June 10, 1981 at 6:54 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

There are certain smells
that hang around
no one but girls
I’ve found.

There must also be
a smell for boys,
maybe the scent of their pee
or maybe their toys.

But I cannot tell
no matter how I try
what a boy’s smell is.

Guess I’m a boy is why.


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June 10, 1981 at 6:46 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

If you take ten things you know
and mix them well together
and dump them to a salad bowl
will it help you find the weather?

Ok, you bring a million things
into your search of weather
or split them to a million bowls
is your salad any better?

And have you found a single cloud
from your verbalizing loud?
Have you seen or touched a sound?
Have you made a raindrop round?

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June 10, 1981 at 6:26 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

If dreams were my fingers
and prayers dances come true,
on falling meadows I would linger
sleeping with you.

And life were a true thing,
which it is (but not soon)
I would give up my manhood
to relearn it from you.

If wind be my voice
with a tongue green as leaves,
I’d speak you no noise
harsher than breeze.

And thoughts were an oak tree,
not intellectual — but were dark —
words curl like black branches,
kisses thicken like bark.

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June 10, 1980 at 6:50 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

Oneness is found in the East
Wonder’s at home in the West
but Faith resides in a place of peace
between a woman’s breasts.

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June 10, 1980 at 6:50 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

The Queen’s Lace puts a heavy head
up. I put a light.
The Clover’s frock is red tonight
beneath moon’s parasol.
I’m liable to die.

Even the flowers cannot be erased
from the backstop of time.
Even grace
can’t save the lonely daisy
of Human life that has lost its stem.

The wind can be stopped
by a factory at work.
The life
of every worker can be stopped
when the flower’s plucked.

The flower’s been plucked.

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June 10, 1980 at 6:49 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

Thought never made a man be a man
Machines it has made on every hand.
Thought-machine nabs a woman, woos her by soft
Cooing rhythm of the electric hum of his cogs;
Then thought-woman, like an earthworm, swoons, makeup gone smuck,
Uncovers her hairless legs, straddles machine, and they fuck
By the light of the silvery moon
In Ju — Ju — Ju — June.

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Gibbous Encounter

June 10, 1980 at 6:48 pm (Darkness, Featured Poems, Poetry)

Sit then, we shall make a nest
and I shall clutch you, my lips impress
a dark rose on your breast.
I will put it for a test
of this encounter as your guest.

There then, and let me plant
another here, and here beneath your pants
let loose another in the forest: we’ll let him tramp
around for a woodless valley. Let him find the camp
I will make tonight — but first must go out the lamp.

No lie back again — don’t stir.
It’s now too dark and — brrr!
it’s cold! But don’t act so uncomfortable. I’ll cover
you warmer than the warmest fur.
Me or blanket — which would you prefer?

Go ahead then, hesitate.
Let that silly mind of yours step in to legislate,
like some old spinster, the kind of love you make.
Go ahead, let it tell you wait
until it’s worked out some ideal, romantic way to mate.

Why do you huddle on the bed
squeezing double knees to the breasts
like that; why fold arms around your naked head,
throwing such a volley of tears, and nothing said?
I’m not impressed.

Look at me.
Lift up that naked face — don’t you see
you must be sensible. This isn’t fantasy.
And it’s no game; now will you please
take down those knees?

So cry at me. You say it’s sex
I’m after. You think I’m out to flex
my muscle in your female factory; your text
is that you’re the big production, me just the annex.
I’m the one that’s vexed.

I took you for a woman. I thought
you saw me as a man. In moon we walked
this night to your apartment, now at the bed you balk.
It tires me, this talk —
now, feel it! my erection’s hard as rock!

No, no, don’t try to slip around
me to the door. Sit down!
You stay there on the ground.
I won’t be made a clown
even if I have to hold you down.

Since you won’t get on the bed
we’ll do it here. I’m fed
up with your resistance! See, you make me whip your head
against the floor, and now the wood is red;
and now you’re still.

I’ll have my way before you’re dead.

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June 10, 1980 at 6:23 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

In evening woods I met a snake.
coiled up as if to take
out anyone by the lake.

As night grew in I met a flea
running off so franticly
that the smallness of him frightened me.

In the dark I met a sound
ten hundred yards long and bound
by silence it knocked down.

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Sex Real & False

January 1, 1980 at 12:00 am (Darkness, Poetry)

Real sex is beyond the mind.
Real sex makes you blind.
Real sex brings in the demons.
Real sex is the living semen.
Real sex whorls you deep
in the other’s sleep.

