Lion Watch

Here in the night
we knew would come
our voices have all gone silent.
No songs now
and worse---no singers.

Here is my hand
take it and come
down to some other country
as spears of silence
cut up the shadows.

Hear the wind blow,
it's shaking the cradles
it's rocking the stars,
knocks at the moon.
Nelson Mandela come home.

The Summertime of Days

The Summertime Of Days
In the summertime of days
a man is nothing more
than a tear in some old year
that was cast aside by God.

In the summertime of days
we are as we must be
shadows all on our way to fall
if not eternity.

And if we must look for heaven
then heaven must surely be
in arms that are warm
and smiles if they tender be.

In the summertime of days
I'll ask for nothing more
than a face and a quiet place
that was cast aside by God.

Water Over Stones

I know that death is not so proud
that it will pass my door
leaving me to sort it out for myself
departure date and schedules
for the train to Styx,
or just which chariot will knock me down
within the narrow alley or the busy street
then carry me to heaven by the shortest route.
So I am ready.

I have dwelt upon the death of friends
in private
missing public funerals and memorials
(the chance to beat my beast before the crowd
and shout aloud, Ah, woe, Ah, me!
Ah men, Ah women, Amen, is what I said
    but privately
when friends betrayed me with their deaths.

I will go down death's road alone
and hope to knave behind but one memorial---
a lifeless body that did not acquaint itself
with compromise.

Thoughts on Capital Punishment

There ought to be capital punishment for cars
that run over rabbits and drive into dogs
and commit the unspeakable, unpardonable crime
of killing a kitty cat still in his prime.

Purgatory, at the very least
should await the driver
driving over a beast.

Those hurrying headlights coming out of the dark
that scatter the scampering squirrels in the park
should await the best jury that one might compose
of fatherless chipmunks and husbandless does.

And then found guilty, after too fair a trial
should be caged in a cage with a hyena’s smile
or maybe an elephant with an elephant gun
should shoot out his eyes when the verdict is done.

There ought to be something, something that’s fair
to avenge Mrs. Badger as she waits in her lair
for her husband who lies with his guts spilling out
cause he didn’t know what automobiles are about.

Hell on the highway, at the very least
should await the driver
driving over a beast.

Who kills a man kills a bit of himself
But a cat too is an extension of God.

Cycle

Only lonely men
know freedom.
Love,
as lovely as it is,
still ensnares.

It is better then
to be on the outside
in the dark and free,
or caged contentedly
but still looking.
out beyond the bars?

Still Life with Rubber Washer

Don't know when
I'll be back,
          she said;
don't forget to tape
              'The Colbys'
and any thirties movies
you think I haven't seen.
Cats need their shots
               in two weeks.
It's only a splinter
in Drago's paw,
just coffee stains on the rug,
soap and water will lift them,
merely a crank
who calls the second line
              and disconnects.
Kitchen faucet only needs
              a washer,
don't call the plumber,
pick one up at Koontz'.

Ticket for the cleaning
is under the sugar bowl
            in the kitchen.
I know you won't worry
            about me
but don't anyway –
(this part of the note
was an afterthought).

And I thought
after reading it
that she forgot to say,
Have a nice day,
write if you get work,
hang by your thumbs,
take off five pounds,
don't take any wooden
Susan B. Anthony dollars.

Sure
everybody thinks about
              dying.
It's only another progression
each of us is moving to.

She forgot to remind me
about changing the baking soda
              in the ice box,
watering the ficus,
turning the porch light on,
           an hour earlier.
Vote, she said.
Don't bleach printed T-shirts,
write your congressman,
                                       pray.
Only lately have I thought about
             dying alone.
Won't mind it much,
I don't think,
not much choice.

Could have done things
differently or better.
Could have prepared,
taken out different insurance,
put a few bucks in the bank,
treated the kids
                        a little better;
listened to them more.

I could have
gotten over you,
before you got over me,
            or could I.
Sure,
and it's not too late
to rethink life.
Maybe after I've pulled
              the thorn
from Drago's paw,
and picked up the cleaning.

Sacrament

I like my body lying next to yours.

My leg against your leg and over it
the muscle quivering to touch
the luxury of thighs that open onto thighs.
I like our sighs together and I like
my body lying next to yours at night
                       and every morning.

I wear you
coming next to you
as I would clean cotton shirt
soft to the touch you are and tingling.
And everything you touch
is but a punctuation to yourself.

I love the loss of vagrancy inside your arms
your fingers swarming on my back
            like bees attacking single flower.
The light from out your eyelids coming.
The puzzled humming in my ear
as you nod yes not having heard
the question that I asked.
Your hair unmasked for what it is-
a tangled web of craziness
is like a whim not taken up.
So too your mouth is glowing, fair,
runs hot and cold and in no pattern.
I like our elbows, noses, knees
interrupting rhythms that should be truer.
Your breasts are skillful, genius each,
priceless in a bed world
whose currency is chance.

I love the ample of you
                  and the lean
the part of you expecting flesh
and rising up to meet it.

The symmetry of you is what I love
                     odd angles too
those energy propelling sighs
and little cries from you.
The ivory underside of you
the tanned and glowing legs and arms.

I love the wind of you
as much as the unwinding.
The kindness of your inner ear
is more than I can bear to speak about.

All honey to the heart,
all pasture to the eyes
the size of you is one great breath
taken in, held, not expelled, not ever.
Ingenious are your ankles, calves, hips
stepping stones to the great wonder
                                      on ahead.

What I love most in all the world
is my own body next to yours.
It is a vanity, a wonderful conceit.

Rome Itself

I carry down between my legs
Rome itself, for you love Rome
and I would drive Rome into you
or drive you into Rome.
This room your coliseum till you board 
your plane. These arms your forum
              cats included.

Self-propelled am I between 
the morning and the midnight
I glide along your groin and earn my wings
by testing out your thighs
like some new willful Wiley Post.
My flight is not away, not to or from. 
Above you, below you - I soar 
and perch upon your second pillow.

I have no need for such mechanical devices
as winged shoes or wings. I am made uncommon 
by the need to know you and thereby 
come to know myself.

Rome, though in the distance, is no farther 
than the dresser and not so far away
that I can't take you there.

For me the Spanish Steps
are centered on your tongue
and Caesar could content himself with 
California wine had he your eyes to follow
and your breath to capture with his own breath.

We'll go to Rome
as slowly as you like
and be there by tonight.