The Patient Stones
                                                           

Copyright 1996 by

Rachael Hohenstein

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover design by

Laurie Ray

Libray of Congress

Catalog Card Number

96-92296

 ISBN 1-57579-018-1

Introduction  to "The Patient Stones"  by Timray
this book was never intended to be shared with the public, it was the culmination of work several years in Mexico. it was originally shared in a small community of others from the artistic world i inhabited. i am at best a dilettante with an avocation. i am not interested in humanity.

my latest book: The Fate Within
https://timrayii.blogspot.com/

simply click on an entry

behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
it seems to have been forever
i admire and love 
the children wait upon the shore
the boat is as weathered as his face 
Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
when my thoughts trail down
ah yes, i have heard this sybil before
he wears a simper
we poets are waiting for the moonset wandering the beach
she looked at me, arctic blue eyes
my friend, you had to ask
my child, thru this prism
she is running down the staircase
she sells goat's cheese. not my favorite
somewhere in the north
i wander these winter beaches
i become lost in these lazy days
waiting in the silence
i know why i sit here
the moon commences its' illusion
you speak of boundaries
i am sitting alone again
outside lies the snow
trust is a precious gift
i love our early morning
do you remember those seals
i suppose they will all
i pass thru these hallowed grounds
salient arguments
nature can make my walks drudgery
the nights were filled with arguments
and so i have returned to Los Angeles
beneath these covers
we awoke to five machine guns
Georgia, you have flown free
we were drinking mexicana libres
it is rumored that Lord Krishna

behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
the sunsets lie in paradise
sunrise, the folly of easter
islands, sanitoriums, deluded, denuded
limbos and purgatories, the never evermore
polynesian metaphors transmigrate my mind
o to graze with the deer, dear
the tree never falls silently
lizards scatter, birds scurry to flight
i could never buy into falling silence
let alone Galileo's descending weights
forgive me for being sententious dear
no pity for Cyrano
a failed Benedick in port
without Dante's delusions
Service, woman, a slightly tainted saint
Tennyson's wound that never heals
Petrarch, Augustine, it grows insane
ah the vicissitudes, where was i

your laughter starts in those ignescent eyes
ignition, brush fires of rippling ballerinas
facial muscles lost in abandonment
to some elfish music i see, never hear
lips widening, bursting rubaiyat pandemonium
i adore your infectious risibility
it is your amatory smile i love most
demure, candles gamboling in the moonlight
i am a moth lost in the flames
of your demanding timidity
it is then i see in your eyes
the dove gracing your hands
the beast who serves your lust
this is why the Norsemen
fear nothing but women
swords once ready, beserkers, Odin
now lie silent volcanoes in my heart, Freya
the seas are without headstones
and i am wondering again terricolous
all of this is the clouds overhead
it is the heavens i see in your eyes
not the red dawns i fear
we see the jungle, its' song, inevitable war
the struggle to stand in the light

possibly besotted, erratum
the seas have long not cared
with you, i learn, heal
we are undeniably humanity
we are paradise lost
the hells of yesterday
need not rule the heavens of today


         Miramar   94

it seems to have been forever
since i held your hand in mine
watched that smile race across
my thoughts are storms raging at sea
                       with no ear listening
i am alone upon the deck, wandering
lost in the stars above and you
the sea lies quiescent

somewhere you sleep now
lost in that vast realm of dream
copious as the stars above
am i still in your deepest thoughts
does it cause an arm to wander across
in that emptiness is there a longing 
we were not ships passing in the night
fools yes and i will leave it as such

perhaps now there is another
i am but a remembrance
surfacing in the days confusion
they say it is better to have loved, lost
but that is a game for philosophers
therein lies no comfort to a sailor
whose thoughts are storms raging at sea
                            with no ear listening
perhaps you also stare into the heavens
and wonder, such are thoughts
wandering the deck
whose fate is a raging sea
holding you only in moments
when you sleep
i no longer dream
the sea lies quiescent


