RED MUSE POEMS  

Oh lovely rose river
through boundless space;
Oh woman, maker of allures!
Elixer of Morning Perfume mixed with wine.
It makes a little frenzy in a world of
        want and envy.

The heart, a sleek boat gliding on winds, flows
through happy lovers climbing with glistening thighs;
into the lovliness of a gash in the sky.

Oh woman, your hands are the birds the poet saved 
       from one cold night.

You are a lovely fire built at midnight
     when the belly is hungry for its favorite clam. 

The rare woman is better than a rare wine.
Both take the Poet to splendid places. Mind.
And laughter through mists of dangling faces
leaping up the Pyramid to statues of the Graces. 

And sadness is a bitter bread full of old seeds
      where wonderful spirits protect you. 

"Here are our wounds," they say. 
"We too have loved and been wounded. 
          We, too, have wept." 

"But love again dear Muse, love long and deep, without fear."

Silence, that geometry broken up into infinite machines,
Is filled with casual talk about snow in summer.
Or a feast of wild grasses and berries.
A third is smooth as ice-cream on a boys face.
A fourth is filled with old Chinese men smoking foul
          cigarettes.

Love the City she wanders through.
Past the old, sad buildings and old, sad people;
past the stench of garlic fries and bloated sea lions.
Past the clang of carnival with operators of every type.
Past cable cars that don't run and taxicabs that kill.
Past bums hustling with hand-made signs; past wild gestures
      of young lovers meant to devour each other. 


The Real is sometimes a good thing to eat. A heart-filled
            laugh. A cradle of anonymous flowers.