Look who's talking
Badly about me
He tells me that I am
A religious fanatic
That is wrong
Because that is not me
Also he doesn't know me that
Well
That is the truth
I was born a Christian
And I will die as a
Christian
Yes I pray every night
For my Father
Before I sleep
It only takes a few
Minutes to do it

In this clouds and rain love
The sun is cold
Against our bare skin

All that is
Of this mundane plateaux
We are taught
An impure beauty

Even gold mist
And jade dew meet
For a single erotic encounter
Once a day

The man with fire and spice
in his veins,
his open, sympathetic eyes
are a window
to another world,
an artistic one,
a musical one.

Nick,
the man with the Bob Dylan beanie
and the laser focus
on getting all the notes just right.
With that ability to explain
the nuances of making music
from a ukulele.

An individual
with a sincere love of art
for arts sake,
and let oneself
enjoy the experience.
A musical fire cracker
with a gentle soul,
and a gentle face.

Oh, Dear Purple Couch,
you speak my name so sweetly
when I'm in your arms.

Your velvet touch sighs
like falling petals of Spring.
We rest together.

What might I give you
to return your gift of joy?
Perchance, this poem?

especially one named Broom Hilda,
hence immediately this birdman
wishes to escape into his eyrie
or seriously considers joining a nunnery
mainly for the less common slang definition
cuz yes, “nunnery”
sometimes used ironically to refer to a brothel,
and this secondary meaning
may well have added
a bitter undercurrent
to Hamlet's proceedings.

I think about sunlight
and its eight-minute journey.

What was I doing when it began
those few minutes ago?

It probably wasn't important.
Like living in the past,
I shouldn't stay there.

Blackness, cold, know
sense of direction,
guidance. Until
lanterns of hope
Spread like valiant
pilots.
Flying torchlights,
beating the dark air with
Specs of confidence
you aren't alone, let go.

Hey Bruce,
a call out to you
once again.
You made me remember
what I was worth
and what I had to do
to improve my life.
You made me think about
the bright sunny side of the street.
You made me aware
of just how many things I do
every day,
and not just for me.
You made me recall
just how good I really was
at getting stuff done
in a timely manner.

Some poets
are like fireflies
glowing, bright, intermittent
creatures of wonder

oh head that hears and heeds the call of nature
blessed heart that feels the poles of its magnetism
a fox sits contentedly on a stone beside the strawberry patch
while the deer and the rabbits forage upon the greens
coyotes, crazy, call to the moon
bright over forest and field
here I sit drowning in desire
needing to immerse myself
in these moments
drenched in this longing
to be part of it
to once again reside
within this sacred, ancient sphere
which has been lost
halcyon displaced
no longer.