         Phoenix   88


        

i admire and love
the creatures we call birds
watch in envy the soar, the dive
those landings of awkward elegance
internecine territorial disputes, my laughter
salubrious songs of morning, my smile
the mocking bird's nocturnal cry, my reflections
living where the weather suits
something humans rarely achieve
never leaving an heir 
with more than air, they survive
living instinctively in nature's harmony
they have taught me
we humans struggle with freedom
birds simply live it

i once thought myself free
wind in hair, pistoled hip
a motorcycle between my legs
yet i was chained, another ego

it is much more than wings

i have my cane now
my quiet walks thru God's plethora
and the only wings i needed
were always between my ears

some people prefer life complex
me, i am for the birds

          San Blas   91

the children wait upon the shore
eyes fastened to the horizon
behind them stand the women
with a gaze far more serious
all impervious to rain and wind
the hurricane had turned inland
last night it was moving north to Baja
the fishermen left with ease
it would soon be gone
yet, early in the morning it moved east to Nayarit
chaotic nature, in the end, reigns supreme, it always has
in the distance dots appear, fishermen driven home
as the storm rages over them

children and women frantically search 
the returning pongas for any familiarity
as the fishermen struggle valiantly in the waves
tonight some prayers are bearing fruition
while others were lost to an angry sea
a storm none could predict
nor ever will with certainty
the candles burn at the feet of the dead
now plaster saints, imploring continues 
long into the night, a chance of perchance
that bird that sings in the worst gale

morning brings the tolling of church bells
amidst the devastation
faces who will never forget that chaos
has no favorites
only illusions, as matter may well be, Berkeley rocks
the luck of the draw, despite Darwins' wishful design
the ensuing fluctuating schemes of pandemonium
desultory forces who at best are deficit in reason
or are they, who knows the breath of creation
a constant reminder the precarious hold life has
how delicate the day we the biota share
how precious life is

i learned that long ago from a little tippler
leaning on a dying sun
toasting with manzanilla the heavens above
cursing some matelot beneath her labored breath
now the nobody we all are when the light extinguishes
receding within into singularity
and whatever wormhole we exit will never matter
nor the dimensions therein
gone, as the smoke from an extinguished candle
escaping forever into entropy
where matter never perishes


         Fergus Falls   96

the boat is as weathered as his face
it is his life, his treasure
steering the prow to sea hours before dawn
and in that darkness, the nets are set
small talk meanders the ponga
time to catch up on some sleep, other times
arguments erupt between brothers
keeping everyone awake watching stars
once dawn has passed the nets are retrieved
to pay for the daily bread
it was in that uncertainty two perished
as nature's fury rolled from the darkness
those red skies of mourning
son, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends
headstones never say it all
the funerals have come and gone
sitting upon the late morning shore
watching the fishermen, boats lie tethered
their hands are honest, scarred
their knives sharp, scarlet
as they gut the fish above roars
a maelstrom of pelicans, magnificent frigates
in a serious air-shore warfare for entrails
and small fish these men toss
there is laughter in those eyes
brothers sharing the seas plunder
once the fish are sold they share a beer
stories of the sea, repair nets
clean pongas and more than i will share
by early afternoon they are gone
such is the daily bread here
where the demons howl the night
the angel's right to sing dawn's glory
these are the patron saints of cantinas
vassals to the sea, nature's capriciousness
whose fate on the morrow 
could be drinking in Neptune's Tavern


              San Blas   91
for the fishermen of San Blas, Matachen Bay

Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
that he learned to speak english in iowa 
and these coupled are the reason
Juan's accent is different
Juan is not mexican
Juan lives in fear of americans
Juan in america is a raghead
a camel jockey, sand nigger
this is not unique to america
the world is filled with such
infidel, hymie, gentile, untouchable
the word hardly matters
the effect is achieved
somewhere in the stratum
there is a lesser being
and while all are not as such
there are more than enough
to keep men such as Juan
ashamed of their heritage
the most segregated hour is 10 a.m.
on sunday morning, those easy pieties
of the church bizarre
mr. jackson sits in front of his mirror
in a prominent section of los angeles
mutilating himself into a white man 
sometimes society is so successful 
in its emasculation
we become our own honkey
then again, how can we be asked 
to give up our nigger
when even god seems to refuse


