Night basement
alley sweats
meet on
the fashionably iced
mountain resort street.
Our time together
is the fate we keep
Strolling circles
bone to bone,
the Maker is making
our Time together;
Time that bends
with the wind.
We got silly with sin.
You played a game,
puckered and stroked
and waved me home
You know where I live,
and lived with you I did.
My penny price
was a plastic flower,
and poetry …
Enough!
Magic in a broken
bottle of vitamins.
Enough!
William Blake
kissed and ran,
ran and kissed.
Albion’s son took
safe harbor
in the box canyon's shadow
of mountain and mist;
Lingering there in early
afternoon cold shade;
and in the darkness,
howling at his phantom's
fire by electric streetlight.
His mind got quiet
out there, somewhere.
She saved a single
scrapple of soul,
petting his dry skull
as the river ran by.
He starved her,
got sorry later,
and fell in love.
Creek water ran
through their veins
and cleansed the salt
from his tear-duct dreams
They matched steps,
and in stepping claimed heights,
then showered to be sanctified,
then wined and dined, borrowing
on Telluride time ...
He wept and feared
and feared what she wept.
He wrote up a list of his faults,
or fell dead asleep trying:
Pride, shame, manic moods,
moments of empty bliss.
She pegged
her donkey
to a target,
sealed it
with a kiss
He was stunned
by the beauty
and purity of this.
From "Angel of the Avenues," a book of poetry by Douglas McDaniel
