You, Whom I Saught

(for Daniel)

No matter where you are–

I still hear you when you


You sing out so very far

Your voice so bright

–like a star–


All of our tomorrows

rushing up–

Every tomorrow:

spark, kindle, sparkle


spark myself up

Just for you

Light my heart ablaze and

through every torched moment

I pray

to God

that you see it

that you feel me

burning beneath your bed

sintering under your feet.

Love–let my heartbeat

form a marriage pyer

for when you say “I might”

for when you might hope to hear me

“Do, I–do, I–love you do–“

Love, my every heartbeat

bears God’s name–BUT–

he has them on loan

–from you–

Can God make a heart he cannot win?

I can never be certain–except I know

already you–my Lord–hold the title

and the deed and the name and word.

Whatever contract or arrangement you

and God

may have found yourselves making

–beyond me–

God now would never dare

–I know! I dared him!–

to claim title to my soul or heart

–Iron Lord of my Soul–

Governor of my Person and

Priest of my manhood.

Lord of my Soul–

I, your Poet–

Me, a Priest of Nothing–


Wait still–

for you, My Lord–

to finally begin–

to make us–

to make me your–


Battleship 1976

Everyone has bled, but only women and poets

need to bleed.

Everyone fears and prepares, but only sailors and poets

train to hold a knife-blade to civilizations’ throat.

Everyone envisions the past, its future, but only presidents and poets

preside over free souls as commander-in-chief.

I am Battleship 1976.

I am ultimate scion to the first Iron-clad warship;

My engines run on terror and pride that drove Vikings

to America.

See me in conflict and it’s already too late–

an armada you yet cannot see has you in range and awaits

only my signal to fire on your position.

I am Battleship 1976.

In the age of intergalactic travel,

my sister-ship is the NCC-1707 Enterprise.

God served as admiral upon a ship of my design when he

won the war in Heaven against Lucifer.

Ancient poet Lao Tzu drowned in a drunken midnight swim,

believing he could cross the Yang Tze river to board me.

I am Battleship 1976.

I am the vessel that every child with Lego bricks tries to build.

I am the ship that mothers pray their sons serve on,

whenever their country has a draft for war.

Mine is the name on God’s own lips, the name that

God whispered before he first spoke his own name.

I am Battleship 1976.


Me, on Street Ever Righteous

Moon, now Saint Erasure Rules

Mother, Stained End Run


My Southern Dog: Mon S. Terrier

The better blues: Mo’non-Stop’Er-where

After a car accident: mmm…on Star, State Your Emergency?


We, we all know we’re all monsters–

we, these humans; the dogs in the world

forgive us, even though they know

how cruel, cruel we humans can be.

Maybe dogs, they just figure–wolves still have it worse

all alone, out in wilderness.

I hope the dogs are right.

His Majesty’s Praetorian Word Wonder

Phantom Phantasm and

Phantom within phantom

–the Rolls Royce Grey Ghost

and his Grey Great Grand Damn Damme–

Wonder wander word wand wild world

–the barren Swedish snow is still a desert

as sure as any in Asia or Africa.

I don’t just better work–I

work better under high contrast and

excellent excitations.

Window sill and liquor still and bestill

my betraying heartbeat–I swear! I remain

indifferent to my expanding fascination.

Still I go on to go on

…and on and on and on…

Let me follow you–riding–into your

Black Cherry Forrest

Mr. Wolf Majesty–

I read the sealed communique from his

majesty’s chihuahua envoy.

We can joust

–I’m no kind of Faust!–

I am the Something More! Word-wise, then,

hit me with your best shot:

I’m every Duke, and

this is my apatizer to my white tiger’s powering

deep into my poetry.

Come find me! and chase me once more!

…from station to station.

My Beautiful Weird, Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,

–we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower

–we are there.

Read sci-fi, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm

–and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman’s womb,

silent-now toys, and night in a child’s room:

we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still

he conducts and connects word and thought,

rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today

to yesterday’s final answer.

We are the revelation and the salvation for the

unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.

We are each other, and each other’s savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom

and the all-father. We are

brother night and mother morning–

sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or

tomrrow, we find it only in the love in

the spaces between the spaces between us.