False sex is a skill we’ve learned.
False sex is a fear we’ve spurned.
False sex is the mind’s cute fun
meeting the other one one-on-one.
False sex is the fear of feeling.
False sex is the body’s heeling
falsely to the mind’s chosen fun.
False sex, facing one against one.

Real sex is a breath let out.
Real sex is an unstopped shout.
Real sex is tears on the face.
Real sex is fear let escape.
Real sex is the nude revealing
of oneself to the other’s healing.

Real sex can’t be talked about
or the flame goes out.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:25 pm (Poetry, Riddles)





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June 10, 1979 at 6:24 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

Obscure, once seen I am clearly seen.
Voiceless, I tell my tale from my own view.
Dead, I never live.
Living, I may not soon die.
My world wears the unknown face.

I am the answer to the question I ask.
When I wear no clothes
I hide my message beneath my dress.
When you find it hardest to see me, I stare you in the face.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:23 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

I grow, yet have no feeling,
and where I always spurt ahead, I get mowed down
and it doesn’t bother me a mite.
Usually noticed but seldom used
I hardly know my purpose.
Yet often I’m painted red;
I must wear this false face
though I have neither eyes nor nose
nor mouth nor ears to hear by.
I am just me, hard and thin.
Pure growth, without sensation. By this I expose
banalities of paint and trim.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:22 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

Though my skin may be yellow, my soul is black.
But in its very blackness lies my value,
though the truth is I am more skin than soul.
Fated with a stiff body I sit on a soft butt,
and if I make a mistake I can always change it.
Born to non-violence, I receive much violence;
but though I face the blade often I only grow sharper.
Often-times cut — yet I never bleed.

Tall in first youth, I lose height in my old age:
butt worn with use, I am tossed away.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:22 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

What I make is the sound
of a certain animal
famous for the way he feeds me
at his own relief.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:21 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

If I am the wind I can’t be felt.
If I am a tree I can’t be climbed.
If I am the sky I can’t be breathed.
If I am fruit I can’t be eaten.
If I’m the grass I can’t be rolled in.
If I’m a mouse I can’t be chased.
If I’m a house I can’t be lived in.
If I’m a shoe unlaced I can’t be laced.
If I am night I can never become day.
If I’m the sun I can’t shine on you.
If I’m the frost I can’t fade away.
If a baby newly born I can’t be weaned.
If I’m a shut door you’ll never open me.

Yet if seeing is believing, I am seen.
What am I?

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June 10, 1979 at 6:20 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

I am a parasite on the body.
I bite clean through the skin and hang on.
Biting without fear, often I hang clear in the air
yet my victim welcomes me.
Somewhat male, I prefer to bite females
(although I’ve been known to bite the other kind too).
People have called me beautiful
even ornamental to see,
and my body flashes goldish or silvery
and my back a glittering beauty
as I hang swinging from my victim who loves me so much.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:19 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

I am one not American
and my blood is not red.
Winged, I do not fly.
Well-footed, I cannot walk.
Well-fed, you never see me sit at table.

Although my companions love to speak
I’m not spoken to.
Should I die, my mother would not miss me,
no kin folk cry their sorrow,
no friends come sulking at my funeral.

Named, I do not know my name.
Taller than this riddle is long,
who am I?

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June 10, 1979 at 6:19 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

Soft, yet I must withstand countless blows;
and although I take them well, they steal my tan.
Like a dumb snake I roll up my tail and head,
yet leave my middle exposed;
and I am as thin as paper, and paper visits me often.
We chatter, I travel my allotted way, and paper fakes it:

but when the blows on me come hard, it’s paper who takes it.

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June 10, 1979 at 6:18 pm (Poetry, Riddles)

I am one who is tall, and stands upright
and though you may say I do not eat well,
it does not matter, for I am one to be tall and thin.
For this I am famous throughout the whole world:
though a million be in line, I’m the one who’ll be first.

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December 10, 1978 at 6:15 pm (Darkness, Poetry)

A brown leaf scraped at the window pane
just when I
had thought I had lost enough to cry.

It signaled
to me like a finger pointing

to a spot on the ground full of the sun-spanked clover
I had been sitting in earlier

that very same day
hunting & hunting for a four-leafed one that I might save.

But never found. And the brush
of pain
was too much for the scant
my life retained.


some brown leaf screamed at my window
just when I
had given up on the lie.

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