between long afternoons/ and - illusion

a black in green place

but i've lost the face,

who held its size


across to me -

somewhere never to long ago -

when - trees spoke in lines

of ages gone

and dreams were more then,

a torn scream - stretching freedom

out between - time as an

ocean between stars

was nothing ever so far -

a mirror upon a still rain of

sand -

my feet - believe in their nakedness

and all to many places never seen

while, is it too often

that my eyes know what i mean




i thought ,

yes that i had heard

from someone - an eternal echo

within a scream

but it was tomorrow

too simply, sliding across my

knees -

in silence -

late within every day,

i watch through my reflection

out a window, down a long

deserted street -

stones stand out naked

transfixed in defeat - for a moment,


i watch within - from my reflection


adrift, within

a window of mind -

a black in green place

lines in the mirror

of a face

yet adrift

between long afternoons,



from whispers,


down wooden stairs

a glass door,

in a window frame

remains, still

- jude



stepping before closed eyes

like the dark of leaves

parting tries to the scent of dusk


shadows lie, crossing over


and a woman leans,

child waking - against a silent breath

in wood,

she is naked

as is her nakedness

in wait,

in wait for no one else,

and sound -

her toes scratch vague

thoughts - upon dirt

and she met me

once, so hard to find

moon play, illusive light

shadows play their

whispering, lines crossing,

always crossing away -

as i walk - i run

and each time i turn -

i lie naked upon dried leaves


for more sky and

wind strained breath -

long sleeps beyond

silence in concrete, streets

faceless retreats all


alone, one step around

a turn

fire - blue,

silver snake tearing out across

my fingers - reaching

and nowhere

before the after

of tomorrow crossing wood carving,

in all free yester-year



she waited till i couldn't see

then touched me,

to the scent of her breath,

upon - her breast

pulsing warm with the milk of


her fingers painting milk crosses

across my lips

she fell

to my feet watching my

toes speak - whispering into my

skin for but a sip

within nowhere

we found her

a child mating rhyme

and nothing but time,

thrown away -

;where nothing waited to stay -

on her nakedness - as wasn't the play

silver paper

and i'm drawing words as song

silent and torn,

we meet - between creation,

and a long night

stepping before closed eyes

and, no tries.

- jude




phrases whose soul, burns water to live

if -

all for the walls

and/ the screams of free

through which this,

even this poem



silver freedom on an occasion


deep below all their simple sights


a wandering man, in poet torn

or hippie form

sleeping dreamless

but open, through a passing

storm, in full


upon, a colorado range


sitting tight between a vision

and distance held slow

with creation,

water upon my fingertips -

sips in line and / color,

i am drawn between an

eternity of

more then words

phrases whose souls, burn water

to live

in between as within


i am torn between

through which i

upon a poetís ledge -

am screaming for an


to more then just

ever just return

- jude


and why,

who shall ask,

should i nail any of my

fingers open upon a

concrete wall -

only a black eyed call,

dressed never too fine,

lines to define

only what might be

believe -

so, where is a river running far -

distance and sand

born free from the shore -

saying something more,

those thousand voices -

are -

are always whispering still -

for less then -

what green paper dream demands,

what reason is their need

to ask of me

and, so-

but for rivers & distance

- jude




but free from the concrete, blessed

and if there are only

black-pained eyes - wandering

within dusk-light,

upon this isle of concrete and stone -

for what can i see -

when my senses rage

out to cross the limits of my


shall i stand - for someone to

see -

as the sun plays a single line of color

so distant or fine

that maybe, along its flight

even time

couldn't mind

but for in whether i am ghost or man

or something more

and fire-flies elude

all my tries not to

catch one

on this edge of here

so, no one believes

that someone with

less then their dreams

held open within a open fingered hand

can hold more,

where the floor drifts sand

out past my feet -

and someplace in alone

to sit over an edge

upon a stone wall -

listening to a river fall

and counting all the unseen mirrors

lying within the long torn face

of a distant rhyme cliff -

where echoes lie pain across

just - yes, just my ears

and years fill slowly into now -

so, who wanders

here in close to me -

sitting so near upon what sea

and what dreams of ocean

death -

all, for screams or/rest -

but free from the concrete, blessed.

