The Sea is an Artist

holding you under my thumb
like a pebble on the shore
smoothed by the sea
still struggling to be free

beautiful bones turning white
your hair drifting over waves
the ocean blue
i could not swim out for you

and it was midnight at noon
the clouds hanging low and black
another day
fading as you slip away

irony holding a drink
one i don't dare try to touch
a perfect stone
sinking in the sea alone

Effigy in three Pieces

when the scene painter packed his small tool kit
prior to leaving my studio, under my tall easel
he found a twentieth-century paper window
hung with shades of grim and gray.
it was part of a sketch i made of
the modern movement, which showed some understanding
of the temper of the times, and it was open to a question.
and peeking through,
he caught a glimpse of a woman's pubic hair
just as she was pulling on her blue jeans,
fixing them low on her hips.
and approaching her was a bearded man with menacing
black eyes who appeared to be very angry, and the painter
wanted to shout a warning when he saw the man raise
an arm as if to strike, but he could not speak.
after a blink, he saw pieces of buttocks and breasts and
genitalia covered the floor where the woman had been standing,
and cruel black eyes were cavorting on her grave.
the significance of this find was not realized
until  the scene painter was much older, and by then it was too late.

The Zone by the Fire

i watched as she inserted a tiny key into my heart
and gave it a sharp twist,
and asked me to lay down on her couch for a quick
therapy session by the fire,
during which she would once again shrink my head
to the size of a pea.
and i became ever more obsessed
as i visualized vegetables sitting on my bedside table
by the lamp which held a shade
shaped like ballooning breasts, when she told me it was normal to
covet carrots in the morning with my coffee, as she often did.
if she was to become the root of my eventual recovery,
i wondered why she trailed a beach towel
to the flapping garden door of a black and blue cabana
and giggled uncontrollably
when i said there was room inside for two.
i saw her chair before she sat and it reminded me of an engorged penis,
and she told me it was her favorite place to sit, but she couldn't share it
with just anyone,
although i had the most poetic eyes, nose, and ears
from which she could create a sculpture of the perfect human,
if i would only undress slowly by her side.

Marie -Therese Walter (1927)

Picasso was legend!
he held a dove in his hand
before releasing an orgasm
on the Mediterranean sand.
the only real problem
with a wife and a son
was how to kill marriage
without employing a gun.
the dove was his mistress,
very sexually blond;
he painted her nipples
for which he grew fond.
they went rubbing together,
a little suffering in bed;
two bodies entangled,
he drew her in red.
predictably erotic,
her sleepy head fell.
her mouth full of hunger,
she ate him as well.

watching the moon with mom

in the asylum
when the dark room grew close,
hallucinating and confined,
the legend of your ghost
out of the corner of my eye
like a vivid memory floating in air
revisiting a childhood
near my little town square,
came playing into my mind.
a ball bouncing against the far wall,
catching a cold,
letting it fall,
trying to pick it up again,
seemed uninterested in the evening news.
dressing for the circus like a clown
in amusement park shoes,
and passionately shopping for toys,
swimming near the bank of a secret river
with other naive girls and boys
watching the moon,
my paddle like arms suffer as i stroke,
preferring the water's current
to the familiar joke:
your faint smile and strange eyes
falling from the sky like luminous pride
light up my solitary cell
many years before i died.
had you loved me then, i might not have cried.

Guitar with Missing Pillows

an eye at the end of my penis
saw your hips clench convulsively together
at three o'clock in the afternoon.
a sharp noise had diverted our attention and i went limp
with exhaustion while you began to pray.
your knuckles looked hammered onto each other
when i rose to check the door.
3 carpenter's nails were wedged into the jamb,
and from each nail hung a loose piece of small paper and i
dared to read the writing.
secrecy having always been a game you misunderstood,  i wouldn't
tell you what i saw,
but when i returned to your room, you were gone.
the guitar you had been playing was on the bed,
strings still loosely wrapped around a neck,
impressively out of tune.
in the shadows of the late day, i saw the fruit bowl without fruit
left in place after your departure.
the old wall paper embellished with the flight of a bird continued to
cover up the fading paint.
a rising wind blew outside the window.
you must have cleared away my clothes, since i couldn't find them,
and all the pillows were gone.

by your side

You are in Heaven
where the angels sing,
while I am on land
still wearing your ring,
and walking with Max
watching him chase
his little red bird
when i see your face
smiling at me
from Heaven above:
my dream is to be there
by your side, my love.

Brockport, PA

Near Brockport, PA
Along the Route 219 highway
When the sun was just starting to go down
I met you heading into town
Driving your dad's van,
And you stopped and up I ran.
And the engine roared when it was floored
Shifting gears far into the night
Tuning our radio by star light
Pink Floyd and the Division Bell
We had nothing to buy, nothing to sell
And nothing to hide, nothing to lose
Nothing to offer, no need to choose
The headlights showing us the way
It seems like it was just yesterday.
What more is there for me to say?
My coffee grounds still muffle the sound
Of another one-stop prairie town,
And your eyes shining red:
It was probably time for bed
When your motor died,
and I went to sleep alone and cried.