           Phoenix   93

when my thoughts trail down
those wooded paths we tread, i wonder
what there was to see in you
other than the beauty of any beast
wisdom dictates never befriend physical attraction
nothing is expected of friendship
other than the love it is
analysis, fools rush in, live and learn
you saw in me a kindness to your needs
someone on whom you could depend, moments
when the soul lies distraught
the world walks on by, as i have learned
then for some reason, perhaps an innate evil
lurking in all of us
my kindness you perceived, a weakness
this did not leave me, bright position
prognosis, this too shall pass

in this discourse, leaves have fallen
winter always takes its toll
yet spring returns, life begins anew
yes there are frail branches
in this trees strength 
but they have learnded to bend
let go, survive my judas
find your salvation therein


            Phoenix   87

ah yes, i have heard this sybil before
she speaks in cosmic verse
adheres to the ethereal. demands concrete
stands beneath a rainbowed stone
whose cosmic vibrations
flow into that garret
she calls an advanced neencephalon 
sybils siblings deserve their fleece
Anatole France's penguins on a walkabout
ARE WE THROUGH WITH THE VITROLIC
fuck metaphysics, pataphysics, thanks Alfred
we need no new myths, nor mythomaniacs
mankind is rampant with them
old age, new age, same horseshit
as Hollywood, tinsel self-indulgent gods
what we need is a kind working reality
not interplanetary mentalism
abandon the priggish bullshit
we humans so dearly love
all the churches in the world
cannot change reality
are you listening
I AM TRYING YOU WERE SAYING
irenics is a good step to syncretism
yet the light i see at tunnel's end
is yet another credulous jihad
ARE WE THRU WITH THE DIATRIBE
fuck ontology
WHAT ARE WE LEARNING HERE
misandry will never cure misogyny
watch that tone in your voice
a fine line between ascetic and apostate
remember you cannot write
i think i will play with the boxelder bugs
YES, YOU LIKE THEM
GIVE UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
not always the bright position in life
communist pull off their wings
fascist prefer to yank their legs off
LET 'S NOT PURSUE THIS COURSE
what i like most about them
is when you say "cogito ergo sum"
they give you this look, "so what"
mind if i change channels of channeling
while i am waiting for Longfellow's dawn
GO AHEAD
do you hear someone talking
NO
stay tuned as next the poet
tells you what life is really like
where flowers never die
where there are no double entendres
where the prophets no longer hear voices


             San Blas   91

he wears a simper
at times hopelessly lost
in the garden, his campo
retreats from the maddening crowd
for artists, writers, friends, occasional poet
worries over his flowers, his trees
clearing the jungle for more jungle
he is a good neighbor
has been to me a touchstone of gayety
we have shared laughs and tragedy
my pork chops, his garden vegetables
so what is this all about
this is about a fear i harbor
that in this world there is a segment
who would wish this man harm
simply because he is gay, such as
the religious right lacking a communist
are vending old fears, intolerance, hatred
towards others they do not understand
love one another, never to judge
the credo of real christians
he to me is a gentle reminder
i also need love, acceptance
from my brothers, sisters gay
we all need love and acceptance
there is too much hatred in this world
he has an adorable smile
lips drawn back, eyes rolling up
it is disarming and genuine
but the most important to me
he is a gentleman
this world needs more


