Tears
The crystal rags
Viscous tatters
Of a worn-through soul
Moans

When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

Pretty women wonder where my secre
I’m not cute or built to suit a fa
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since depart
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried token
Of their sojourn here

Give me your hand
Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing

Some clichty folks
don’t know the facts,
posin’ and preenin’
and puttin’ on acts,
stretchin’ their backs.

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke
Stranglers to our outstretched nec
Stranglers, who neither care nor
care to know that

I keep on drying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,

One innocent spring
your voice meant to me
less than tires turning
on a distant street.
Your name, perhaps spoken,