of south Eugene at two in the morning,
close to where the bowling alley
went ablaze a year ago.
cut the deep blue night to ribbons,
down the street from the empty lawn
where Civic Stadium used to stand.
pollute the darkness of the moon,
pursuing drivers on the run
across the bright Willamette River.
of gentleness and kind words;
cultivate a quiet state of mind.
within your heart for all the
wild, impulsive marches of the soul.
as much, if you can manage,
as you despise its worst injustice.
your parents and your children,
breathing deep the air of growth and grace.
window, his feet betraying no concern -
a lazy smile, seven stories high
and over ninety million miles beneath
a nonchalant, recumbent summer sun.
A finely cultivated air of rapture
emanates from truly unrepentant
troublemakers in the prime of life.
accidents will happen;
night bird flying,
I found a reason
not to touch the Earth -
give it time.
sprinkled fresh in batter, smeared with butter; honey
with agave, honey blessed with maple syrup.
such impressive composition, say the judges,
spoonful after spoonful dripping cool with bliss.
Honey pots are overflowing, spread on flesh and
baked in bread, a splash of lust, a blush of honey.
and the cold night that whispered through the blinds.
and drew my breath across the length of my chest.
they resisted being called to rise.
cough suppressed, another half released.
around, and dissipated what it stole.
of noble gasses, lit with ball lightning
an instant after closing time.
in trust that God would fill his heart with grace;
when they foresaw a future in his face.
in yearning for the dawn of world peace -
that from her chains she would obtain release.
struck twenty two students.
the old guitar
beside me hums
in harmony -
cough so loud,
the sweetest sound
her body like
a soft volcano,
her hollow breast.
weighted down with sweet juice
in the steam of hot days.
and lemons, ripe and palpable
through bright, dimpled skin.
percolating from the air
and sweetening the brain.
and liberated tangerines
burst loudly with color.
up, further through thick leaves,
claiming nature's touch.
of the cool scent, the young picker
gladly obeys commands.
to be lost, overcome with wet
desire, lost in the orchard.
electric branches in the urban dark,
and still she sings in lovely tones.
ripple forth from errant motorcycles,
and she calls them, hoot, hoot -
aloud, to wheels roaring, engines brilliant
with oil, hoot, hoot -
lights with wild screams and candied colors,
hoot, hoot, she murmurs,
sing the missing lullaby in gentle
measure, send them back to moon and stars.
Lord have mercy, I was gracious
in accepting tearful pleas
from a sad and stricken penitent.
did not forget its base, craven
treachery, its sabotage
and painful, pitiful surrender.
remembered why it broke, forever,
and I never let the sobbing fool
forget its shame and sorrow, either.
I might never sleep again -
have to click "refresh".
you know it will be hot; you are prepared.
A fan positioned by the open window,
a pot of Arnold Palmer - your breast is bared
and the soothing breeze reflects across your shoulders.
Through your blinds, the common swimming pool
erupts with laughter, dazzling and delighted
with itself for hosting such a jewel.
She walks with such assurance, you could swear
she was Astrud Gilberto, her intent
to make love in her lithe, familiar guise
to someone equally magnificent.
The light across her shoulder blades is kind,
but oh, you watch her so sadly through the blinds.