the precipice

journeys to the precipice
have become familiar to me.
i have mapped every avenue 
to the edge
to the raw 
unwavering light
beyond what we know
the very brink of
beginning and end.

i go there
and come home again.

i accompany souls
but i return alone.
it is a terribly good endeavor
that blesses 
those with whom i walk
but bleeds me 
time and again.

i sit in silence
when comes the urgency
to go to the border 
one more time.

teach me how to die
she said
more a command
than request.
for a little less
than a year
i taught her all i know.
then she departed
and i waited for
the inevitable other
and the renewal of the teaching time.

they come endlessly
some with pain in their eyes
others come maimed, scarred
disabled
and desperate.
i abide daily with these. 

but this truth i have not disclosed...

every journey to the border
leaves me the less
until my time comes
and i also
do not return
on the morning of the good
pure
and loving 
Light.

The Worst Kind of Liar

The Worst Kind of Liar

Early winter snows pile and gather
Hushing Chicago
The way a mother hushes her baby.

The buses will still
Belch diesel 
Groaning at every corner.

Tomorrow
The steady tramp 
Of thousands of cold and wet feet
Will again beat
As any army 
In route step
Up and down State Street
And Lower Wacker.

But this morning
The skies are butter milk

And the buildings
Boulevards 
And avenues
Are comely in their blazing
Gowns of pretended purity.

They are all
Whitewashed sepulchres.

What lies beneath
Are worn salt boxes
Drained whiskey bottles
That have one remaining swallow
Of lies and broken promises.

Sleeping in the snow      
Are the bodies
Of the dying
Their breath so shallow.

The death rattle begins for those
Who will go unremembered 
And unmourned
Some only fifty feet
From a rescue mission
Or emergency room.

The snow is beautiful this morning.
But do not buy its promises.
Fresh snows are the worst kind of liar.

Anam Cara

Anam Cara

She would sing
With eyes closed
And her body undulate
Like growing things
In a shallow river bed
Below clean water.

She spoke more to me
With her eyes
Than she ever did
Through language.

Her touch was ethereal
And though years
Have spun me away
Seems I feel her hand
Yet in mine.

She invited me
To sunsets
Thunderheads
And snowy village walks.

She was scented in vanilla
And, below her tongue, was the honeycomb.

She was just here
A moment ago.

She never left
But gave so much
Of herself
I live off the excess
Of her grace 

Soulful beauty
Charm
And lingering shadow.

True lovers never leave.

Even their absence
Is occupied with the presence.

In No Particular Order

football and porn
he says
not in any particular order
he says.
it occurred to me
i never saw him smile.
seems he had no reason to lie.
perhaps the closer
one gets to their truth
the less compulsion they have
to deceive the hearer.

he talked easily about 
two young girls he pays
for sex.
he leaves hundred dollar tips
to bar maids that are
nice to him.
i remind him
that all bar maids are nice
to any fool with money.
but it's not "nice" 
he's trolling for.
it's their flesh.

tonight he's in a particularly
chatty mood.
outside the rain pounded
like hammers on coffin nails.
i want the rain to flood the world again
just like in Bible days
he says.
i want it to rise all the way
to my 23rd floor apartment
he says
so i can open my window 
and kick the baby bodies
as they bob by
he says.
i look at him
but he just stares down.

gotta go
he says.
the girls are coming by
and i don't wanna be late
he says.

will they die in your flood?
i ask.
i don't give a damn
he says 
as long as they do their job first.

it occurred to me 
that he never looks me in the eyes
either.

Cycle of Life

sculpt for me
from my own will
what brings my heart
and soul to thrill.

write for me
upon my mind
what stirs my yearning
sojourn to find.

quicken my hoping age
in need
to plant a furrow
of burgeoning seed.

whisper into my
patient ear
all the promises
a man holds dear.

lengthen my days
as autumn grows cold
and hours are wagered
as commodities, bought and sold.

and take this pain
from my own breast
and gently summon me
unto my rest.

Where This Is Headed

you are simply beautiful.
the kind of beauty
that burns the retinas
stabs the heart
and disorients the mind
leaving the tongue 
to sputter foolishness.

age serves me well
as a filter
allowing me to capture
what is visually appealing
yet guarding the heart
shielding the mind
and cautioning the conversation.

i feel no need to touch you.
your sable softness is a trap
into which i had fallen
multiple times before.
so, if i already know
where this is all headed
i can just smile
and wish you well
as i sidestep disaster.

i mean
if you don't mind
all that much.

i've gazed into eyes
exactly like yours before.
the method you use 
to entrap innocent fellows
like me
is to open up your tender heart
and allow the viewer
to imagine exactly where he'd fit
in a space of gentleness like you're
giving away free.

but it's not free
is it, darlin'?

i've bankrupted myself
on 'free hearts' just like yours.
so, apologies sweet thing
but i really need to make tracks now
'cuz if i don't i'll want just one more look 
then i'll ask your name
and 'afore you know
i'm in some nasty tattoo parlor
getting you inked in whatever's left
of my leather skin.

so, i'm sorry, baby, but i'm goin' now.
but before i do...
what did you say your name is, darlin'? 

