outtakes it takes a theif

I want you baby, you want me
damn the consequence if seeing results
damn the karmic fear and damn the love
for today... sometimes passion and fat-out taking, far surpass romance
if it is right with all below and above
we'll find that no one can bury or buy
any day anyway with any currency
this crazy old love

---out again, maybe? #4---

ah the thunder finally cracks your dream
a sheet of water between me and the tree
I am thirsty the grass is thirsty the bike
is parked under a peeling shelter
elements are moved more real on this bike
magic bike of my Father's death
we're visceral in the open
no more solitude for anyone here
it is the ant's
rescue slogan while the rain now
slating sideways like the weekend was, in tiny
multi lensed eyes I am now an ant and that
is who you may be
are in this poem the last ant
just one
maybe two
following the hill the wasp hive too
squirming in nostrils beckoning the winter
to come
come on you, mothger er.. th...
MOTHER DEATH!
no more bad dreams for them
yes they must do dreams it appears
here in burned letters like 3-D movie
NO\W MORE MOVIES--DREAMS FOR THE ANTS
no more retreating (was I in a parallel empathetic
place yesterday?) there is work
to do before WINTER
turn the key and they teeny chant
no more grasping, no longing, no
eyes, no ears, no nose, (big surprise there
never was) no no orgasm, no Queen,
no nots,
no ghosts no failure because no success
the hill will drown you and you will survive
as progeny
no pride though
no sucking
up

--- care package #3 ---

a package abandoned on
your stairs intended
to comfort sears
your mind you say
leper! pariah! errand!
even meals on wheels
comes to the door
where you sit on the other side
with the athletes the journal and
ah the fur
waiting up until four A.M.
for your
old cat friend
to casually work the door cracked open
untouched she moves up
to share the foot
of your big summer bed
beside the little black dog who howled
mournful tentative encouraged by
your joining in
singing to no one out
there the crumpled bag of drinks
and macaroni sits still untouched
but by the moonlight
in the front room where you
cleaned and picked music
disembodied meditative even
hopeful hanging since noon
by that same old thread
in your artificially cooled air
desk piled high with dusty
dharma

-- hot sunday #2 --

quiet
too quiet make
home made espresso little
purple rounds make late
breakfast to share with
small black dog trying
his patience we
watch in zero gravity
impossibly athletic angles
filling this hot sunday
how many parallel
lives fly from bar to bar
in rent controlled ivory
towers how many of us
are alone like this
too shy to say so
too quiet
to knock
down the splattered
white walls
of palpable space
between us

--olympic stroll #1 --

swimming incites
symmetry counting
steps descending
through
moon flooded
steps painted
brown by day
ghost gray
tonight
bathwater
warm air
greeting skin
why not
just get naked
skinny dip in
this shared air