Two Poems

Suck Life

The body is a tool for the performance of duty.
Hard-tempered (work, work, work)
eyes crusted, static self
sucked like motes into a static screen.
Money is beauty.

The body must be draped upon the sofa after.
Two hours, at least,
steeped in lukewarm TV.
Massaging lover's feet if you've got the money
(hands upon her tummy).

If not, drink beer. If you're a single male,
fuck a lot.
No? Read magazines. Spend time with loved ones.
Do not be afraid. Every moral has a story
(every story's a moral),
every life has some suck.

Sometimes fingers itch for the earth
(they say: work, work, work),
the threaded aroma.
The body wants to work that threaded aroma.
To suck life from the land of its birth.


Two Worlds Touch

Sun will sink to sea, as all things light must too-soon go, leaving only traces where two come together. Heat lingering in the sand
before the tide rises.

The rough shutters at the end of the bed open onto an unreal twilight, the indistinct place where night and day mix like dreams into reality. In the scant hours before dawn or the nightfall,
two worlds touch.

Between mind and mind there is space for souls to mingle, breath within breath, smell within smell, two old things become a little new. A poem you wrote comes back to you in another form.

At water's edge I always hear the murmuring of lovers' voices long gone. I watch the tide pull grains of white away, erode the land beneath my feet. The sea smells of dreams, beauty, and melancholy. Waves forever break themselves against the rocks.

In another place in another time, beside the fire in deep unreality's heart, I will not need to speak those words. By then,
we will be strangers again.



Want another? http://www.wm.edu/so/manque/archives/2a/poetry/anthem_reprise.htm