             Miramar   94

today i will wander to the brothel
those divine friends of jesus
where i will intercourse
with the ladies in my growing spanish
while they wash clothes and bathe
i the balneologist with the brandy
we watch t.v. novellas
share laughter, sip the liquor
risibility creeping as jungle vines
laughing at and with the world
while summer's oppression lies outside
above the tropical fan in perpetual motion
until a tempest rips reality away
we toast those in some new york dinosaur
grasping at a decade of some man's thought
to gas pedals working Los Angeles over and over
we drink to the flies breeding everywhere
parents who offer their children to prostitution
thievery, starvation, war, slavery
trains arriving, children sold to factories
making cheaper goods, cheaper life, tennis shoes
we drink to the religions
preachers arriving without, against birth control
alas we need more poor souls
collections for the orphanage, minus commission
a lady at the orphanage wanted you to know
today i want to voyage into laughter's oblivion
here where the ladies busy the day
prepare for the night, me the tabula rasa
here is my escape
outside the mountains scream, slash, burn
here i share shots
sharing conversations in the mother tongue
the one so rare for the poet to rise above
never venturing here at night
where the customers have their fill
later one will walk to town, get a taxi
they will load the poet and papers in
i stare back to the alohas, adios
those divine friends of jesus
will throw away the empty bottle
the taxi knows these times
the road thru the neotropical forest
thoughts lost in leaves, limbs, alcohol
the driver helps me upstairs
finds the key, opens the door
the desk has come to know
he does this twice a month
when he goes to the post office, bank
he pays the bills come morning
the bed accepts the cigarette burns

today he wants no mind
he only wants laughter's oblivion
jesus and friends

so Olga, i finished the story
i never came to condemn nor condone
sip brandy, chat awhile. forget outside
those fires raging across the mountains
i just wanted to be with my sisters
learning the mother tongue
during the day when the whoremongers sleep
the men have come to resent my smiles
as i traverse the pueblo
and i wonder how your killer is doing
i hear he found jesus in jail
i found jesus in you
remembering midnite mass, people staring
prostitute, poet, brother, sister
the true family not always sanguineous
you taught me my first prayer in spanish
jesus hanging on the cross
smiling for the first time
just us girls having fun
that was all we ever wanted

tonight my heart lies broken
and i am crying again
teach me to forgive God, Olga
teach me to forgive

         San Blas   92

we poets are waiting for the moonset wandering the beach
sitting on my balcony, evolutions shamans
we are solving every social ill
while walking Blake's path of excess
to some palace of wisdom
this sojourn has but one worry
the hour the liquor store closes
less the worry here, shamans open doors
money, lycanthropy wandering the beach
a ramada where we wake the proprietor
who finds such occurrences propitious 
vending beer, most cultures' insanity is sacrosanct 
the moon is waning into the ocean
to Bach's Toccata and Fugue
we are singing Eddie Arnold's cattle call
while the other horizon eructs
red-orange warnings poets love to ignore
evanescent crescendos
write something every day, i am not that bored
the sleep never begun is over
quart bottles cover the table
our proprietor lies in the Land of Nod
poets of Laputa, self-serving pataphysicians
the bench is strewn with the problems of Gulliver
La Senora arrives, shift change, order breakfast
and this proceeds until siesta time
the repairing of every social ill
retiring into respective hammocks
we are philosophers, possess our epigrams
no siesta, no fiesta, tomorrow i swear
a new and improved version
the beach is safe now
for white bucks scribbling in the sand
while our feet are beyond and supine
covered with flies, killing us
did not the Beats do this


          San Blas   91

she looked at me, arctic blue eyes
mustering all she could
Thoreau's quiet desperation, trying to fathom
the fringed euphony, valence electron
catastasis, the eye of the hurricane
we poets can be very dramatic
not to mention full of shit 
do not tarry with poets dear
they will tear you from limb to limb

i watch the pelicans
dance in and out of the waves
remembering graves, the road kills
those mexican roadside markers
intentionally hitting the brakes too late
do not tarry with poets dear
we are here for life's'  magniloquence
not the trivialities of its bitches

upon the shore, the pelican stands
its' wing wave broken, setting sun
we share these moments
witnessing its death, realizing my own
come morning we no longer share the shore
you see my dear you are something
more important than a poet
you are a decent part of humanity
and i have learned somehow from a dying pelican
turning gently away the easy conquest
to ennoble, not to use, walk away from my solecism


