Lazarus

The injury of sex--
this wound, this scar--
heals like sweat
evaporating.

Recalled,
my cooling body
begins to breathe.

I am Lazarus
wrapped in linen,
fever broken, walking;
I am
roused from the grave.

You wanted
(so badly) to see me again,
to fuck (I presume)
but now
you keep your distance. 
Standing
pressed in the corner,
you say I smell
of decay. 

To assuage you,
I sleep
outside
like a dog
without the moon
to summon
my howl.

The Laying-On of Hands

This body,
naked
on the table--prone, stiff, pale,
almost blue--is waiting.
Having lost
the blush of modesty,
the dignity of religion--
we would call this
a cadaver, were it not trembling.

See how it shivers,
like water wrestling
with bad memories
or skin rippling,
anticipation
of the healing
touch...that does
not
come.

Idea

This history elucidate:

I
need
not
open
childhood's
every
nasty
thought
secretly...

To be continued...

Regardless of what you may do,
the grim reaper will be back for you.
You will wake from deepest sleep,
your soul now rising from the deep
to uncover what is "true".

The Beauty of the Boy

The beauty of the boy

distorts the mirror, wind on water,

poetry on the soul. Something

said in whispers, perfect

puffs of air 

will put 

out the candles,

one

by

one.

                                                                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

The Cult of Life & The Cult of Death

The cult of life infects us with such
infectious
euphoria; and it adores
the cult of death
because.....


It is the cult
of death
who's dark canyons, whispering crevasses, sunless caves and pock-marked landscapes
serve well the purpose
of unearthing
all the gleaming treasure--
the gold, the sapphire, the amethyst--
that was once buried
by the setting sun (for kaleiding rimes
and reveries,
the moonless ravings)
here
in the midst of the living,
where the lovers
of life
in bright colors
and timeless smiles..



There is something else;
there is,
for example, the horror
when a hundred cameras
make contact
with the eye.  The pack
of infrared wolves is waiting
just there,
beyond
the dancing circle
formed by the light
of the laughing flames.

There have been controversies.
There will be  more.

And which is more timeless?
Death
or Life?  Is Life not
defined by time
and given weight, sweet gravitas,
by the secrets
rumored in the realm of death
or evidenced
in her disappearing stride
and strangled prose.

The Perfect Sentence

The brambles of hair on my forearms have become
--in the humming summer sun--
like ripened flax
against the good brown earth of my skin.

And in the buzzing,
a July night's insect chorus,
one swears one can hear the engines --
of planes,
of jets,
of flying saucers spinning
yarns from other galaxies,
(yawns from this one)
knitting brows and browsing
possibility
on these antennae. 

The harvest of hairs,
shaved by the wind's warm breath,
stand erect again...

this shiver,
this hunger for the sun, this belief
or better this knowledge 
of the eternal as it burrows
beneath the crops and climbs the tops
of ancient trees
or drops
like waterfalls
down upon his prayerful knees,
wholly absorbed
in the sound,

his own breathing.

The People Before: Superman's Morning

Where in your life were you
that morning after
everyone had gone
and you were changing...

out of your robe
into the shirt--
white, linen and cool--
that had hung
freshly pressed
through the night
on a hanger
off the door knob
waiting for you,

or
for your arm
chasing down
your five daring digits
through the pipe
of the sleeve

to emerge

in the sunlight
(so precious here,
rare) glinting
off your opalescent buttons
like bullets
deflected,
the teflon of your chest?

When He Left

on a cold day
forgetting
his jacket on the arm
of this worn leather
sofa,  the water still
running, waiting,
anticipating
his nakedness,
he never mentioned
anything
about the time
or the weather
and his regrets
were nothing
compared to mine.

Bluster

The sky suggests

the coming storm,

the humming sigh.

The fever warms

and blistered clouds

are soon reborn 

by the loud whispers

of believers. 

Down the gully,

water runs and drowns

the fully muddled sun.

The mottled lizard

tries to run.  The coming

flood consumes him.

The snipe, the snake

the skink, the skunk

all float away,

corpses and junk,

wiped out by God

who thinks he makes

and thus must rectify

mistakes.  Infection

stinks like sin once stunk.

The flash of lightning

lashes trees.

With frightening shadows,

enemies--who know

your fears--scream

in your dreams.  Mere

ash is more

than what it seems,

the memory of smoke.

And if I manage

to survive til morning

torn can break

the sky, then still alive

the earth will dry,

as will I. Waking is

a lot like birth

or conquest.  I will take 

a new land,

a still-born country.

"Deprivation" is perhaps
an exaggeration of your exacting tact
in telling me
that we should see
other people.   Really,
it was an invitation
for passage
to an exotic island
where erotic dances are designed
to prepare the viewer,
and not solely and cruelly
to tease.  Your hair style
stirs up snickers and grins.
I say nothing, suggest
nothing.  Why would I
want to see
you suffer
such public humiliation?