Joe

Joe is young.

Joe
f
a
l
l
s
in love the sound of a million roaring oceans.

He says, Though the seas dry up and the stars burn out,
my love for you will never die.


Joe grows older. Joe works in a box. Joe loves his lover even more.


Joe
f
a
l
l
s
in love to the sound of a million roaring cars.

He says, Though lost in this madness of windowless eyes,
my love for you will never grow dim.


Joe is close to death.

He cannot move.

He is inept.

He is mad.

His lover is gone.

He has none other.

He is alone.

His love has gone.


But Love will not leave him alone.


Love
f
a
l
l
s
into Joe from heaven above...

And Joe
f
a
l
l
s
in Love as never before,
f
a
l
l
s
in love to the sound of a million roaring lions.
He finds what has always been just around the corner. What he has always had in part, he now finds in Full.
For Love has found him.
And he loves.
And he Loves.
And Love will not let him go.

"How shall we escape?" etc.

Living in dire times we
Walk the wire between the fire
And the axe

Poised
At our necks.
Poison

Eats us alive.
"Their foot shall slide," etc.
Great is their misery,

"For hate is strong," etc.
When we fall,
Where will we land?

Emerging Carcass

Broken
Fallen
Broken is the golden tint
Emerging is the rottenness within
Fallen are the lies
Broken is the shell
Emerging is the carcass
Fallen-broken is the cane, trampled-on
Fallen-broken is the lie
Fallenbroken is the man who holds the knife.

The world no longer revolves around you
Fallen is the old man
Broken fall the flames
No Trespassing
Leave the world alone
Leave the worlds alone
You have your own.

A Road

A wall 

which 

pretends 

to destroy

all walls.

Life

I just want to run and jump and spin around
and fly and swim and play and chase
and shoot the moon and take the Midnight Express
and fall and weep and writewritewritewritewrite

Three perspectives on Television for Wallace Stevens

I

Quiet and sneaky
He steals the broken men
He watches the watchers
And yet never hides

II

What travels the world but doesn't leave the corner?
A Stamp.
What travels the world but doesn't leave the corner?

III

Fallen, fallen, fallen to the pit of hell
The blessed dispose of their burdens as they gain their wings

Who doesn't like furniture in poetry?

The name of this poem draws inspiration from Chris Tonelli's "Bedroom in Arles" (http://thesteinachoperation.blogspot.com/ http://www.realpoetik.org/2006/03/chris-tonelli.html). Hopefully, there will be a day when no poetry is without furniture. A bed. A chair.