High Tide

The maroon crest curling in demolition

Gives voice to the crashing plate/

The roaring of a ruptured rock face.

Its furious burst & simmering decline

May hold the rhymes to a future verse.

But I won’t herald distant times;

Only the wide lapis lazuli plain &

The crest kissing my toes like

Bowing heads of the faithful.

Of Life Itself

Of Life Itself

Sharp, beastly shrilling

of mopeds & motorbikes,

pungent whiffs of weed,

streams of patois on the bus–

3 senses of life itself.

Drive by

Drive by

Candles on

urban street corner

Youth, age––?



Wilderness Abstractions

Wilderness Abstractions

Again I trudge through

porcelain drifts and razor

blade flakes hacking down

my bitter Spring prophecies

Again the nuances of this

defiant New England season

stimulates consciousness with

abstractions, contradictions,

awakenings, misplacements.

Again I see social analyses

feeding the energies of class struggle

within the bleak cyrogenic stalks

of slumbering trees.



Eros 3: Red Matter

Red Matter

where would we stand
In a mystic, cosmic sense?
‘Cause I know The Almighty
altered the universal order
To rotate your life around mine.
Fine, the interstellar gyrations
that levitate our hearts in synch
didn’t move so smoothly.
There had to be space-splitting
combustions of core wounds
before our orbits could align again.
Only then could our bodies sing
a spontaneous duet in the stars,
charting endless chords of celestial
lineages across the dimensions.

Everything comes undone

Everything comes undone

Everything comes undone sometimes.
The center can not hold itself;
keep from dancing with abandon
like eloped lovers in the rain
rebelling with boisterous discretion
in these perplexing times.
Everything comes undone sometimes.
Meaning loses clarity,
reason has no claws.
What tears apart inside
is that question of being:
where Solace of Self lies.

Complex Midas


Complex Midas

Disembodied wealth
hangs from us
like ribbons of flesh
from a carcass of dreams.
Working hands impregnate
the unconscious soil,
spawning visions of grandeur
that spin like Saturn’s rings
around our psyches––
constricting & releasing
constricting & releasing.
We all yearn to possess
our forefathers’ prosperous fruits––
that ripe produce of the vine
whose intoxicating nectar
grants us the material strength
of a thousand golden suns
fueling us with the scorching warmth
of the Complex Midas and all its virtues.
But from the abyss of riches past
a sage voice will call:
“Don’t think you have it all!
For though the ancient touch of Kings
can make you stand proud and tall,
A fool with money will always fall.”