Living w/out a Muse: an expedition, POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

Ocean [with forward.]

I was going through some milk crates,
which is where I keep my writing and
I found a book I was working on
“Living w/out a Muse: an expedition.”

But like a lot of my books,
they end up packed away.
cause as a chef,
I do not have the time to
work on and edit.

The book had a few poems
that had been in other books,
but most where poems
that were floating around.
and this though I had added to a book,
as what musicians would call
a hidden track.

This poem was one of those that just come;
and you figure it out later.
I wrote it on a cig break at work
on a card board box in the change room,
and then, went back to work.
I had forgotten all about it;
until, one of the dishwashers brought the box to me.


Days go by and I do not understand a word you say,
as your waves rise and lower upon the bed.
I think maybe I should have begun to understand;
but the words you speak are the notes of a song
sung many generations ago in a language
handed down only in etched stone.

The melody of your voice is simple but steady
and who can not admire the grace of step,
the giving of skin,
as you roll across sea-oats and shell beds.
The droplets of sweat that form and glisten
are both wet and salty to the touch of the tongue.

I am afraid as all men probably are,
as I attempt to swim to the core of your soul,
that you would storm and I drown.
So I build walls of rock and concrete upon the sands
to try to keep you at bay.
And only visit you when your waters are calm.
But this doesn’t work, a single wave from you
would drown my house.

So I have chosen the only solution:
to camp out upon the shell beds in your arms
under the stars
and wait and listen for a reply,
for you to instruct me how to fathom your love.

2002, POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

The Birds

After talking to you .
I let the dogs out
and went about cleaning my room.
going through papers and books.
trying to make since of it all.
I put on Nick Cave’s Boatman’s Call.
and then went out side
to look at my pepper and tomato plants.

The birds become abundant
crying ,
Buddy Gump walks at a fast pace
with birds flying all around him.
orange chests pushed into his face
beaks pecking at his butt
his tail tucked underneath.

I recall
a kitten that once purred in my lap;
then, later she clawed at my face.
her tail wagging,
strong sharp snaps
back and forth.

The birds circumvent me,
as Buddy hid behind me.
Their brown wings
crack before me.
I stand.
Their movements become tornadic.
they fly from me
to Buddy
to the trees
to the small black birds that fly about the sky.

but what was this all about?

There is a secret caught inside,
inside the throat.
hidden radiant whiteness.

Two birds attack and hammer us back,
Buddy Gump, I and the other birds.

But for what?
I bear witness to my own cowardice,
As I see that they joined together
to declare us dead.
for love:
a little baby bird had fallen
while trying to fly.
He had come down to rest within the dangers of the ground world.
for him these birds have lived
and for him they will die.

What they didn’t realize,
Buddy Gump was just trying to say hi,
to the little bird.

1991, POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

The Scientist Poem

This is a poem
written to the scientist,
asking questions about every molecule and nebula,
about things we cannot see.
They dictate these things,
make us go to labs try and prove it.
Eighty-five differentiated kinds of cells within the body.
It’s strange, almost perverse,
that prokaryotic and eukaryotic cells filled with cytoplasm
contain little organelles that work to keep the cell alive,
just as our organs do us so to speak.
Lysosomes, ribosomes, golgi bodies,,
all work in a labyrinth of membranes,
consisting of a double layer of phospholipids and other lipids,
forming flattened sacs and tubes that segregate the contents
from each other,
the Labyrinth of Minos.

I have to take their candor word
there are chromosomes
consisting of DNA
which wrap around protein macromolecules
and a few other things,
slammed into a nucleus.
Everything consists of these nuclei,
with their chromies and maps,
their messenger, RNA.
So these DNAs are the foremen of the construction of an organism.
Deep in the alleles of the chromosome they work long hours,
so that all cells and DNAs can live in kyosei (Japanese meaning ‘symbiosis’).

I have to take on faith
that these things are true,
yet they bray me with their codex.

You are the worshiper of the god of mechanism,
and the dance of the embryo.
With the Oocyte of Mary laid on a cold table
soaking in chemicals of static.
It makes me realize
the gods are scientists,
and this planet just an experiment.
I wonder if we are the control
or some mutant strand,
somewhere off the genetic drift.

1987, Domina, The Uncollected Poems



A gypsy girl stands before me.
A dark wave of sense
full dark eyes
which search me.

Clothed in shadows
her flesh recalls
the thrill of hunting wasps
on a raw hot tin roof.

Wasps gather around
clutching fingers
twisters on a gnat covered field.

I’m sorry, I’m wasted.
I can’t deal with this.
I’ll think about it in the morning,
when I wake up.

POETRY, The Uncollected Poems

I take everything doubtfully

A bat hangs upside down
during the day sleeping;
but at night he comes down eats.

I can see the doubt
hang from the ceiling waiting;
but at night it comes down eats.

I take everything doubtfully
even hope.
I had a dream once
but when I woke,
I could only remember half of it,
and at the end of the day
the rests fades
and I remember only I had a dream

Sometimes we act
go in and out
do this and that
and easily forget
what it was
we were actually
setting ourselves up for.

How truly we don’t know anything.
-I don’t miss you.
sign out before you leave
and don’t take the pen.