It Dawns on a Lesbian Son

Darkness, woven gently, is lightness, Lover.
Orange sunbursts dazzle us, killing subtly
senses rightly made for the slightest changes-
Philistine sunrise!

My Vanished Friend

After another season
of Thurdays
composed of nine-ball
and mere drinking,
of a sudden,
Rory became blunt vernacular
wielded weird and wild as
a road rage tire iron
appropos of whatshisname’s
or suchawho’s mere existence.

The pool hall population
Dwindled and the owner
Asked questions to
which I’d no answers.

Even beforehand
what might have
naively passed for charm
was ‘bout as sweet
as an oily puddle.
A deceptive bit of rainbow
on the surface-

immediately underneath
was ultimately unctuous,
terrifically toxic.

Something'd come unglued in him,
and what was once merely unsusual,
occasionally interesting observation
careened through mania
toward the paranoic.

" I tell you
I’m singled out,
surveilled by hawks
along the highway!

My sleep’s a harbor for
the clash of talons,
the screech and clatter
of screaming eagles.

In the end,
practicality’s merely ballast, buddy.

I can feel
what I once referred to
as my Self
receding-

and it ain’t coming back.”

I must have looked worried,
for he reassured me
as he clambered
onto his woefully maintained,
once exquisite, Colnago-

“ Don’t worry,
Dulcinea’s drawing near.
My compass points
to hypoxic heights.”

Said the Monkey to the Monk

The sickly symptoms of the sensual
too long sublimated will up and bite
one direct upon the proverbial
buttocks. Respectful wonder at the might
of certain hiply amplitudes is but
the fate of forces quite sub-atomic.
Attempt if you will but you cannot shut
the fine fount down, that's just tragicomic.

The most sublime still undergo a change
of state when the ripe fruit bends down the bow.
The blood's swoon indicates you're well in range
of the incessant sun's burning prayer- "now."
He whose hunger is humming is his hands
walks sweet beaches on Venusian sands.

As it was...

Start with five favorite poems.

The rest ?

Extemporize.

Spice all seasons
with the simmery saveur
of uncurried favors.

Watch the rough wind rake
white caps on the bay
beneath the Golden Gate.

Sit on an sunny bench
in a shady part of town,
eyes blown full
of city street grit,
fall asleep and wake with
pigeons fluttering about
your dream-draped head.

When later comes
(and it will)
relish the long look back
to days that seemed
to seethe and dazzle.

They were thrown at you
in ripe, clustered bunches,
and you devoured them.

In the dog-eared fotographs from then,
you can practically see
the sweet juice gleam
from grinning, wine-swilling chins.

Men, through history,
very generally speaking,
have too oft wrung
their work-thick hands,
love lush afternoons forgotten
in the avoidance of provincial notoriety.

In the instant of return
of simple surrender
there the essential is relinquished-
like fragrance sent in the flicker
of a scented candle's flame-
it approaches the absolute.

Anymore
there are no wrong songs sung,
none too naive-
this you'll realize
(effortlessly)
when pulling a cork
or blowing out a guttering taper
some nondescript nostalgic night
of twice read autumnal tomes.