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Oh ye endless silent sea

Hath though found a place for me?

Underneath in darkness’ be

Oh ye endless silent sea



For beneath thy gentle waves

Fire burns and hell enslaves

For those cast down to the deep

Not to rest in silent sleep



Darkness hath awoken me

To screams of torment never free

Oh ye endless silent sea

Though hath found a place in me

3 a.m. DEAD WINTER BLUES:



cigarette,

little blue candle flame

awake all hours

jotting down theories

about the nature of this and that

so happy to be home again



ashtray piles up

smoked too much today

but I've got the fever goin' on

I want love I want wine I want the words

that the sweet smell of seductive spring

shall bring



we'll go drum rolling trail blazing!

the bedrock of our souls-

oh! sunshine!



and you

have walked into my life again

in this deadness of winter

fluttered in like a snowflake

clear as ice i knew it

jabbed like icycles in my heart

stole my breath deeper than cold

filled me up with heavenly blue

and deeper still...



friendships reborn in spring blossoms

a passion as hot as summers past

ashtray piles up

smoke after smoke



3 a.m. dead winter blues

never felt so sweet-



Your spirit is like sunshine flirting with the earth,

it makes me feel alive, like laughing children.

Snow bound sleep is full of disaffected characters.





The sky’s a nest. As evening comes,

the sticks of darkness fall in place

for lies and nestlings to abide,





while in the west the sunset wall

deep red and sexual

arises from the well of immanence.





Swans down does lean in the wind.

a foreign village battens

in itself among the raw, damp, shrinking drifts.





The shops enchained. Not one is open.

Iron padlocks hang in darkness.

One key opens every one. It’s lost.





Behind a hospital more white than snow

upon a deep green winter lawn

I see the lovers making out.





The clinic doors like flower petals

open to the patients hope and every

kind of engine chuffs and whirrs.





Bed sheets top the whitecaps

of a killing, arctic harbor.

A violinist who’s been commissioned to





commemorate the chief of medicine

takes flight into his darkness

amid rags of music. Memory





our own. The elders on the harbor

in their cerements appear. A great steam vessel

ferries them in a mirage, a dearly loved ones,





out of life: an artificial harbor operated

by an old style ten key tap and crank

account machine. No room for imagination there.





Manufactured goods and ledger books

with garbage run upon the tide with barges

of tin cans. A virus on the rampage rises





overtaking plastic trash and auto parts and spent syringes

on the slack, low water tide of an abandoned beach.

Each day is violent and tiring.





Repeat. The exit ramp, ourselves, the bitter chil

I prefer winter and fall,when you feel the bone structure in the landscape

The loneliness of it

The Dead feeling of Winter.

Something waits beneath it

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