Dear Friends,

I have gathered a selection of my poetry from the last twenty-five years into a book called THE SEASONS. (You can preview or order the book here.)

I am grateful to everyone who has read and responded to the poems over the years. I will continue posting my new work here and in twenty-five years (or less) I will have book number two ready for you.

Warmly,

Kevin











Mitza's Hands


                                                     Drawing of Mitza's hands by J. Heineman



Look at the hands 
of the dying
to see the truth
about our dive
through the wave of time.

Look at the hands
of the dying
to break the shell
of your heart open
and feel beauty flow.

With a blindfold over her eyes
she begins to see everything.
With a cloth in her mouth
she speaks with the infinite. 



































.

Infant With Late Friday Afternoon Rush Hour on Dodge Street





Will we remember walking 
the long halls of night singing 
sweet songs and songs and songs

The mountains are moving
through a veil of snow
The vasty ocean sleeps
while its waves madly roll
The green’s pushing up
from the winter’s hole

as our eyes burn 
and our hearts weep
O our hearts burned 
and our eyes wept
or will the explosion 
of light called day 
dismantle our reductive 
sculptures of time?

And then the giant moon
shining orb from the black bottomed
lake of space surface breaking 
with breath and breath
as the line of seasons speeding
ever faster, weaving in and out
in our heat machines
only to always lose
to lose everything.





































.

The Wilde Infant



                                                                                       Drawing by J. Heineman



She drinks all night
at the titty bar
screaming for shot
after shot of the sauce 
then growling like a pirate
only to throw up 
and shit her pants
when it’s time 
to go to bed.

Come noon 
she’s out cold
looking for all the world
like innocence itself
and just when you’re ready
to build her an alter
she throws a sucker punch
and shoots a golden
string of pee 
straight in your eye.

The Wilde Infant
has dreams 
of things unnamed
the rhythms of waves
running red in the rivers
and a velvety darkness 
far deeper than the clocks
which have chimed away
all of our light-filled lives.










































.


the poetry of Kevin Lawler

The gift economy . . .
from Wiki - In anthropology and the social sciences, a gift economy is a mode of exchange where valuable goods and services are regularly given without any explicit agreement for immediate or future rewards. Ideally, voluntary and recurring gift exchange circulates and redistributes wealth throughout a community, and serves to build societal ties and obligations.


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