p o r t f o l i o
1 9 9 6

It was written on me

(Warm, soggy love is closing the several paths
to the heart within my heart:
I find myself having to tiptoe around you at parties)

"careful; happy tonight"

(and judge your every action, my ego slamming
gavel-esque onto each rib, playing tunes.
This is a bad thing, and so,
the hope of winning you must go.)
--
There are viscous clouds outside,
and this day is exactly how I feel;
heavy. Humid air, warm,
hopes for some clarity,
some sunshine,
some cool rain. There's no peace on a day like this,
but I know the night will come, and stars will shine,
and there will be a peace like clarity itself between the trees.



space

I said,
'there is never any space
between land and sea.'

She said,
'Oh, but there is. You just
have to see with wider eyes.'

And so, we watched the waves:
I with my eyes on the sea foam,
the place where pebbles
give way to sand,
and she with her eyes
(I was surprised!)
on the sky.

And there, I watched her gaze
light upon a gull, gliding just
between the land and water.

And sudden; wryly grinning, I:
'there is never any space
between sea and sky.'
She smiled,
and there was a knowing
beneath her sea-gray eyes.



willowtree

you
have stood there for so long, seen
lazy days full of children and old women

you saw me as a child, dreaming a dream
that's been painted over several times

but I still remember you, strong, holding me
now you are old and you are thin

and it makes me grim:
I've grown too big for your thin hands

but if I wished I were a tree
I'd wish to be an oldthin three like you
remembering a child like me.



S w e e t 

	
		So sweet it is you say that he said she felt
		like velvet--   but let me tell you just one
		thing, child; he don't know the smell of you
		like I do.  He don't know them blue eyes and
		maniacal shifting grin and certainly not the
		way your hair feels between fingers.
	
		You wander catlike round my room, picking up
		things and playing with them, a nervous type
		of curiosity sparks your white skin, while I
		just try and think of something I can say to
		turn your head around;  make you bloody well
		notice the difference between he and I:
		
		That my words are for you, when I write them
		such, and his are merely chimeras for you to
		dream up late at night.  Me, I'm no ghost...
		I'm a flesh-and-blood boy who thinks perhaps
		he doesn't quite know the way to handle him-
		self around strange lovely women who haven't
		outgrown the tendancy to idolize songwriters
		and singers who make it into the news; as if
		any one of them had more to say than I...
	
		write this with the notes in my head, if you
		sit down and listen, you will hear, love.


Ontology,
or, Why I Kant
Figure Out Women

It's a philosophical question:
just why my (do i
dare predicate. . .?)
love
for you does not pre-
suppose reciprocation.

friend

just friends
is just fine;
our only children
will be thoughts;

an outlet for emotion
but not desire;


everything will be fine,
except for the one friend
to whom I cannot complain
about the fickleness of women.



Your Child-like-ness

So much depth, hidden
beneath much silliness--
Like an underground lake
where I would swim-- if I
could ever find the entrance;

or even tumble there, confused,
like Bilbo.

b a c k . . .