how was it?

the vagina,
nods her head
spouts the latest
experiment in love
from the NY Times

the penis,
– pulls it up
on his phone,
in buckets,

he’s gotta
flesh it out
– a magical death
– a passionate child
his breathless awe

she’s searching
for some sugar
somewhere. exhumes it
from her mystery purse,
– surely a sex


55 for Hedge


what star

you sit there
watching tv
going in and out
of my consciousness
and i can’t muster
much of anything
similar to i miss you
let alone i love you

but perhaps i’ll
entice you with
the soft part of
my hand balancing
an apple,
because i did see
a falling star this morn,
which was unusual

and because of that perhaps
i’ll give my body to
you during commercials
which light up my hairs
but if you don’t return
to me, i swear to God,
this apple i’ll withdraw
my legs i’ll unwrap

tell me, what star
has to fall
in a hot phosphorescent
mess of green and
violent for you
to understand
the apple is my love,
it will always be my love

I like this kind of art.


Johannes Vermeer – The Little Street 1657-1658

September moves every day, —
in sound & silhouettes,
in an immersion of subtle
pigments —  but you,
You are my favorite kind
of vulnerable & tender.
As real in my hand
as a Coffeyville brick,
As light in my palm
as a captured sallow sun.
Never inconsequential
(I want you to know,)
are the two softie dogs
on our sweet Little Street
lying together if only
to mirror our love’s delight.


playing it again for M at Real Toads

My love,


for Real Toads
[hocking my watch line
taken from Rod McKuen’s
“Listen to the Warm”
13th page, 7th sentence]


he smiled and said
he was glad
to make my acquaintance,
but i knew what he meant.
a male friend of mine
(if there ever was such
a thing), once confirmed
i have a pretty good idea
of what men are thinking,
and i know what they
mean when they compliment
my outfit, when they touch
my shoulder (if we’re standing),
or my thigh (if we’re sitting).
my mother was a beauty once.
she liked me in embroidered
things. she liked me in love.
but i’m mixing it up now like
the peas and carrots she had
me eating at the kitchen table.


for Real Toads
(1st sentence borrowed from
Carol Burnett’s biography)

what’s the matter with you?

he’s one in a billion
counted bulbs with no choice
but to be reduced to a 60 watt love
buried in your big blanket sky
so, go ahead and sit there
trying to capture love’s free
faith escaping through the heights
to another night
let it strike you as odd
like a remembered math problem
you tried to solve in high school
by multiplying, by dividing
by doing anything you could do
to work it out

what did the watermelon say to the cantaloupe?
it depends — is this watermelon
odd or even?


Some Sally angst for Real Toads

she circles

in softness
in un-

expected math

she’s a break from

(carnation of stars)

is she hair, is she air,
is she eddies in the

you think about daffodils
you think about light
you want to brush

her arm
in extended fluidity

reach for a pulse
tucked under her knee
now hug-held
closer to her chest


playing sort of another Moon card
as imagined in Starry Night for RT

you could say,

i like to be in love

but if you want me to go on & on,
i’d say i like you — i like the piece
of me that gets dislodged in you

an odyssey in weightlessness, —
a rocket ship returns from heaven
parachutes into a remote spot of deep,
bottomless blue; breathlessly bobs

it’s that simple, — being in love

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. -Langston Hughes

for Real Toads

the wind sets us

which is the best kind
of place to be
for half-crazy
angels & saints,

& there’s no denying
the wind has ever failed
to give us fair & clear warning
you will be cold,

yet for all her openness
ever mad is the grass
& green is the call to commune
flattened out, face down
beside the jasmine vine
bursting with heady scent

& it sounds pretty good
don’t you think?
to have the weather
& sky be the only
weighty things on our backs

wind & air, —
are never too raw
nor is the way
we empty our shoes
of ourselves

but, if a brisk (or gentle) wind
ceased to stipple our cheeks,
or if the grass stopped tickling
the hollow of our souls,
well, i think i would certainly die
in devotion & in mind


for Real Toads
“We all go a little mad sometimes.” – Psycho

i’ve eaten a cure

i’ve eaten a cure song

and let it drip down my hands

juice falling from my fingertips

(the password is pomegranate)

and without saying poem, or night

and without saying i love you (really)

and without knowing how flesh can swim

i bank on our desire to see that red ruby

sea (part)


for Real Toads