Sunday, June 29, 2008

Where is Franz Schubert?

After all the socializing and merriment
and cocktails and grapes,
(and he wants grapes),
and a view from a deck
as evening recedes into a
gray felt studded with colored lights across the valley
and down the hill
and straight back to that white house,

and more imbibing and verbalizing,
and walking,
and hugging,
around a table
at a counter,
in a rickety plastic chair,
on Mission at 24th
as Rory sings
"Hark the Herald Angel Sings
Glory to the new born king"
on June 27, 2008 at 10:47 p.m.,

May I tell you
feebly, and in a manner insufficient,
and in stutter of second guessing,
and in a sensibility lacking heft,
and in a spirit of utter surrender,

there was a scratch in the earth,
there was a break in the clouds,
there was a rivulet running to form a sea,
there was a ray coming over the horizon,

at that first meeting,
on another day,
in another city,
at a concrete topped table
over different imbibing of martinis manifold
and utterances and reassurances manifest,
when you opened a door for me
and held my hand
and walked me through.

Never as before can be
the man I was before,
can breathe no longer,
can see no longer,
can taste nor smell no longer,
can no longer be in the same body,
can no longer be in the same mind,
has no longer beat in the same heart that you loosened and unmoored
with your touch
and your kiss.

Whatever the days of sun,
Or misty rain,
Or humid thunderstorms
Filled with lightening that
brighten the night
of fervid kissing,
of transcendent couplings
that revel in and reveal a commingled
puddle of the primordial,
that may grow into
a fern,
or a civet cat,
or an new heart in hearts
that brings breathing
that brings sometimes a Brahms Sonata for Violin and Piano
that brings sometimes a Bach partita
that brings sometimes a Beethoven bagatelle
and now
the breathing and beating bring
the precious and breathing and beating that is you.

For this,
ever heartened and
ever humbled,
I will always thank you.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

For lack of a better

You may know

that each and every night since we kissed,

that alone in my room

I imagine the night to come

when finally

unbridled by distance,

we may touch night into morning,

we may singe the binding time to ash,

we may sing a vocalise that no longer
waits to find voice

that says from one to the other

this wait,


was merely time and space.

The universe ordains a joining begin,

demands that time and space

reveal their inherent fallaciousness

and innate need for tribute.

The universe decrees a joining begin that

arrests time and compresses space

into the finite between lips

and eyes and ears and hands and all that

may be joined and known and

that time and space are

revealed for their innate fallaciousness

and inherent need for tribute.

When once we finally touch,

all time and space

will fall away.

I am reminded

That touching you

is electric and that kissing you, in

what at this juncture

seems like another epoch,

was transcendent.

Yes, your kisses are revelatory and oracular

and tender and so necessary and

so wanted and so awaited.

The cleansing breath of your kissing

washed away the

uncertainty and childish fear of

abandonment and hurt and just plain sadness.

Sad has a reason.

Sad reminds us that we die,

reminds that because of love,

eternity is present in every breath

and that the quickening breath that is passion

is a blessing and a reminder

that love’s forms are multiple and as

inexplicable as time and space

compiled into The Universal Field Theory of Love.

What I am saying is that

I would like to ask if I may enjoy the taste of you

the touch of you and the

heart and soul of you

on a night soon,

under a moon bright or not

when this longing and desire at last become

revelatory kisses and electric touch

and for lack of a better word

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Marin Headlands

At the red light before
the five minute tunnel,
Does on the lawn
watching over their speckle coated fawns.

Two broods of quail on the roadside,
hens with crests tossing in the ocean breeze
hurrying the chicks
under a tangle of mustard.

One brave chick jumps on a branch,
flopping and fluttering
after some illusive prey.

The two mothers
seriously corral the
wayward chicks
into a quickly moving line.

They hustle down the road
as the light turns green.

Saturday, June 14, 2008


This is dreamtime
where desire becomes
light that comes up from the horizon,
where the light becomes the color that
leads us into the day
where desire becomes the
touch of one on the other.

This is dreamtime
where the light falling on the one and the other
bleeds from gold to rose,
and from rose to a fire that burns in dreamtime.

This is dreamtime without maps
and dreamtime where music is without score
and the novel is without words
and time is without boundaries.
We carry light that comes up over
the horizon that is a known dawning.

This is dreamtime where a new dawn
has not been before on
the touch of one on the other,
where the mist that swirls through the street
before first light
is a dance to a song previously unheard
in a rhythm previously untapped
by the touch of one on the other.

Days and hours and minutes and seconds in dreamtime are
days and hours and minutes and seconds in the swirling mist
that dances through the street before the first light on
the touch of the one on the other.

Days and nights are dreamtime in the
light of the song previously unheard of
the crow calling from the street light as
the bus pulls up to the stop,
as the door opens
and the dream unfolds into a ride
imagining the touch of one on the other
which leads into a walk through
manicured grass and neatly trimmed trees in
the first morning light
imagining the touch of the one on the other.

This is dreamtime crossing the street and opening the door
and alighting steps
and sitting with a cup of milky coffee
imagining the touch of one on the other.

This is dreamtime of
the day looking out on the manicured grass and neatly trimmed trees
and the solicitous squirrels and
simpering students and distant bridge
and through these
images and impulses
that are the imagining of the touch of one on the other.

This is dreamtime
in the most mundane of
grocery stores or public transportation
or in the walk on a well traveled street
in a late afternoon breeze
that caresses the tips of hair that bring
the desire of the touch of the one on the other.

In the dreamtime that you are
in the dreamtime next to another ocean
at a different time of night
in the dreamtime of Schubert’s
miracle of youthful lucidity
to one in late middle age
that is is the desire of the touch the one on the other.

This is dreamtime
where desire for touch is strongest when
light from the horizon is gray and darkens into night.
The light fades from the room
and shadows grow long with longing
for the touch of one on the other
in dreamtime that brings the two into one
in touch as
a song that brings light from
the far horizon of days to come into
a form of

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Sunday, June 08, 2008

060708 goes 060808

What isn't about desire?

Tell me a noble truth and I'll tell you
it is about desire
or the transcendence of such desire
or the experience of the desire
or the reliance on desire to
bring desire into

Have I told you
that I want to lie naked next to you
to hold you in my arms and
caress your face as
we kiss in abandon and ecstatic joining?

Have I told you
that I want to run my hand
down your back
to the crack of your ass
that I want to take all of you
in my mouth,
a carnivore of desire
that I may taste the
length and breadth of you
that I may savor the
heights and depths of you

that in a darkened room
there will be a new kind of light.

Light that is not based on the laws of physics,
nor metaphysics nor theology.
This is a light based on the
light that falls through the imagined window
on to the imagined forms on a bed
on to the imagined coupling
on to the imagined desire that
appears in the light that comes though the imagined
curtain at the imagined window.

I so want to be with you. This is desire
and as I know in my heart
All existence is suffering
and the root of suffering is desire
and on the early Sunday morning
after coming home late
and tired I would tell you
let us suffer our desires together.
Let us offer the other succor and release
let us offer the other the possibility
of release from suffering desire in
the night that comes through an open window.