A Stitch

come on
she said.
we're burnin' daylight
she said.

i still don't know
what she meant by that.
her's seemed to be
the only hurry in question.

so we walked.
step on a crack
break your mother's back
she said.

but my mom was long dead
and i doubt she much cared
whether or not
i stepped on any crack.

don't tell me i'm wrong
she said.
a man who lives in a glass house
shouldn't throw stones.

ain't no turning back now
she said.
but i wasn't there to hear her.
as i'd turned back awhile ago.

a stitch in time saves nine.

Linda

Linda saw more

With sightless eyes

Than I have in six decades

Through mine.

I told her she had beautiful eyes

The color of chestnuts.

Smiling, she said

She did not know colors

And I felt foolish

For having said such a thing.

But her easy laughter

Dispelled my gaffe.

When Linda sang

Birds hushed in embarrassed silence

And when her song ended

I could not speak.

It was a holy moment

As though in heaven

God smiled

And the altar sparked

With light and heat.

But that is not something

I could say

Through my once youthful lips.

Age has taught me better

And I wish I had said as much

Sitting before her

Cross-legged on the floor.

She bowed her head at her Steinway 

And her chestnut eyes misted

Like the cold November evening

Beyond her window.

Time and circumstance

Are harsh on friendships.

Linda is a memory now.

But occasionally

When I need cheering

I take Linda from the album cover

Among the dusty files of my mind.

Nobody watching could understand

The hushed pause a brief moment required 

While my inner ear

Placed the stylus in the groove

And I listen once more to Linda sing.

My foolish brain wonders

Whether the loss of sight

Was Linda’s stylus

And the subtraction of one gift

Became the addition of another.

....Linda....

My dear friend

You remain always beyond the horizon.

I will someday find you.

Not with eyes

But by the groove in my listening heart.

A Constant Season

towering above Midwestern prairies
and millions of acres of soybeans 
wheat and corn
fierce winds collide
and compress 
with city heat
bus fumes
and bodies
to paint a light 
sweaty sheen 
on the flesh 
of sun worshippers
vagrants and dusty children.

come with me.
and listen 
to the setting sun.
feel the current charge 
the evening
sparking like neon lights
along the avenue.

hold onto me
and we will fly high above
glass and steel
and the crumbling masonry
of aged tenement halls
whose residents sag 
like the flag outside the VFW.

night will fall
but only to those on 
the circumference of the city
where farms fall 
into the familiar lull
of the glow of televisions 
and unspoken conversations
marked more by body language
than consonants and vowels.

stay with me
through the hours
as the casino blares its life
with its chorus of calls and cards.

beneath bright arches 
along the interstate
burgers and fries
are bagged and sold to travellers
and hungry third shifters.

engines hum near the depot
awaiting early morning commuters
and city busses ready for their
daily routine.
bread is baked
eggs are fried
and sleep washed from eyes
as a new day blushes in the east.

our journey must end
but the sequence of days
is eternal.

calendar pages change
but nothing of the streets ever change.

even fashions pendulum and trend
but the burn and freeze of the city
is a constant season.

The Taste of Coconut Oil

The Taste of Coconut Oil

On the other side of silence
Are sandy reaches 
Of timeless oceans
Crested with curling white sprays
Of salty foam.

Above, gulls cry their plea
For food and bread crusts
Left by careless sunbathers.

Far down the strand 
Carried by a briny sea breeze
Roll broken verses
Of music from some small radio.

I can still taste the coconut oil
On your warm skin
And see afternoon's hazy rays of light
Scattering across your sleepy eyes.

Far behind our sandy nest
The sigh of tires come
From the beach road
And children's laughter follow
As though chasing 
The transit of holiday families.

In my lengthening years
I have abandoned things
Once thought necessary...
Telephone numbers
Account pass words
Even names of childhood friends.

But as time uncoils
The memory of you
In your yellow bathing suit
Hair swept across your face 
In the sultry July breeze
And your fingernails gently raking
My chest communicate 
Words unspoken
Of the seas and shores
Upon which we will join
When the sun and the sea collide
Decades hence.