- jude




by what echoes

no sweet dreams

lie with me along

all the ancient times, who

break in

within a slow waking

grown from a

new york city - find,

with glass & concrete mountains

tearing out your eyes

to pitch black and stars

with wars lingering behind

on every stone street corner

i pass -

and in so.

i always pass -

so, what lasts

where in my steps

am i

and what lost freedom could catch

those tears from my eyes

i stare to - all my naked

skin - within the palms of

my hands?

where within

where are the hippies

or a crowded night, village street

whispering their wind

slow across concrete and more

'find a tree - and allow

a conversation of whispers'

spend your time

while your poet fingers create


words - a song,

forever still, something more -

deeper within then the echoes of

concrete might ever find - do i really mind,

all these unmasked graves

living below my feet -

retreat out


it is time to bleed a little -

it is time;

to bleed a little more -

for that ever wind,

and itís - now, unheard

motioning -

towards forever young,


glazed eyes -

black lace over a loved virginís


i sit within weaving from the blood

who drips - slow thoughts

down from the fingers of

each hand

owned for what moment,


by what echoes!




faces, hard against glass pain window stalls

smoke - too clear white

seems to fill

where in across the open edges


my wind soaked skin -

while hanging on

the walls

aged not so white

are the marks of traces

of souls who have traded their

eyes for nothing more then

stones or money,

for nothing less then rice paper


for what circles in screams

do i dare not to hear


where are all the ancient years passing

ever gone - in all its ever slow -

woman stand too still and crying

to empty a fill - for love or

less then-

while men - sway, empty handed

between carved wooden walls

and the calls of all

in forever they line

playing their faces hard against glass

pain window stalls -

staring with torn flesh, as

coverings behind their eyes -

and why,

are they always leaning so close to me,

a black night

and black smoke -

felt, but unseen -

drifting in me -

for all the places i dare to be

for all the faces

i care not to see

but anymore -

in tired, against those white-washed

walls - finger painted in modern

form with eye-blood,

drying behind their fingernails -

                                      - jude





there if between, once past where i had thought !

i thought for a moment

dwelling within what,

where - in where i feel -

time lied across midnight,

a quiet breeze of concrete & black

slipped across my face -

as i stood

and facing - out where

past the corners of shadowed buildings

watching in as a river

played silent sand

below its waterís flow

and maybe i thought

staring down

too long

down a six floor


down a crevice

of shadow in concrete

to standing still, holding

between a breath -

what, barred past life - form

lies so easily broken and torn,

death upon a stone floor - within a city

and night, unseen

and never, of what do i mean

as i watch clouds drift by,

dreaming in only upon themselves

across an always

starless night

for flight

and i felt, there in-between

once past where i had thought on

for too long -

a somewhere, always just past

the eternal edge of my sight

as a bend in a riverís water too simply

against its own flow

and my eyes noticed

a vagueness solid, a window pane

in glass & mirror form

my face, torn

against somewhere i couldn't see -

torn against what feel

drifting in through that window pane

- jude




in a blind mans' walk . . . and yet

in feel,

long and in weight

lies -the sky rising slowly

out - from where my

window lies

over a city's concrete horizon -

a slow reading try

as an airless blows

what in through my eyes

there is a place

from somewhere across

what - but the palms of my


as a woman cries in song

long blues behind silent almost dead eyes

and her tries

empty tries drift away,

from me -

for what more i need to see -


what cross - lies marked naked

onto my fingertips -

time who breaks free

just in how easily

to die back at me

which something moves all the same -

concrete to close,

yet always drifting away -

touched through a somewhere

blowing wind

silence in more,

in a blind manís walk

within soundless walls

and yet -

and yet -

reflection, blue silver unseen -

felt - but what do i mean

through a city window -

screamed, opened,

with a hold onto my eyes

drifting away

while i seem to stay: , ...drifting away - jude

sweeter than sorrow

sweeter than sorrow,

and then i have nothing

to say

who moves onto tomorrow

laughing into what lost

eternal moves as yesterday

come along

into my side

for i ride

sweet - or death

a little more then all the rest

i love you or if i hate

there's so little time

and so little to relate

if i ask, for you


lean into me - or i into you

with something young or old,

or my breath

and nothing new

but, just nothing to relate

is it up to you,

to turn your face back at me

and maybe say

in laughter and less


there's a lake so alone -

drifting in the wind

as my eyes find - and for a moment

there might just be

something, that i don't mind

something, if i don't mind

a drift of sun,

a split smile within

there in nothing lost,

but there is also,

but nothing to win


just a moment a

day - what is left

to say

as not but a here remembered

or/ left behind

for a moment, i don't mind.

