There are those who live, one drama to another, 
     never thinking beyond the gossip of the unconnected mind 
       horror and stimulus, reaction and hurt. It's all - 
         heartbreak - a never ending sorrow, nevermore 
       and the dreary awakening to life, pouring out our 
      troubles to the next pair of understanding arms, already 
               dreaming of the next disloyalty. 

             Oh sweet. Let us recall - the way we are. 
       we stare out of a wild white dream - a way of being - 
               bloodshed and horror and a bite to eat, 
         tea in the cupboard and the bone beneath our feet 
       our boys need coke, while the flames and sirens roar. 

       sing as we pass the open maw of major 
               investments 
                               tumbling, 
                                        fumbling, 
                                           dangling 
       through the noose, 
                       it's all dishonesty and 
                       daily grind, nothing 
           personal, but I don't 
                   want to live 
                               like this 
                            any more 

       chemical warfare in erogenous zones, erroneous destination 
                            written in the code 
               a kitten's broken neck, toy angel lying 
           in a broken wreck, worry about space and bread, 
              where the next mouthful's coming from; 
            though our own grandchildren cannot hold us 
                       in their unborn arms 

       Flap the arms, protest undying love, bright parrots 
       in the missing jungle wink their eyes, and all we manage 
       is a mild surprise. The heart is sick from over use 
       and under nourishment,  we dream our dreams, and think 
       not quite our thoughts, listen to love songs in the dark 
             apply them, willy nilly, to some other sod 
             and to our empty pillows turn without a sob. 

       Love's not to be made, how insincere!  but to be borrowed 
       from a song. The gift of constancy, investment of the self, 
       becomes the dullness of a daily turning to the plough. 
               The forced touch never made, 
           which might have learned to dwell, 
                  have learned to feel, 
                   have taught to care, 

       this daily turning to the now, is broken up 
       the words of poignant ecstasy 
       are sour as hell. 

       think only this of me - here is my noble posture 
       and my deep disease - what do you think I am? 

       I'll lay down no life for posing when there is love 
            expressible in the next necessity: there is 
       enlarging of the heart in listening, and in the silent 
               forethought of the mother's art. 

       well, it's all fine plumage but 
               life sucks or so they say. 
               Sometimes,  I wonder if we've yet to try 
               life 
        with all its pulp and pips, 

       to try 
       to rise 
       into the jungle heights, 
       into the canopy that seems not 
         there? 

               if once we set a foot to climb, 
       the next foot 
       and the next clinger 
               might be near, inspire us 

                      if mind is? well, might we try a thought, 
                                and deep within it notice soul 

       does help come down from high or from the deep within, 
                       or both at once? 
               Unless the foothold is first taken, 
              chosen and taken, will we ever know? 

               But what's all this to do with me
       if I myself should never see 
               or map my heart's dishonesty?

Blake's Law

COLUMBINE TRYPTICH
Ode
Queen of the May
Lullaby for the Dead
Communion
Dishonesty
Eye
The Fiddle

POEMS FOR FORT WORTH
Fort's Worth
For Cassandra
Soughing Song: Fort Worth

Futility
The Gate
Harvest
Pause
Punjab 60
Song
Stones
Ulster
Wanted: two in one

CONTENTS