things that are certain

Stars have their fires

the fly its flitter

churches, their spires

the rain its hammer.

How many wrinkles can eyes hold?

Night draws his curtain

these stories all told

a hundred year clock, our burden.

Sure release of eggs

insures against the certain scythe

cramp of blood, pain, dregs

of unfulfilled life.

So lay out the tools:

tin nails and typewritten pages,

paint tubes, tape and broom

to protect while body ages.

the return of lost things

suddenly

all the lost objects

re-appear.

one guitar pick

camouflaged tortoiseshell

on the table

and wait, here are two more,

here are those pink knee socks

(whore socks, Junior called em)

and look here,

on the ground,

a spare key,

ninety dollars worth of gold.

all the lost things returning

from their place of ether

here comes that smart guy from school,

the nice one, strolling across the aisle,

and the soulmate, she's back too,

singing those shiny radiant songs

fueled by grapes and cheese.

another friend pops her head in the window,

says 'help me with this wedding'

and the old guy wants to

watch the old dog

like in the old days.

broken webs repaired,

like magic.

there's Hugo, the deer with three legs

maybe he'll find his lost leg in

river's rivulet over there,

in the dark woods.

let's dream big

fill up space with grand dreams

of beautiful new lives

dreams multiplying into infinity

with Hindu goddess arms.

How about a restored frontal lobe?

Pure untainted flesh?

A whole family on holiday?

Belief in real enraptured love?

Trust, purpose?

Casting those fine dreams

up into the fine air

like a pink blonde witch,

up into the giant question mark

of giant arms and hands

where they'll get sorted

while I tend the garden.

Preacher Casy

"'A girl was just a girl to you. They wasn't nothin' to you. But to me they was holy vessels. I was savin' their souls. An' here with all that responsibility on me I'd just get 'em frothin with the Holy Sperit, an' then I'd take 'em out in the grass.'

'Maybe I should of been a preacher,' said Joad."

from "Instructions to Poets and Painters"

by Lawrence Ferlenghetti

"I asked a hundred painters and a hundred poets

how to paint sunlight

on the face of life

Their answers were ambiguous and ingenuous

as if they were all guarding trade secrets

Whereas it seems to me

all you have to do

is conceive of the whole world

and all humanity

as a kind of art work

a site-specific art work

the whole earth and all that's in it

to be painted with light

And the first thing you have to do

is paint out the postmodern painting

And the next thing is to paint yourself

in your true colors

in primary colors

as you see them (without whitewash)

paint yourself as you see yourself

without make-up

without masks

then paint your favorite people an animals

with your brush loaded with light

And be sure to get your perspective right

and don't fake it

because one false line leads to another"

wave a white flag

by Elvis Costello

"take off your shoes

hang up your wings

stack up the chairs

roll up the rug

savor the things

that sobriety brings

drainin' the last from a jug

but when I hit the bottle

there's no telling what I'll do

there's something deep inside me

wants to turn you black and blue

I can't resist you

I can't wait

To twist your loving arms

till you capitulate

beat me in the kitchen

and I'll beat you in the hall

there's nothing I love better

than a free for all

to take your pretty neck

and see which way it bends

but when it is all over

we will still be friends

wave a white flag

put away the pistol

too many people just can't get kissed

but if there's nothing I can do

to make amends, baby,

hope you don't murder me, gee baby,

hope you don't murder me"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOUp3IO2IrQ

get in touch

If you have suggestions about writing, want to share your own stuff, have issues with me as a person you'd like to iron out, or would just like to get in touch, call me. 513-678-1941. Anonymity is for the birds! I'm really very sweet and like to keep it real.

sex without love

by Sharon Olds

"How do they do it, the ones who make love

without love? Beautiful as dancers,

gliding over each other like ice-skaters

over the ice, fingers hooked

inside each other's bodies, faces

red as steak, wine, wet as the

children at birth whose mothers are going to

give them away. How do they come to the

still waters, and not love

the one who came there with them, light

rising slowly as steam off their joined

skin? These are the true religious,

the purists, the pros, the ones who will not

accept a false messiah, love the

priest instead of the God. They do not

mistake the lover for their own pleasure,

they are like great runners: they know they are alone

with the road surface, the cold, the wind,

the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-

vascular health- just factors, like the partner

in the bed, and not the truth, which is the

single body alone in the universe

against its own best time."