- jude




and long sips of water, relieve nothing but the thought

i seem almost nameless

on certain - morning rises-

it's as if - a silk-stringed


has played me -night-rhyme-sky

drifting as a kite finds

what little or more

set out, almost free

to the edge - and always just the edge

of the sky -

memory-less voices

echo the silence of nowhere remembered,

ever - and still within

my fingers make grasping

motions in the air


the sun walks a morning line

through a partially open

window, glass and less -

no more.

and a child has -

remained a lady just once more -

her wood toned heels,

crack into concrete with every step,

the night is stale

and to what avail, does she

or did she

remember not to speak to

me - as her eyes noticed

some piece of me - drift past

forgotten eyes - drift back

into blackness , with another

morning break,

i wake,

thirsty - and long sips of

water relieve nothing but the

thought - what thought

drifting , back within -

what nameless rind,


what dry fruit, who's juices

seemed to have stained the

palm of my hands -

drifting sand/ and my eyes

silent silver sighs / and morning

did we all used-to-be

tired islands, and never a

sea -

a lost dream - or

nowhere more

remembering, but just

waking on a sandless beach

against the long torn whispers

of water

- jude



and when it is time

somewhere slow water,

on a raining night

river noise unseen

moving in an easy rage,

some time close

and she plays -

her music across another side


for free,

long sweet music -

born without a name

as if a strangerís rock

locked upon a held still

move of earth

holding the empty weight

of i - alone


guitar lies unstrung

within loosely closed fingers

and silence plays as the

wind rages - on unsought tomorrows



more then a thought

spins, long broken circles

through the wind to i,

to remember a forgotten



but once,

almost wanted to cry


and again no more

for suddenly,

or suddenly - her fluted voice

drifts no more

and an unseen river

rages slightly louder

the air grows thicker towards dusk

holding moments still,

as mirrors shattered ever

too fine

and when is it time i ask

on a wind,

who - drifts away...

- jude




for all this; dying alive

i listen to what,


someone dies

a voice ranging through

song and long laughing tears

of care

a face i've never seen

to it all,

of which on new

means nothing!

just another slice

of aging flesh

to spend open its life -

for return - a just return

back into -

whose earth

and that mirth which,

cracks on the lips of

those cornered-shadowed

folk musicians - are

the only way left - for them

to cry their tears?

their rivers of tears

their feet,

drowning in a mixture of

concrete & mud,

a world they can not see

to much of nothing

spoken through an unpublished song

yes, torn eyes

cry no more - for

a man - a belief in, more

wandering minstrels?

(or more)

living between the masses,

now unseen -

and - or for,

nobody knows what

for whatever do "we" mean ,

the scream - has become but

a lost echo - dying how alone


between 49th street & broadway below

a new york city - iron black, man-hole

cover -

and listen i listen

to - but what i see

and yet move

to those tears

who drift now -

drift as is wind - silent for ever


but i speak - and soundless


blind echoes - in birth

from what ageless

dreams of music

and more -

i cry - for

an empty death,

for more then

just one man

for who,

who couldn't stand death,

tearing eternally into his eyes -

and so he died - for all the tries,

and dying

dying alive!

- jude




back in form

her eyes lower

for all her tomorrows

are blue stained in today

she stares too long

too often

out through simple glass

lost between - a reflection ever


and an array of distances never

quite close

what glasses in passing

and why does she


from moments torn,

seeping slow through concrete

a crack in form

and but just a


always just a moment.

