Fruit of the Fruitless

So much sloshy thinking bears no fruit:
solitude keeps its own poor counsel

As moss drip of desire pools & stagnates
swelling the wrong joints
in blotchy dysfunction

only to seep through torn tissue
leaking from the undone fiber of skin pages



I went from paradiddle to embouchure
:from keeping a pulse I took
to floating a trill high above the fray

See, the music stand felt frightfully
warmer than the mosh floor melée

I yearned to fall amongst rock'n riot grrls
but never could lock in follow-step
til I slunk into the dance studio

O ballerina kisses, fruitless curiosity
unfulfilled in a night's pinch
(grope? fumble? collapse?)

Alone in my tower of babble
I mourn for the dead: overwhelmed
by spirits I make liquor my business


Blues Trucho, part 1

Drunks make me scared
& teetotalers too--
brawlers & smoochers
& preachers all do!

They all make me lonely
for a dream love that's true.

I love my solitude
cos it keep me safe'n sound--
yeah, I cherish my solitude
--anyway,  ya don't come 'round

Only tease me'n abuse me
like a mad child just been found.

(note: 'trucho' is Argentino slang for 'counterfeit')


Borrowed Buckley Hopes

A fine banquet on a dream table
cobbled from the dregs of love
the dregs of life an epic fable

O voice alone of alien chanter
rock my convalescent pulse
in heartbreak canter

break & run into gallop fun
before you shrink my age
before I grow my wrongs in rage

the long-lived echo of your death
rings the fool baton in hand
fueling virtue's isolation
to dream a second breath

I shoulda stayed at the trapset
holding down my backbeat gig

I should have rooted wilder
to dig at the limit & stay pretty

I should've stuck to my guns
given fair warning to let you know

I shoulda cut out in time
gone gone gone in a blaze of glory

We listen to the dead to listen for the dying
--who calling us out to call us in?

Stories told in hiding
as we fall out from love--
built up & spun out of questions

There is only silence after an answer
bubbles up from yeasty wine, bottled shut

We listen to the dying
to catch a message
from long-dead love

We listen hard & listen limp
to labels & categories made anew

We come alive to Death Metal Folk Music:
a flaming red horizon/that screams our name

(all is nothing but borrowed time
anyway-- a beggar's love
of stolen moments)


Roces del Agua

en el corazón de la vida
que refleja su piel, el ansia expansiva
diluye la dirección privada de metas

borroso centro pinta lienzo social
en contradicción expuesta
más allá del público hacer,  silente

nadie me canta paisaje
pero el chorro afluente ahonda el cauce
y se recoge al secreto río en su nombre

(lujuria secreta entierra el deseo privado
del ahogo sereno en la desembocadura)

perdido aquí me encuentro y te requiero roces

Temple Chilton

sins of absence & the past
beat hard at the bottom
of one heart's gash

sins of clotting blame
flood the calloused hold
through one thin tear

peel my treasure chest open
to soak the dry valves
& fruitmeat swollen

my wrinkled skin still smarts
with faults of aging children


Colgalejo po Soleare, en doce pasos

¡OZÚMIARMA! la decargada
que cuelga su quemasón al cinto:
la que huelga por exceso sin tu beso--

Salchicha sin sal-- ¿qué remedo
coserá aquél tu licor de ausencia?

'Admitimos impotencia sobre alcohol
y apetito, sustancia cual indudable fé

--y que nuestra vida en desgobierno
resiste la gerencial injerencia'

Se me para carencia, aún anciana--
¿cómo recuerdo alimenta
un reduciente futuro en paz?

Dios es Brillante, que tronante brilla
relampagueando Elénico gerundio

Soy coplero en vacío aunque ausente
me repita, que así marca incierta runa--

Ay, qué juego de pellejo, vergonzante
ficción la imagen erigida profano templo
pagano o romano correcto corrido...


