High on a Blue Ridge mountain side
with naught but skid trail for my guide
which must have been ,itself; quite old
as trees now stood there tall and bold

Matters not the time of year
but, in fact, winter was drawing near
with most leaves reclined upon the ground
where wind lent them a rustling sound

Then a stone of middling size
caught my gaze to my surprise
there among the leaves and duff
it, at first, looked bland and plain enough

you ramble with his poetry
book after book
but you are not a rose,
you are not a thorn
neither virgin, nor the whore
of his better days
under neon lights
and the sweat of inspiration

crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep
in the psyche of
your human jungle

you its prey,

and you build another empire
in the dust of your involution,
exhaling the animal instinct of a poem
you are its flame, but never quite
catch on fire

we do not write about
what we do not know
the so-called visionaries
in a frantic world
savoring chances taken
mourning lost opportunities
advancing with unmatched passion
a mere reflection of our double-life

we do not write about
what we do not know
but of the esoteric
world inside our heads
of displaced bullets
or the bothersome sometimes
bull-headed black holes in our souls

i.

as the thread continues
to weave itself
into a long-ago Jersey summer:

sometimes wild geese
lose their balance and land
ungracefully

we were young then
and the days ached
with laughter

ii

once
Buddha
lingered near the river
under a Bodhi tree,
it was then I picked up my
satchel of sorrow

my shadow
walked away

and the ground swallowed my tears...

iii.

I want to wrap you in poems
take you away from the door
you keep bringing me to