My Beautiful Bent, Weird Revolution

I’m tired of things only meaning one or two things.

I’m in love with orthogonality:

one becomes five becomes ten-thousand

becomes purple, becomes God.

I have reenlisted in the Poet Core

to serve on this, a top secret mission–

which, as poetry, means I tell

everyone who reads or hears this poem:

the secret of the Bent Christ Cross,

the 24th letter of the English language–orthogonal T–

Sacred, bent “t”–the letter X.

Love letter, Leadbelly, where were written your poems

last night?

In the pines? In the palm trees?

In Red-orange embers?

In pale-blue sky?

Somewhere between the Holy Trinity, the letter “X”

and Hiroshima–

somewhere lost among shoreline palms

and midnight psalms, whispered, whispered and

if you listen very hard

the words will come to you at last:

this Declaration of my Beautiful and Bent

Weird Revolution.

A Prayer For My Son

A Prayer For My Son

Since Harry Potter wasn’t the only young man forced

to summon his own Patronis all alone,

and since, still living, I’d never abandon my son,

to cast alone that spell I, too, can summon,

I write this poem now as a prayer for you.

May your should always be the perfect place

to cry, laugh, or sigh upon,

and may the twinkle across your eyes always bewitch

the eyes you deepest desire to set ablaze;

may your lovers find that missing you

stings far harder than forgiving you;

may you never forget that some kinds of jealousy

are just the sincerest sign of falling in love.

Never notice with alarm those too timid to bring

their full fascination with you out into the open,

and never rue a friend you realize laces or chases

unyielding admiration with occasional spite.

Never doubt those who trust you, somehow,

ever more than you doubt yourself,

and always allow those who worst broke your heart

at least one chance to try to mend it.

Know that, as my son, those you cradle within your arms

–in your conjugal bed–

will never find a safer or more sure sensuality;

remember too, as my son, that those you swore forgot you

must be the worst heartbroken, if having lost you,

you remember them still.

Understand that sons and daughters

listen ever more loudly than lovers, and they

remember true the purpose behind your lies–

see that those who raise up your children

are the true Mad Royalty of civilizations–

they insist on empires run for men like you and me.

May the depth of your forgiveness run as deep as

your best arrows of indignation fly far;

may you always find a joke or toast or poem

to reassure any timid, wayward on you find you found

–somehow–as you travel on your way through time.

Amen, my son, amen.

Radio Supernova X

We hold these poems to be self-evident:

    the shadow of a palm tree as it approaches noon

    is a poem;

Las lagrimas–the tears that flow to the ocean for lost love

    are a poem;

Birdsong in the dead of night, a rooster at dawn

    and a dog’s distant barking:

        each is a poem.

A lost child in a mall who prays to find mother

    prays a poem.

The punchline of a favorite joke, shared with a forgotten friend

–suddenly rememberd, as if by ambush–

    is a poem.

Pleading eyes for hunger or lust or warmth

    plead a poem.

The arctic Aurora Borealis in smeared-sky rainbow;

    the infinate disc-edge of a black hole;

    the radiation soul-heat of the bang

    that was all big creation:

    these each play in the top ten

    greatest hits, nightly, of this very station:

        Radio Poetry Supernova X

Tachyon Violet (for Daniel)

The thing about a poem–
It travels forward backward–
The deeper you press in,
The more sense that first
Read a little while back–
Becomes defined to you–
Like a highway sign in reverse.

It purifies the colors: bright spectre!
And the mind and soul of sunlight,
Hidden, awash in sol-light, becomes
Violet violet blue
It makes all the details
Makes them real–

Tachyon definition
as the mind sees more of detail
The more it takes in
at the future’s
soak-in point--to right now.

And there you are.

Somehow, you flip-foward
and beauty
and me
As I walk next to you.
You, with the fear of a Local God
–quiet and intense at the prospect
of being given name.

And there and then suddenly I realize
I have
Always been right

–my whole life–
–about THIS:

Sometime ago God

from one being into
countless within formless

and God, speaking his own name
in his own tongue
is how he begins a prayer to himself
a prayer that before it ends,
it mentions YOU.

It all began during a big, distant bang
And will eventually fling apart too far
to see one galaxy from the next,

but, Daniel, may love–
how are YOU today?