Shortcut Pasion, Draft

Cringeful ogler of ill-cut figures
I seek refuge for membered sight
in full-fat pucker

Secrets under the skin
spill gory shadow ink
against your soothing mystery

Exposure beyond measure
drains all nurture's contours out


Tormenta, Por Los Pelos

Hace y transcurre noche de sabrosa proximidad
a la blasfema perfección del ocio escogido:

El ciclón crece al sur y nos regala ráfagas que alivian
el bochorno de agosto tropical, abierto a todas horas.

Golpes de pecho acompañan el ejercicio de ínfima libertad:
indulgencia sobre ayuno descansa el mareo con caldo.

¿Excusas? Ninguna. Pereza fatigosa y penitencia sobre papel.
El guiso es obvio, el placer se agota en silencio.
'Rinse and repeat'.

Amor es la indigna tarea de disciplina evasiva
que nos premia:
La singular ocasión equivocada, el error resonante.
Todo con su secuela que nos anega y nos ahoga
gota a gota.


Fiesta de Tic-toc

desde un cuckoo-dormitorio ensordecedor
hago rutas inefectivas para il grido

coplas hago, cojas rimas al cerebral gruñido
ensayado interminablemente 

(buscando guayaba y el recuperante placer
por el perfume indigesto de su madeja)

no hay eco, sob, de piel ni hueso mondo
en el sollozo singular de mafioso referente

chúpame otro absurdo lunar
písame la postrer arruga con tu pista


Car Lust Wings

fingers obsess
over a mind gone blank

memory of morning
draws random lines
over garments flung
across the restroom

last chance gas
by the turnpike ramp
glows neon regret
in the guidance twilight

western wheels
doggedly roll east
for takeoff along
endless, abandoned runways


Mourning Pages Further

(--on the margins of the lifeshow
as it ganders pulling focus, all is all: )

routing vessel, pressure yields to waste
over mumbing transport insults
where metaphor & meaning hobble--

the heart would feed the limbs out of its bird-hands
while head pretends a valve in failing faith

here is the room, here the misspent lode of solitude
sold into blind wells by scarcity & marker-bed floods

(where is the balance gear to roll the rusty loader
past the hurdles spiking the tumbler path?)
room is no room if abstract space lose ground

foam & roam, room to room: a land anchor out of paper folds

all is all, more is more & never the twain shall meet
in this fractured, dwindling life from bed to verse
in one fell swoop of dictionary desire

even off odd culverts by the piled debris
nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven

a simple game of all-too-serious tossers
gambling higher stakes away


Margins of the Mourning Page

on the margins of the spectacle of life
as it meanders & pushes
into focus, all is all--

routing is vessel & pressure yields to waste only
over muttering of vascular insults
where metaphor & coherence are compromised

the heart would feed the limbs out of its bird-hands,
the head pretending valves in failing faith

here is the room, here is the misspent critical resource of solitude
cornered into addictive isolation by scarcity & marker-bed flooding

(I don't know-- how do I find out what I don't know--
how can I act on what I need to find out in discomfort rush--
where is the balancing gear to roll the crumbling loader
among the spiking hurdles tumbled on the path?)

room is no room if abstracted space loses ground

foam & roam, room to room, a land anchor out of paper folds...

all is all, more is more & never the twain shall meet
in this fractured, dwindling life
from bed to verse in one fell swoop of dictionary desire

even along odd culverts by the piled debris
nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven

a simple game of all-too-serious tossers
gambling higher stakes away


Wolf House, Glen Ellen

As far as small-town watering holes go, the Wolf House might effortlessly lay claim to an impeccable, nearly unmatchable cultural pedigree, referencing as it does Jack London's burned-out dream home up the hill & the capricious relationship between popular literature & its cinematic equivalents with posters advertising near-forgotten adaptations of the author's texts, both less known & famous...


Limping into Blogland: Inventory Season

Memory plays increasingly dirty tricks on us as we age...or did someone pick the lock & pilfer some of my stored wines?

After nearly three years, I finally return to California, ostensibly with the primary purpose of doing inventory & culling from my total of a possible baker's dozen cases of wine in storage...

