Dynamite comes in small packages.
“Maker”
He’s not mad, your maker.
Not angry in the least.
This was all predicted,
every bit expected –
the rebellion, the fall,
temptation, surrender –
until finally,
finally,
you took his hand
and more.
“Quiet”
Never such peace
as after the click of the door.
Heartbeats can then expand
in soft empty air.
“Home”
Missing pencils and
half-used cakes of board wax
margaritas mid-afternoon
on an old blue-painted porch
the dog is sick
but the vet says he’ll be okay
“Do you ever miss Los Angeles?”
Yeah, some friends, memories
trouble is held back
by the rocks protecting the bay.
for Dave
I asked three times
for this affliction to be taken from me.
“But it’s your brain,” God said.
Fuck! I guess I need that.
“Jump”
He hovers
over Jung’s deep pond,
seeking a measurement:
How deep does this go?
Are there sexy monsters?
From a coy-formed mouth
(new, just for him),
the water speaks:
“Come in and find out.”
“Visiting”
I wandered over the border today,
sleep-walking into OtherRealm
as the gods murmured: "We've got to fix that gate."
“Road”
Your body,
Sir,
pocked and hard
like the road you walked
leads on
to gentle water.
“Tyler”
Yes, I saw --
quite by chance --
you dance,
mastered by music,
singing its spell,
and now seek the siren
in a world of clang.
Did you know…there are books?
Greg Beckman 