the elements



the soiled elements which comprise a past

are a mask.a transparency. a diagram. a mute

mononucleosis of need and rage. and clarity.



ellipses follow. drinking now and yes I will

continue to drink until the story be told

and with honesty plausible. no dramatic curve

exists except what's inveighed or imbued



the topographies of thought and emotion

are not neat. both require a voice. and one more

than just, say, this happened today and then this

and this happened. all my thoughts now

are of stories past; time is the iron

that binds all wounds



I wrote a song once saying as much. there's

another poem there: the genesis, conception,

life, death and memory of such a thing. I could

sing you a song now but you can't hear it. but

can you hear me



I said to her, I have no greater essence

than what I give here. we were in her green

Bronco parked by the canal. or else safe

backstage, with piano, guitar. or else



lying upon shingles under December gray sky

and afraid to touch hands. someone gave an awkward

pat. it was you



we were walking then close by in the snow snow falling

as we left the mall lot and we close God what warmth ah God

all good got flushed to Hell



before I knew what had gone