To a Woman Contemplating Suicide

you seem to understand neither words

         nor silence

but I will dive once again, foolish man,

     into the sea of self-pity

and loathing that has become your time

        on earth.

inside of me – and you -

             are beauty and terror, both

 doors sometimes leading to each other,

         and also fragile, rich moments

  of  sheer banality

            mind clouds flaring sublimely

a lazy thought minding its own business

            some immutable disinterested synapse

outside, too, terror and beauty

leaning, if we believe the awful news, to terror

where beauty is stark and rare

            yet enough to last a lifetime

but walk outside and sip

            tea under the old bent street trees

and see clouds of vaporous brandy

peach and apricot reflected

in dainty cups at the chic cafe in the tame town

            legacy of multitudes of conquests

now firmly held by your kind and ilk

it’s yours to savor

or continue the drive-by world angry and incoherent

            a victim of defeat and meaninglessness

mauled by law and the stern keepers of your soul

            time on your hands and wracking your brain

for ways to retaliate at your own illusions

take your pick, choose to lose, or refuse

            to slaughter yourself slowly

any door will do, or none at all if contentment

can be found in the slow turning

of the world and the spinning of your mind

After a Morning Shower

so I’ve been thinking as I occasionally  do

during my daily baptism, each morning

washing on a new self (dedicated to truth,

justice and a more human way, which lasts almost until after I’ve donned my briefs),

and somewhere in there I get global thoughts, I mean big ideas and ‘time’

echoes back to me

I suppose ‘the times’ have always been the same

and in the political world demagogues have all ways spoken the words

mobs love to hear

and jingoists have in all ways fashioned

frenzied phrases fixing young and old adrenaline

creating the ‘moral’ basis that entice their children to

murder and be murdered

(I wonder why we wonder when we see the blood-flecked grins on the urchins in the streets)

amidst this and the ordinary dreariness of ordinary exigencies

I am drawn to the echo of your word – ‘time’ -

it is all to us, and it is true I aim to steal what I can of it -

that is my one fundamental honesty –

and so I look for jewels that cannot be bought

a fool, although not on the scale of Camus’ Caligula, who could not be satisfied but by owning the moon in the water, but who can, in plundering pleasure and sensual oblivion,

give deep wounds to a soft heart

and I knew from the first when you strayed from your intended target –

a mild giggle of fate -

that you were a gem formed by tremendous forces

(or like a famous trompe d’oeil, you created yourself in spite of tremendous forces)

and I was fascinated, even distracted, and my thieving self conspired that

I would know that ruby and the soul within

knowing that I was a thief

(time is stingy and has closed claws binding the count)

knowing that I was a dreamer, dreaming of being a thief and at that time

I had been playing the eunuch to a dull and dreary wife with no interest in my dreams

nor even my thievery

bound as she was to her own desires and the depression that seemed to be the only comfort she could take

I don’t know why but when you awoke my dreams the ether changed

and the One Woman appeared, knowing all my secret thoughts

she vibrated

and awoke herself and tenderness blossomed and I was semi-stunned and grateful

and I struggled with the thief and the idiot within

stammered out an apology to my unknown god and returned to the void inside

but then we had tea ( you and I)

and the foreplay was exquisite because your eyes danced and your mind sang in synaptic joy parrying the little bolts of my tease knowing I was made by your taunting laughter

and the flash of your tongue gliding over your teeth like a masterly concerto

and I nearly ached with wanting, torn by the man monster and the god

wanting to be good, wanting to be bad

and your goodbye flipped me out

so tempting so woman

(the black lace enfolding the oh so desirable so fascinating flesh)

then time plowed on and now I think of the drawing never finished, the poem never spoken, the song never heard and the space unfilled

but I loved the dream of playing with you forgetting the worm that waits, the ‘other’

that trusts, the theft of time, the sin of betrayal

I meant no harm though all I offered was emptiness