First stop: El Camino wine lockers in Atascadero, where the older purchases slumber in climate-controlled comfort. Pulliing bottles from boxes & styrofoam cradles, tearing off newsprint, there are a few surprises:

Where is the Oracle Oaks Valdiguié? When did I drink it, then? What about the Carparone Sangiovese? I don't believe I drank the Biale Old Crane Ranch Zin, or the Graziano Zin or Carignane...is my memory failing that badly? What gives?

Still, here is Lazy Creek's lovely Gewürtztraminer-- from 2005, we will see-- taste-- how it's held up. From the same vintage year, a couple Central Coast Viogniers-- from Marilyn Remark & deRose-- clock in over 15% ABV. Yikes.

(à suivre...)


Tiempo de Bolero

con cada sorbo lloroso
el hombre tragaba un diente

no recuerdo cómo supe
reconocer el ritual

por contener el reflejo
de secretos derramados
la mutua soledad vibrante
levantaba enemigo muro
con masculinos ladrillos

reconocernos mudos marcaba
el sendero de los miedos

casi olvido la tonada
que otro disco machacaba
rallado sin letra ni acentos--

Lo Divino Lo Divino Lo Divino


Carga de Amores

porque la madre ordena silencio
escondo la lengua y quemo memoria
para rimar señales de humo ajeno

cuanto recuerdo aún busca forma
si la rinde: rinde forma deshecha
por una búsqueda incansable

desde su nacimiento fuera del pesebre
donde los animales lloran
tras cada prestado antifaz de carnaval

opuestos o contrarios los deseos
alimentan mortales sueños
plurales de raíz, consolados

por general condición compartida
en trascendencia quebrada
contra el abstracto cielo

no encuentro certidumbre ni prole
para paliar el dolor fragmentario
de tu ausencia borrosa y borrada

volver a producir y generar es ley
que late rota y nos condena
sumisos y rebeldes por igual


Homesearch Fool

through aimless focus & fog of anxiety
I rehearse diagnoses:

more than one rational etiology
(or preemptive pathology?

for systemic constellations to
bestow vertical certainty)

hierarchies, higher are keys
to revolted kingdoms of abundance

where fascinated mirrors repeat
Dedalus apologising, O!

first bloody Stephen
to be continued


Final Winter Flow

YES I am stingy with fear, even
out of line
begrudging stimulant prod & prescription
placebo-love rations
that fuel fiery breath to mark a page with runes
at every double-edged purr

I end where I begin: a blurry dream
of the decisive step
on a forest track of saplings, bent & snapping
unbroken to wear our secret out

so I remind myself you never loved me
as every day I need
to remind myself: you never loved me

AND yet & still
five score & a couple more long years on
the timeful scrape of your skin
traces enduring outlines of yearning lack
in the clotted pour of my desire


Trouble Dream

Trouble is where you find it
trouble is what you make
trouble is what you never never
never can leave behind

It ain't me, boss-
it ain't my threat you dream about

My line of pain walks mute & dark
on a tightrope mind gone slack

How long can I hold on?
How far can I still hold?
How shall I hold off center?

(If I swing while I hang this low
when will I breathe my last?)



Santo Fracaso

Valentín es leyenda y santo mellizo-
mártir por partida doble
recojo sus textos en sangre
y envalentonado me aplico el cuento:
había una vez, y dos no somos tres...

Valentín es patrón de mis fracasos--
en amor, amistad y caligrafía
que resumen sus cuentas fatulas
en las ciencias biofísicas
-- depuradas de lógica--
de la comunicación
(y otras facultades venidas a menos)

Ay, patrón, ordene y mande fuego
para quemarme el deseo
de otra vez más por todas
y esparcir las cenizas al viento...


Voz Abandonada

abandoné mi voz
(comoquiera la lengua
hinchada de sed terminal
me traicionaba )

abandoné mi voz travesti
por vengarme de mi madre

de su santidad venenosa
de su sagrada toxina inoculada
de muerte y deseo embalsamado

sobre corales violentos
abandoné mi voz quebrada