Michael L. Marchiori (Dec. 8, 1950 - Nov. 7, 2007)

You have left me

without the embrace of your arms.

5 years have passed and I'm searching for your smile

and simple charms,

 finding only empty air.

I look everywhere and you're not there.

My wound is raw and also the pain;

while friends say "Move on!"

I can't and remain

thinking about you as I did before,

whispering your name at night and more.

It's been a hard 5 years without your touch,

the touch I miss so very much.

And your voice and gentle laughter:

when the last supper is over and after

I retire for the day,

I can still hear you say

"I love you, JoAnn!"

and I love you more,

Mike.

In Turin

In Turin,
i first noticed the tiny skin mole
relaxing circumspect near your left breast
and it became a fascination for me.
the mole, however, was initially not so disarmed.
i offered it a taste of my wine, and after our
first few glasses together, the mole became confident that i meant
it no harm.  i then handed the mole a full bottle.
without distraction, i continued my inspection of your breast,
but the mole said i had an interesting face and wanted to do a portrait of me,
so i moved to your other breast, and the fact that i could no longer
hear the mole clearly comforted me, as though a great stress had been lifted.
i'm relying on memory and i think it's accurate, that the mole began to tease me
in a louder voice for having an ugly nose, a Greek nose instead of a little Italian button one,
and that made it difficult for me to exploit my new found position as curator of your
lovely breasts, both of which i would soon want to marry.
as soon as the mole fell asleep, fumbling the glass, spilling a few drops of wine, yet
nothing too serious, i picked up a pencil and paper, first to exploit
the literary possibilities of a talking mole, and second,
to record how kind you are to me in my hunger.

the Riviera (1926)

in a tangle of French pine trees and shrubbery,
the white house was half hidden in the early part of July.
its' oriental interior was accented with a Moroccan table
and a slender woman in the middle of the salon wearing a long dress,
with her vertical vaginalike eyes narrowing in the summer light.
she had recently fed a high strung cat which at the moment was
stretched out on the divan, piled with cushions.
the cat was not asleep, but seemed to be studying an easel
with nothing on it but a palette, unsullied by paint.
a sketch book left open on a nearby table shows the hastily drawn
pair of tights the woman once wore, before her injury.
when a beautiful young man approached her, he opened his umbrella and gestured
for her arm, which she offered.
and she spent most of that summer outside, leaving the work to her husband,
who would do more than install a black-and-white mosaic floor for a patron's fumoir,
a room for smoking opium rather than tobacco.
their garden was always full of surprises, and they visited often,
especially with a drink in hand and surrounded by a collection of wealthy friends.

For me

we never seem to touch
and i wanted it so much
this dream i have waited for so long
just a sudden flash,
and you became a song
i see another man by your side
going in and out on the tide
swimming in an ocean of you and he
from sea to shining sea
the sand always getting between my toes
do you know where it ultimately goes
when i'm dry and everyone else is all wet
if you're wrong, what do i get?
hasn't this all been done before and much more
diving in the deep, mysteries on the shore
making my bed,
wondering what it was i might have said
if each word came out a different way
would you know exactly what i meant to say
and everything i tried to seem
it came to me in a night time dream
like you and he
and there's no room inside for me.

i thank sincerely those who have come here:)

the memory of what has been
and never more will be
from the bowels of East St. Louis
to the mouth of the Mississippi
darkens the earth for me
like a dream of sex that cannot be realized,
complete with self-pity, an old feeling
when i look at my bedroom ceiling.
and all the faded headlines about Hiroshima
hiding in the book store
with the Master of the Universe
and his Raven whispering "Nevermore"
condemned to be a bore
by the children on an Apple high,
hearing screams at night they can not know,
nostalgic for the singer from Tupelo:
a blues player or a shouter
with a guitar for brains.
and all the concert goers eating steak and salad
in the event there's a cancellation when it rains,
the unpleasant sensations getting tuned out
many times over to mute the shout.
where are the story lines designed for insight?
i guess it's time for my coffee and a long good night.

on an American trail

into the shadows on an American trail
under blue skies where the Holy Grail
was said to be found
but it wasn't around
so i'm not sure what's left to say
it wasn't on the mean streets of south LA
under the tracks exhaling smoke
ducking the punch or writing the joke
delivering one liners on a Caribbean cruise
the women said they had nothing to lose
no, it wasn't rape if a baby was born
in a prison yard with a promise torn
circling the castle each rich man's moat
holding the poor man tight by his throat
little brown children a Christmas tree
waiting for an missed opportunity
remembering dreamland walking the plank
sucking sounds as the mighty ship sank
into the shadows on an American trail
escaping boredom like escaping jail
ignoring the warden leaving the cell
exiting Homeland running from Hell
into the shadows on an American trail
under blue skies where the Holy Grail
was said to be found
but it wasn't around