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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre


Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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of my battered heart

sometimes the morning cup is not enough
to wake me

the weariness has truly set in

am I the keeper
of everyone
but myself

I am chilled to my winters wearied bones

yet I carry on

love is a strange prodding...
a stick
a whip
a worry-stone
a whetting edge to sharpen the heart

I wonder how my stays hold me together
how I am not in ragged shreds
or how my heart is not enlarged to the size of an
elephant's or a whale's

why this doggedness
why the hanging on

am I a betrayer of myself
and of my battered heart

and of love
the great wide leap into the unknown

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