Haiku Fugue

        In bed at sunset.

My life more than half over.
        Storm clouds gathering.

       In bed at sunset.

My life more than half over.
       Windows wide open.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
        Time is disrobing.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       My wife grabs my cock.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Daughter kicking crib.

      In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Blue light in the sky.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Symphony of farts.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       I rub my wife's back.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Longing unassuaged.

        In bed at sunset.
My life more than half over.
       Tiny child’s laughter.

.

Tree

After the storm
there is a wet morning
and all the giants are sleeping again.

If their music was not clear before
then it certainly is now
the wheels of the universe.

As one arm grasps 
another and another
love steps out onto the highway.

On the lowway a shaky morning
of forgiveness carves itself
into wooden spoons for soup.

And she finds the bones
of a bird still in flight on the ground
surrounded by stars of broken glass.

Up we sprout in wave after wave
fiery universes with weeping eyes
and uncontrollable laughter.

The breath of our vision moistened 
with dreams from the tree
allows us to dance with infinity.

































































.

Three Nights and a Morning

                                                     In memory of my mother

One

She asks the night 

nurse Anna

about her degree

where she went to college

how she likes medicine.

At the end of the shift

she takes her hand

and tells her thank you

tells her how wonderful 

she has been

tells her that she loves her.

Two

Beneath the surf

of oxygen

and the distant 

spring thunder 

in the hushed

night hospital

we hold hands 

and she whispers 

stories while sinking

and sinking.

Three

Gripping the side rails 

of the motorized bed

she’s walking out

across a rope bridge

above an unseen abyss.

Her tiny skeleton

blooms in the bed.

Her head dipping 

into the next world

then fighting 

its way back.

Morning

Desperate breath hunger

stretches us all

as the inferno 

rises in the east.

Finally the corpse arrives

artist extraordinaire

with her silent genius

for helping the blind

to see what lasts.

Nurse Anna comes in

to offer condolences

and weeps quietly

for my mother

with whom she shared

such tenderness.

I stay alone 

with my mother’s corpse

for several hours.

The construction workers 

on the roof below

take a break.

The room falls silent.

In the window

the sky is cloud-heavy.

I sit still and watch 

as sunlight and time

move quietly onward.

.

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.

.