           San Blas   91

my friend, you had to ask
one of those moods
i am working on a panegyric
concerning humanity from a misanthropic view
therein i struggle, do not we all
life just is, verisimilitudes, contradictions, axioms
as eyes see them, mariner wearing albatross
lives in the purgatory of the perineum
is it an asshole, prick or cunt
it cannot quite grasp qualia 
that somehow the quale does not relate
we are not really in touch with any mental state
a pithy observation i realize
know other words less rough-hewn
those appearing scientific, socially acceptable
seems to fit us, every dictionary 
drag out the scales and get honest
do not misinterpret these observations
i am not some demigod, nor demagogue
upon some priggish tower of power
my lot is in the thick of it
from the mirror i perceive
a flower i am not
i am not the only one aware of this
for i have wallowed with the swine
been politely asked to leave
there are witnesses
nor am i devitrifying manunkind in total
there are those sometimes charitable acts
yet from the misuse, misrule, misology
not to mention mishandle, misoneism
i have discovered, the eulogy is no misnomer
it leaves me in little doubt
ennobling heuristics genetics seeks shelter
from those didactic dialectic roters
in search of knowledge
money, power, possibly some narcissistic recognition
not denying Emily's microscope prudent
God knows the debt we owe science
but if we may compare rats and cheese
there goes shine on harvest moon
i have begun to wonder of late
if those Neanderthals were so stupid
in refusing to cross genetics
as i Neanthropic out, back at, o'er the sea
these rapacious Cro-Magnon cousins' stomachs
however, latest research only validates
Cro-Magnon were probably rapers too
i cannot help but remember  Kerouac's
sidewalk trailing observation
that there were a lot of serene trees
in the popsicles mindlessly walking by
his disparage for university poets
however, it is not such a fatal view
i am unable to smile at children
praying there is a future, hope springs ect.
i am not Diogenes looking for a light
old evolution took another macromutation
the garden's fruition, struggling survivors 
we ended up with matches, loggers, monkeys
ended up in cages for experimentation
habitats destroyed for furniture, floors, paneling
however, we do this with egalitarian intent 
some see this as an empyreal dictate
Lowry, your children destroy the garden
others the highest of stupidities
yet in this world, this is not a first
nor will it be the end of all
we must hold our breath with meliorism
you and i know what happens
when you take yourself with a serious aim
that is a half-baked half-wit
who has gotten halfway
then only to discover possibly
it has only a half-truth and halitosis 
so here i struggle my friend
genetically pensive with bad breath
where soughs cruise thru the coconuts
knowing just as you do
death fully bakes the truth, ends the halitosis
as always grinning sardonically in my heteroclite existence
and how are you


         San Blas   92

my child, thru this prism

is how the dragonfly sees

life in a myriad of perception

and what i wish for you to learn

from this prism, these words

are that  there are many ways

life appears thru eyes

yours as well as another's

it is when you can see

thru the eyes of another

you will begin a garden

from which seeds were sown

will grow the most precious gift

you will ever give yourself

as well as a wounded world

full of selves taught hatred

the Gift of Understanding

it is a beautiful garden, my child

where even weeds are welcomed

it is in the tunneling of vision

myopia, that our lives narrow

the self-becomes centered, blinded

a peripheral world of nightmares

fearful of shadows, too soon mistrusted beings

who for the most part

are in essence harmless

it is therefore thru these words

this prism lie my hopes

seeking for you freedom

from the only human blindness, i fear

selfishness

as you gaze with the dragonfly

become one with it

test those wings of imagination

let the experience open your eyes

to a world bathed in the light

of understanding, feel as others feel

let it touch your heart

with the joy of compassion, wonder

the world was meant to be shared

be happy in that sharing

as i am in sharing life with you

it is thru the understanding of others

we come to see and discover ourselves

the path is circular

it is thru your eyes i see me

my child, i give you this word

heliotaxis

it means to grow towards

or away from the sun

choose the light

choose to understand

         Phoenix   88

for Ryan Ray, happy birthday and the Nature Company whose prism provided the inspiration

