Desire and Gnosis.

Perhaps a

a ménage a quatre?

The shimmy shake

with Gnosis, Desire,

et toi – mi amor?

I longed to lie in

the nesting chambered

nautilus of lovers,

but knowing and loving

only begins in the

surrender to love.

In this I failed, again

and again, and

chained myself to the

wheel of expectation.

There is no freedom

in love or desire, but

in my quest for

intimacy with you,

dios de mi amor,

I’ve found the

redemption of our

private secret loving.

…in the garden,

my lover and I.

Assses: Global Warming Sex Poems of Slugs

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned.

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan.

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.
+++++

Slugs as Great Lovers
Never thought of slugs
as great lovers until
today, I saw a porno
movie that captured
their amorous romance.

Slithering in a mucous
rapture towards estrous
leaving a scented trail
of the equivalent of a
bed of fresh roses,
Belgian chocolates,
and the promise of
hot sex spoken in
a fragrant bouquet
of pheromones.

Man, the film was
kinky!
I was getting a little
excited as the two
slugs congealed
in their thick
mucous rapture,
coiling round
one another in
a spiral of love
for hours in the
slow juicy
exchange of
fluids,
--in their
hermaphroditic
rapture their
luminescent
blue penises
glowed in the
dark

and at
the climax
one dropped from
the tree in
a sated orgiastic
thrilling fall

It laid there
on the ground
still

exhausted
thoroughly
spent and
musing,
“Man,
she/he
was hot!”

++++++++++++

Excerpt from: Easter 09
My obligation as an artist, maybe
that is a stretch, my obligation
as a sentient being is to be awed by
the Universe.

The whole universe.

The sunrise on Estrellas, the planet
so secret from scientists
that only a poet can visit, where
stars don’t shine but laugh
from the memory of redemption.
Have you been there and seen the
intimacies? Have you seen
flowers bloom with the heads of Saints
and saviors from the planet Earth?
There is a garden where Jesus and Buddha
Mohammed grow.

Jew – Christians- theists and even atheist
grow in the garden then plucked, stems,
stalks, but the seeds remained.
On the piano, by the window that overlooked
the five moons of Estrella, light streamed
through the window
everywhere in the universe colors are
universal
except here by the Edge of Memory.

The precipice where the Universe will
tumble and fall off,
is the Edge of Memory

May
I translate some of these colors?
Love is the first color:
Something akin to an e flat minor,
a blue lilac disintegrating
into razor thin slices of reality:
six lives, ten incarnations of
an e flat minor suspended over a pool
of fire
sacrificed for her own beauty.

Placed in the vase found the memory
of desire.

Anguish:
A chromatic minor key that unlocked the
`room of memory.
Fidelity:
Fidelity to the integrity of desire. A round G bass note
on a cello inside the subterranean vault of the Metro
by the catacombs – La Defense – when I played the
adagio in G – bones of the catacomb seemed to moan
with pleasure at the memory of sound.

+++++++++

Alchemy of Love

I’m a writer who
needs a quiet
place to work.

My wife is in
the kitchen
joyfully
banging
pots
and pans

in her
flurry of
cooking.

A knock
on the door.

Pancakes
strawberries
and whipped
cream served

as my writing
is interrupted
by the alchemy
of love.

Unraveling the Knot
Spring unravels
the thick knot
of memory
that binds
us to winter.

The alchemy
of love to
surrender.

Da’fence Department

A fence in my world
is someone who takes
stolen goods, gives
you a fraction of its
worth, and resells it.

The Department of
Da’fence stealing the
future of America,
& repackaging it as,
“Democracy for export!”
“Freedom from terror!”
“Free trade for the USA!”
“Protect our Oil!”
All wrapped in red, white
and blue.

Obligation

My paintings may never
hang in a museum or seen
by more than friends.

My poems may never
be heard or read by more
than a roomful of people.

My songs may never be
heard by more than
a few.

My creative work that
I devote my life to -- may
not find an audience in
this life…

but as an artist my
obligation is to wake
up each day and create.