Renee / The PR

It's ok that you don't have a clue.

I still love you!

being to timelessness as it's to time

love did no more begin than love will end;

where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim

love is the air the ocean and the land

(do lovers suffer?all divinities

proudly descending put on deathful flesh:

are lovers glad?only their smallest joy’s

a universe emerging from a wish

love is the voice under all silences,

the hope which has no opposite in fear;

the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:

the truth more first than sun more last than star

—do lovers love?why then to heaven with hell.

Whatever sages say and fools,all’s well

E.E. Cummings

Less said,
soonest mended.

A Colombian vibe
in a Pennsylvania village
a restaurant the color of
satsumas:

Tyrants on the wall
a pastel gun in the face
of the established rock
that is the path
The nose
The taste
of smell
(like pungent necks)
but we smell like wine and
cigarettes

Wait--those lines are
those lines and nothing
can prevent their path
This butter though
is moldable.

As our thoughts are
by the telepathic frequencies
we perceive.

Radio--Radio
walk, rake, talk, heave, walk, rake
talk, heave

This music is not elegiac
in a town known for
the Molly McGuires...

And where is the window then?
If this pot?  If this out of
town pot can't be crawled in
where is it Stephanie?

Walk, rake, talk, heave...
This is a prison
I see it now
the handprint
the 36 coats of paint that cover it
the century-old dead leaves in
the gutter
the walls

And leave...
walk, rake, talk, heave
is all I know now
in this microwaveable
mold pot.

This elegy is named
Molly McGuire.

Here (solemnly) lie the Molly McGuires
safely pressed between the
words, the mud, the
grass, the dead.

--May 30, 2009
Collaboration with Jody Buchman
Jim Thorpe, PA

Soaring, her emerald heart calls up the morning,

and he knows her golden love.

Shaman of the everyday, former provacateur,

he brings balance back to her.

In winter, still he makes her garden grow.

In darkness, still he makes her roses glow.

It’s true he has an open face,

and she’s a traveler of time and space.

His body is a Redwood tree.

She sings, Behold the Forest King—

My soul is rich from his magic;

He showed me how to turn the page.

Gregarious fairies by sirop

Your broken heart is not really broken, dear one.  Deep down you know you are loved.

In the call and response
of two birds mating
an insistent language
passes between

although it is
not my song
I know it is their
language of love

and I note how eager
he is, not hesitant at all
and she is equally
eager, yet also demure.

Granite wants to be marble
phlox wants to be gold
field wants to be lake
or I want them to be

I listen for a rhythm
instead I get a Cage-like
cacophony

but also wind
wind through each leaf
on each tree

tiny purple flowers
yellow buttercups as I
beget my first experiment
with feet

a thicket of dandelions
and more purple flowers
Stay by me, I tell Maggie:
Keep up!

We walk the perimeter
of another holy forest
I wanted to wear my pale
green shirt to--Oh!
is that a cardinal & gone.
& reappears.
A little show-off.

(I want to fit this huge circular
field into my poem)

Walking toward the dump:
dead old trees, coniferous,
large trunks, ugly rubber tires
and most strangely:
various colorful fabric flowers
& Christmas wreaths as if
to add some kind of beauty
plus a very old tv...

"lay these words like stones"
"move yr feet"
ah, whippoorwills...
(actually, no,
more like
doves)

Then a terribly mean bark
from deep in the woods; another dog
for a moment I have mother fear
that Maggie has met
that dog
my heart skips a beat
but she reappears
ahead of me
luckily

Now the farmers have come
to do their work
and all the stones
look like ordinary stones
clear, hard, real.