she is running down the staircase
que pasa, que pasa, echoes before her
i am on the front balcony
watching the butterflies wander
from one miniature rose to the next
having my third cup of coffee
cream, Kahlua, a tad of rum
as Beethoven's Fifth drifts out
escaping into the verdant
she too is enveloped in escape
her piece of resistance
the taxi waiting below 
a week ago they arrived
love abounding everywhere
i had checked them into the hotel
i am the resident poet
fill in for a drunk night manager
they had met on acid
true love, fate, destiny, you know the routine
Leary would have been proud
the first day they were a ballet
dancing down the beach
romantic eateries watching the ocean
tumble continuously in
as pelicans and magnificent frigates
filled the sky in an aerial choreography 
then the acid ran out and tequila waltzed in
by the third day, doors began slamming
the iguanas could not bear it anymore
retreated to the din of the jungle
by weeks end the mosquitos 
pleaded to be let out
screams became crescendos thru the hotel
now he comes to the balcony
she and luggage are loaded
into the waiting taxi, the que pasa
now a raucous cacophony of fuck you
slowly fading into the neotropical jungle
she is off to another piece of resistance
of that i am sure
i ask him, think she will write
he ignores me, returns to his room
where for three days no one sees him
the bottles pile up outside, he is alive
the fifth day he is gone


         Play Hermosa   91

she sells goat's cheese. not my favorite
plying the beach ramada to ramada
at times she sits with me
lowering the basket from her head
her clothes are worn, patched
i roll eggs, beans, rice into a tortilla
hand it away, she always accepts
then throwing her arm over the chair
she begins the badinage
i understand little sometimes
others, far too much of humanities plight
i too throw my arm over the chair
rattle slowly in my aspiring spanish
making verbal notes of words
similar in english and spanish
she teaches verbs, vernacular
we share more than just language
if you would stand afar
you would think us old friends
lost in the chatter of complaints
news, reminiscing, and aren't we
the same expressions, gestures
friends in small talk
sharing a similar nature
delivering the points quite well
it is a beautiful day
we are happy to be alive
sharing breakfast, languages
she returns to her vending
i to the waves rolling in
this is what i need, not poetry readings


         San Blas   91

somewhere in the north
snow lies at your feet

the avifauna still gather
upon the roof
where you would scatter crumbs
for them, our broken bread
mumbling about a one loaf love

i am having tequila for breakfast
the parrots argue 
over my scrambled eggs
we are all cannibals here
we are survivors

the jungle and i
we have come to terms
and one of those is
somewhere in the north
snow lies at your feet


         San Blas   92

i wander these winter beaches 
where autumn's storms
have removed the footfalls of summer
believing in spring

here i am alone listening
to the waves mellifluously remind
yet never recalling
floating the river Lethe
alone where the frigates soar above
pelicans traversing the waves
the terns work the receding water
i am the intruder

waves erasing my past
placing before me rearranging sands
paths never worn
only the belief in spring
with each step forward

i wonder if the gulls see
my past being removed, the future
dependent upon some wave
fortune or contretemps
i wonder if the gulls feel
this surreal gull glide, turn, drift
upon grateful wings
grateful to those who long ago
gave freedom to thought from hunger
the plight of thought
the flight of thought
freeing this surreal gull to wander in wonder

i wander here keeping the dream alive
faith it will evolve into more
some empyreal dictate
some newtonian machine
there is a numen to winter beaches
here i can laugh with humanity, smile
the hubris belief this can be destroyed
changed yes, but so may volcanoes, asteroids
none of which has a brain
here i can believe that dreams
will be given to reason, logic
and end to war and peace on earth
that there is nothing fatal
even science cannot deny
these rearranging sands and time
will produce another poet wandering, wondering

i wander these winter beaches
where autumn's storms
have removed the footfalls of summer
knowing sunrise, sunset, spring returns
i am alone, yet far from alone
i am home
where dreams glide, turn, drift
soaring in the thermals of thought
the flight of belief

