Hong Kong

Float body
But I want
I want
I want to dig
Dig through the five feet of concrete that leads to the water lines
The sewer lines
The water pipes filled with alligators, giant rats
Old tin cans
Dig past the lost cities
Through the core
And find you, upside down.
Walking with thousands of slanted eyes
Dark coarse hair
See if in your eyes you see my reflection
Like I see yours.

I want to see you, speak to you, know you.
But you aren’t there.
It is you, upside down.
It is you, topsy turvy
I can reach your feet, your calves, your hips and touch them gently
Like a child’s hands might.
But still, you aren’t there.
My arms, dirt, mud, sewer covered slip and I climb.
Claw back through the water piping, swat at the tin cans and alligators.
Ignore the lost cities.
And there
Body float

Hong Kong

Grow the World

When playing with words
So many grow ill with
Fear or even hate
Because nothing new
Comes with them.

But, with words;
The tongue
The hand
The ear
The heart
Has the capacity
To work in unison
(even if in confusion
or confession.)

Then anything new may come,
All in the noon day sun.

Grow the World


It’s 4
And you’ve gone
And here I sit
Remembering you
One moment ago
No, not even.
Tighter than that
When we were
Somewhere so small
That the space in between
Fell away
So deep and full
We couldn’t help but
Want to drop
You whispered “here we go.”

We’re not for gathering.
We’re not for mending.
It’s 4
And you’re gone
And here we sit
Going to where ever
Remembering wills us.
No. Not like some, faithful and
Tortured by dark.

It’s lighter than that
Behind closed lids
Allowing nothing to
Stream in I flow
Regarding you
One moment ago
When it was 4
And we laughed
About fish in cans.

[Original ending above. Alternate ending recorded for a possible song that was being tested for collaboration, but never (as of yet) completed:
And now I remember
That once we began.
And it was 4
And you’re gone.]


The Fox & A Dog

I remember the moment
Clear as shattering glass
when you let drop my heart’s hand
And yours slinked back into its hovel
Guarded by toothily grinning, razor edged

Beckoning seductively – promising the
Ultimate, delicate, delectable
Patience if I would gently stroke the
Soft outstretched palm, lick the lips
guarding those jaws, offering the all
the everything.

The fox said to love a thing is to tame it.
But dog knew better…
To love a thing that believes in such a
Power as taming…
Is to dwarf one’s own heart.


The Fox & A Dog

Sister Light, Sister Dark

IMG_3407As the rising ends and the setting comes
And the bolster of the city begins to slowly shift
To quiet
To relief
To loneliness
A moment paused
My breath held…

Sister light sits on our bed
Wringing her hands
Her body swaying to a slow pulse
Her hair, falling like willows, framing her face.
Silent breathing.
Silent shudders.
Her fingers twirling, shaking like paper.

Sister dark stands, hand on hip
Weight shifted, knee bent
Grinning toothily down on our bed
Her head cocked, crooked like bent steel.
Deep breathing.
Deep moans.
Her smile smooth, dancing like jackals.

They fall together and wrestle on our blankets
Pillows falling to the floor
Feathers flying
Breathless sighs and heavy pants linger long after.

They stare at each other, muted, neutral, neither defeated
Neither glorious.
Sister light weeps.
Silent tears streaking her cheeks like slugs.
Sister dark laughs.
Guttural sounds filling the empty air like drums.

My sisters. My natures. Myself, in battle that never ends.
War that never resolves.
No treaties. No barters or silent handshakes.

The decent ends, hot darkness filing in between the pillars of concrete.
Sister light fades, her flickering body glistening like gossamer strands.
Her translucent tears still dripping – making our bed sweat.
Sister dark stands alone, tilts her head once
And we walk out the door.

Sister Light, Sister Dark

Sweet Nothings

At the sigh(t) of hands 
slipping in hands I get woozy.
I sit and listen to streets
Streaked with wet gravel.
Words bounce against the pavement 
Up against the concrete
Jump through my window and fall in my lap.
I get woozy.

I’ve put silk across my skin…black, old, 
perfect-drape-across hips.
I smell wet leaves under soft cotton
And remember him(s)
tight and taunt pressed strong against my back
My back warm against his press.
I get woozy.

I slip silk off my skin…crisp, new,
 not-quite-right in the fit.
I wonder if there’s fruit in his looms
And I gazed on him tight and taunt
Pressed and lost against my back
My back arched away from his press
I get woozy
High on sweet nothings.

Like candy dripping hi-glow yellow sticky sugar streaked
Wet, moist against lips, oozing between fingers 
Like second skin
Peeling apart

The glucose, fructose fills my blood
My brain
Melts in my water and sends me flying
Toward him

My belly jumps and gurgles then lurches
Filled with empty calories 
I beg for more
Pleading for a bite
Aching for a taste
Just a small taste
Just a tiny nibble?
Just a quick lick?
Just a little bit is all I need…

Of those sweet 
nothings. Oh yeah I get woozy.

Sometimes you can only plead


Sweet Nothings

‘So You Want to Be a Writer’ by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.
‘So You Want to Be a Writer’ by Charles Bukowski

A Poem by Charles Bukowski Read by Tom Waits (a Perfect Pairing)

[With thanks to Dean Sluyter – a truly great artist and teacher.]

Nirvana by Charles Bukowski

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the wat to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
and the
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
the young man watched
the snow through the
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
that it would always
stay beautiful
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
he heard the other
of other things,
or they were
attempting to
they had not
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
pretended to
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
the sound of the
in the