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The dark sun plunges like a slow motion meteor toward the valley floor. We, ski tips hanging over the cliff appear to be vaulting into the void. The skis racked up on the van, I toss the gear in; I stand upon this snowy hill that for months I looked forward to. It’s gone. So it’s off to the future and the setting sun, Throats hoarse. Our Chevy van leaks. To the street, ’snap,’ The roaring metal river rushes to the iced pavement to head for that big pond, Emptying a lodge parking…

Gone, at night to become a mist. Gone, your soul lingers to say goodbye. You’re gone; the pink powder of your face dissolves. Gone gone gone. This hour the toll of the bell will tell. You’re gone gone gone. Lips like cherry candy in the midst Of granite tombstones, rotting flowers Mausoleums, and the moon is on the tower. The lace upon your thighs And the leather on your breast. Gone gone gone gone gone.

Titles are at the head of a poem, most of the time. They are important sources of information. Titles are a means for discussion.

Apollo ain’t got nothin’ on this cat. As a Herculean figure, a master musician and a titan for the moon, nobody imagined that it could ever happen. But just when the cat began to lose a grip and the shine took hold of the strip, a toothless barbarian took the life of a magical force.

I stepped from the jungle of human genes With crooked teeth, wild and untamed Like the wide leaves, grass valleys, falls Whitewater rapids, all the ugly ditches All the untamed beasts, but I was made To conform to normality. Where are they – My crooked teeth? Perhaps I should’ve Kept those twisting vine like ivory teeth.

Tears collect on my shuttered pane So I look down. Can’t see the Earth’s sun Anyway. It stalks the Earth’s dark shadow.

I feel excitement as your pulse Throbs into my palm. Our hands clasp Into covers under which we meet. Our fingers’ Cupped to hold this precious peach.

I once said, “How long, Lord Before you restore the wind?” It’ll come it’ll come it’ll come I knew.

His hoarse breath-spirits howling Exhaled into the lungs of Adam, Thoughts struggling from eternal birth To gain a right to time on earth. Released in one exhale to time. Spirits, a swirling mass in Adam’s breast Crying out for their one blessed Thinking, talking, mobile wall of flesh For separation unto self To come to God or walk from wealth.

Your love for me a little more than nothing means, When love as sense of self may be, than mine, less strong, When thrill of love may keep the pain on withered greens And night of dreams is like a teared and jerking song. Your silence dances meaning’s words on face’s frown, My eye of winter follows stream of light on sky, Erratic flow of painful words by stripping down Their sense of meaning sounding like a sad ”good bye”. With…