- jude




for free

touched tightly

open in my soul

and through

on a deep strong

wind -

i listen on the cooling embers -

of a city - dying on once

so long ago -

my woman lies quiet -

as sleep - needed

rides her on a wind silent,

an open rhyme -

i touch with moments

eternal -


me - out, slowly

so slowly out an open window

to - where rock cliffs

hide nothing, just open

free my whispering fingers

to wind and free -

parting easy -

from time and a

marked horizon -

somewhere flight

and, i

i fill all those seeming cracks

with music

and all this concrete

so easily loses itís

i stand

and no longer - breathe greed

through the parting of

things torn

just to wear a cloak

of black light,

of wind

a mirror within as,

turned out

i stand

my face turned to a silver wind


and playing my poems

for free - jude




dusk, and long past midnight

too often,

it seems as a like of years -


since of once, i felt

something turning deep inside

the long of another face,

more then a trace of things unseen,

a break of dusk

turning towards night -

in a tearing of colors

who name more then

moments - once past

eyes whose sight

burns from behind,

a pulse a song against blues

crossed to the

long of an open circle -

with tired fingers, who seem

much too often - on now

to drift with the wind and

little more -

and in slow


how long to eternity

as how long is death -

and all the waiting it fails,

as a paste-board ride

an a subway train -

too tired sometimes

to almost care - just to stare

wildly though refined,

into the window images

of slow and rain -

blackened by a turned concrete

stain -

and sometimes can seem in the

like of forever, if you forget

to remain

closer to yourself

then all

the empty fire stains

fastened to blank walls,

as- flesh without pain


and so i drift- yet still,

wander along

leaning through whys


never appear the same


for a poem

which holds open dusk

long past midnight

- jude




so deeply - must i care ...

so late, is this night

warm air blowing

through a wide open window

a dusty black night

sitting on an edge

so close

or too close -

almost voices

seem to whisper

on songs - as thin strings

which pull on my

eyes but below

deep where sight no longer sees

where something feels

and maybe a clearer sight -

a record falls -

a click - almost heard

and a voice reels slow

down rhyming blues on a

burning instrumental rhythm



i can cry no more,

wander through the sand tipped

edges of my

fingers - seen

tapping on an open

window -

tapping but to where,

those edges of what sounds -

a ground-glass mirror

do i scream, just for a

mountain to carry me away -

ending this longer day-

and all the noise

who belongs too close

but drifts always, beyond

just beyond - the

edge - always the edge/

of my reach


but yet

i drift touching long, from

somewhere beyond just the lines

of my skin,

alone on an ever moment,

alone in a simple blue chair -

calling into my soul

more than, that long face of

memory -

just i can see -

broken rocks -afloat on a wind, a concrete strong


in tomorrow -

somewhere now -


long moments adrift,

between long moments

and open tears which

burn within my

flesh -

for life - in only life -

deathless, my lean


with death still another touching

line - all so fine

for all

so deeply must i care -

must i care -

- jude




ice wind is blowing

but itís concrete,

holding me down

a rock is warm,

torn down slow

while wind

on a long blown


whispers of

blackness and light -

she stands, just for a moment

below the shadows of

a man - has she barely seen

his flesh in like watered flame -

a play between rocks in full

light -

while her easy whispers

are in circles simple - with slightly

more to be seen -

while -

all the while - only an aging

prom dress - never worn -


to know of what

her words

do really mean

i watch her eyes


"too much of nothing"

and all her tries - but fingers

playing broken phrased words


and the question is

but for what,

in slow setting concrete -

ice wind is blowing

where rain

doesnít quest -

recesses are packed with

questions across a void -

and - a man

is just a poet

tied to concrete - his face

bleeding clear

into a red-stage

raging wind

                                 - jude





she sang, but a song?

in somewhere,

more then a poem

eyes torn - from just ages long

and much too worn

wording a rhyme against a

moving loss of time

and fingers moving,

but only for free -

she sang - or raged out through

but a song

with somewhere behind was it her

deep longing to be -

and no longer is there open verse

for anyone to see -

for no longer is there anyone to see

her open verse -

and it all

seems like years, or days, or seconds -

since someone stood -

deep within a crowd, with the

traces of faces

screaming their silence -

out to she - or was it me -

for something more -

more then, just those trees

with sitting grass near by,

more then, concrete -

for street walking and talking

now all the easier -

slow to yellow, and slow to dirt

though my bones shattered

alone on a floor

a cry of music

a scream held free - in

water seepage - adrift on a


a much too ancient man

alive much too soon

and dying - while his

soul cries for more

then flesh and earth -

for a poet - must even die

for free . 

