Originally posted 10/19/2008.

this morning
we were

archerfish
and bluebird,
cat
and swallowtail, 
monument
and fountain,
abstract
and concrete.

we were

marble, clay, steel, flame,
building up
and carving away;
brancusi
and calder,
rounding off,
grounding, then
suspending
and floating.

making love is nothing
if it is not sculpture: 

surface is paramount,
a glimpse of
the potentials within
to lead us on.
our hands swerving
and smoothing, gliding
up over the ribs,
varying pressure,
thumbs teasing forth the nipples.

here is where we bend
back, here is where we
create the arch of the neck,
where we
mold the open mouth — 
there is so much time
needed for each lip — 
so much care needed
to give the hips their crests, 
to choose
the ridge for each cheek.

but we are not stone and bronze,
made to remain still —
we move —

plastic now, animated now,
stillness swiftly swept up in frenetic once again —
again, picking up the tools,
seeking new forms, next revelations;
this time

cat and bluebird,
swallowtail and archerfish,
nevelson and rodin,

or, better —
nameless before the possibilities.

there is animal in me:
let’s carve in to find it. 
there is goddess in you:
let’s carve.
let’s find it. 

Originally posted 10/15/2007.

The lump in my chest
still moves according to the body’s plan,
but it had its own plan once.

What did my heart think about
back when it still could think?
It’s been sleeping for so long — 

there were times
when I had a glimpse of something
(breeze in a poplar; a skirt wrapping
around a leg in mid stride;  tears trickling
on a man’s hard cheek)
and my mind called up
a poltergeist ache within 
but I thought it had settled there because 
atrophy had made room for it
and not because I thought
my heart was awake.

I still cannot easily believe
in a Lazarus dawn but
there is something here
I cannot deny
early in the morning
when I turn toward her
breathing beside me;
something directed outward,
something that wants to be heard — 

there is a knocking in the tomb.

Originally posted 11/11/2012.

Here is a human heart, 
a fist-sized ball of thick meat; 
here is its dimly connected brain. 

Somewhere 
in a sealed box
in the wet of the mind,
buried in 
the brain’s ropes and curls,
is an inaccurate map 
the heart is supposed to follow,
but never does.

The blind little stubborn heart,
running off on its own;
the jealous careful brain 
whining and tagging along behind — 

that’s the story of,
that’s the glory of…

Originally posted 8/29/2013.

Providence, dark bayside muse,
lent itself well to his humors.
He glimpsed potential lovers
in the same pits and holes
where potential horrors could be found.

He did not in real life love much or well.
He did not trust others, carried dank biases too far,
mistrusted at last even the devotion 
of his own monsters to their creator;
in the long run, he only kept the city

as full companion and partner. He was born
here, left and returned, eventually died
muttering about the pain in his gut and
the Elder Race in his dreams, settling at last
on one phrase to capture all his intention:

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
Think of the man unveiled there:
one so soaked with darkness he had to squeeze out
new words for those depths within him,

the same depths he sensed in the alleys behind the grand homes
of Angell Street, Waterman Street, Benefit Street;
the depths in the drowned eyes that sought him out when he stared into
the waters that emptied here from the New England hills.
New words for something at once terrible and inescapable —

something, at least to him, very much like love.

Originally posted on 1/31/2010.

Dime by dime and
penny by penny
you fill paper rolls
to try and make
the empty spaces in the rent
as you dream of folding money
piled in drifts you’ll need to wade
to get through the door between you
and what you call
real life
as the rattle 
of the old windows
mocks you 
scolding that you’re not going far
with cold feet and thin socks
cheap shoes and a worn coat

Here’s news for you
This is a real life

Success here is found in making do
and getting by
seasoned well with lovemaking
at odd hours and rough moments
when there’s nothing else to do
because the cable’s unpaid
the phone’s shut off
the gas might go at any minute
but you draw together and laugh
at the way your breath comes faster
as you kiss on the broken bed
and push against the gritty walls
of bargain paint
Faster and harder than poverty can smash your mouth
you smash your mouth on love and hard want
and softer than the cold wind can slip under the door
you slip into the good sleep of afterwards

Those who dare to make things work
make them work rich or poor
So don’t lie alone
until the day you’ll be rich
as it may never come
Bring yourself to joy
with pennies and dimes in paper rolls
and embraces
in the always generous night

Originally posted 3/1/2010.

You create a new word
right after dinner
and send it out to play.

It begins with a “C” and starts out strong
but soon trips over its own round foot
and falls down the stairs. . 

You bend to pick it up
and cradle it to your bosom,
rocking it while it weeps.

You change it into something
that begins with “E.”
And at once it’s all better.

Isn’t this fun? Creating new words
that mean nothing, do nothing
until you give them voice?

You can’t even pronounce these things.
Still, they’re alive because you breathed them.
It’s a nice power to have.

You can do this as well, you know,
with those you claim to love —
say their names as if you were in charge,

re-spell everything that has hurt them,
change the names themselves
if they carry too much weight.

If the only safety you can offer
is to give them new names
in a language you don’t know 

you learn that tongue as fast as you can,
practicing the words
when no one can hear you,

because love
is language invented
and held in secret

until you know
with whom
you are meant to speak.