terminus ad quem
terminus a quo


         Playa Del Rey   91

i become lost in these lazy days
the ones i have learned to allow
sitting here on the balcony
watching the frigates glide to Bolero
below a content ocean, empty beach
my attention was broken by a Tropical Queen
butterflies in pursuit of drams
vases rose, yellow, orange, purple
a squirrel scampers across the banana tree
below, kittens in ludic behavior
practicing top dog, the sun bears down
iguanas abandon the roof's pinnacles
for the trees and the shade therein
it is time for siesta, i am tired
this morning the children and i
were playing warfare in the yard
my cane magically transformed into a rifle
i am leaning again
what i was once an expert in
a child amok in the fields of imagination
tomorrow i may take out the beach towels
and supermen will fly the patio
or stealth ninjas having hidden in the bamboo
till at last mother calls and it is time for siesta
and as does the wise old iguana
back we crawl to the nature of dozing
there was something i had to do
however, the myoclonic jerk has begun
lay down and drift away
even clark kent needs a respite
from the chores laden world

marbles
i forgot to buy marbles


          Miramar    94

waiting in the silence
for the energy to run aground
yet what flotsam the surf gives up
it will have to keep
i always jetsom, i never lagan
humpty dumty, friends with superglue
are not always reality
reality does not always adhere
reality does not care

your freedom, illusions of the amaranth
i have no simpleton delusions, imagoes
i am afraid death the anodyne
eventually, every star consumes itself

Nemesis, my knowing smile
Ate, your mentor
she is behind the mirror waiting
as all ephemerals, you bore me
i enjoy the diestrus
remembering the notches, using other's vanities
every Blackwidow deserves a prince
the Prince of Pandemonium


          San Blas   92

i know why i sit here
before this blank canvas
amidst the arena of his scattered paints
those lines now barely visible
soon explode into colors
scapes where i escape
that is why i sit here
staring at the canvas
here is the silence
here is where the wordless artist reveals
what is not there, is
here i am left with my simple needs
to sit and grasp, understand
what is, is
what is not, is not
and today i cannot remember
just exactly where in the dictionary
i left that word

this is why God created the artist
to remove writes block from poets
who lives next door
but do not tell them that
artists believe a picture is worth
a thousand words or more
any poet will tell you this is nonsense
i came here looking for one word
and i found it here
in the silence with the artist


         Playa Hermosa   91

for Dennis Kling who is the only artist, i know of with an airhorn marked with "PoetAlert"

the moon commences its' illusion
it rides the crest fully
survivor of Roche's Limit
survivor of human prediction
filling the night with shadow
my early morning walks
the light in the distance
calls thru canopied jungle path
the setting moon
stepping on the soft white beach
where a silver highway plays
in the rippling water, i am
the human past who long ago
beheld such a sight
without the shaman's cheap trick
nor the cold touch of science
have accepted the moon just is
beautiful to behold
we let each other be
we are one and the same
dancing thru the universe
and when this is no more
we will be lip to lip

i do not know what God is
and have no such need
yet whatever it is
it is magnificent

the heaven live to die
and in that death
life finds itself again
my wishes, mere mortal longing
that so might i
even Rimbaud capitulated
the reprobates fear of reprobation
and i have but one question
before the empyreal throne
is there in heaven, a moon


         Norma's roof Santa Cruz   95  

you speak of boundaries
allowed me but secret gates
acknowledged only in the shadows
my ability to separate your reason
from your logic
and that is what you
never cared for in me
words
you gave me many
that idled away
i have but betrayed myself
i wanted you
but my desires desire no more
this has you clinging
to what is already gone
desire is an empty street
where there is no address
the morning light never touched
upon your breasts
and in the end
we were emptiness
the worst of kindred spirits


         Fergus Falls   95

i am sitting alone again
they keep calling asking
but what do you really do
i am the poet
one who screams out at the injustice
the one they will execute
one who rises to arms
the one who refuses to kill
the permutation amongst the automatons
different drum, the road less traveled
but what do you really do
what are you beneath the mask
i am sitting alone again
the remover of masks
a dreamer of dreams
i am the poet
and have carried your steel 
until it broke my back
but i never knew how difficult
life could be
until i picked up this pen
sitting alone yet once again
in a solitary happiness
Tennyson's deep poetic heart
i am the poet
my job to decipher the madness
so we may see thru words
the red, red rose
what lies beneath the mask
or mask in lines
what they would kill us for


         Fergus Fall   95