                                          - jude



the blood-dried, stained keys -

of a typewriter - tapping

don't think you understand -

i sit on the corner of a shadow

in a cafe - off - somewhere off

bleeker street

sipping a cheap wine

and watching all the faces shatter

as they pass along my

way -

i give up my name

to claim no other,

for a moment

crossed between two times


you stood sweetly naked

in an afternoons

filtered light

your hand reaching for the palm of

mine -

finding me - adrift

on a concrete low wind,

something lost whispering

black - beneath my eyes -

i offered you no tries

yet claimed only the moment

a blood chill and alone -

i light your cigarette

just to stare long

into the flame

burning itself in

deeply towards


a pencil across my fingers

a phrase

roaming between my lips - another

glass of wine

while my mind trips upon

each face, i darn' t

stare too long to

see -

i write your name

across a poem unfinished

i love you there - even there

within a dying fireís flame

but i can't even whisper

your name too

near - to hear,

as a flight - wooden tears

lie upon the words -

the carving words of my

fingernails -

a poetís whisper -

always too loud

an empty glass of

wine, and an empty

chair across a wooden



and, your eyes close

to the palm of my hand

lying turned up

upon - another

page of poetry torn

waiting long on a warm afternoon,

sweat just below her breasts -

she sleeps lightly,

still - as an unfit door

closes back -

back against itself

don't think you understand

as i slip my hand softly across your

waking eyes

in a love who reaches

her hand finds my face

and then my hand -


lying into the night,

and she leans deep into

my side -

and a dream from nowhere,


retreats -


blood lies caked upon

the keys of a typewriter

keys typing, where are my fingers

as i kiss her; i am blind

to her face,

but to know

a full smell,

tasting for touch

reaching onto her deeper

while, while grown walls

shatter slow onto

the sound of

the keys

blood stained keys - tapping -

i scream silence

and i wake slow and easy,

and yet,

i think i understand -

staring down

through an empty

glass of wine

onto a poem - suddenly finished

all too suddenly finished!

- jude





for a moment more?

crack lined - ancient concrete

walls -

on one side, a new york city

call - brick echoes

high pitched voices

and metal in high speed


held so close outside

just beyond the ride

splintered wood - and fallen panes

of glass -

shades of a sun-misted

mid-day refrain of shadows,

posing still

on a wall,

painted color over color,

a dog cries as if

beaten while a child

screams on a fear range,


a son yells back an echo stain

to a suddenly empty, window open


an old blues song tries itís

voice - reaching out

above it all,

reacting in

sliding hard through the

cracks upon a wall -


while in the mid

of summer,

through the crack of a paint chipped door,

newly painted,

a woman,

lies nervous - only slightly

against her own 'nakedness -

leaning between

between the cushion of,

a winter quilt

/ a song deep in blues -


watching someone -

seeing through his name,

watching - what walls

drift -

and waiting,

for flesh to move,

closer away

to drift where the wind might

never fall -


for a man and a name

to reach her

into her, to engulf her

to meet her -

now on the edge of tomorrow

slowing -

the rising sound

of a new york city stage,

and closing her eyes -

for a moment more,

- jude





black-wise before

even thought trees -

why does one die, sometimes

so easily -

and/ sometimes not -


- jude

song feels free

black faces,

in painted black faces -

ah! but where do your- the children


quiet - lady -

walks in song

/ sometimes much too loud

on a wooden table

below the top

not even a single name lies


between songs

long in refrain

once but a child too

tall or


or/ again or

now a woman - standing

too often between pillars of


or/ again or

a woman talking too small

a long -

in a song


unheard retreat


drift in

in and away

not too alone -

too alone,

who whispers within

what strangerís girl

for only the woman to hear -

to -yes too near,

to -yes too often

near -

her eyes are glazed as

she stands not quite naked before

a mirror -

drift song - woman feels free -

drift woman - song feels free!

- jude




sweet wind of death!

black water river -

who cuts through my soul,

whispers - threads on the edge

of long line tomorrows -

blow in shortened pieces -

across the winds -

hard clear winds within -

i fall back

upon a wall where no wall


where no wall need ever stand

i fall back,

through a wall

and it's the world

who seems to call lines

before me -

so laugh little man,

dressed in blue

standing so easy - just above my

fingers edge -

laugh across all

these water waves of distance -

and their shadows black

which drifts a loosened tune


the eyes of my feel

laugh little man,

at me - to with me

as we share a cup -

a cup of black water river time,

a smile

on a strangerís world -

drifting somewhere

through me -

touching me

long - without

long - with,

what laughter

but my own -

how seriously - i can believe


how deeply i reach for

these crystal tears


these tears,

i have yet to cry

these tears,

i have never cried -

all these years -

which pass me by -

forward or behind - a five

dimensional maze

of lines


a black water river

winds -

sweet wind of death!

- jude




sweet winter air

another year ? -

and again - where blows that

sweet winter air -

an autumn scarlet rage

sliced for beginnings

in silence -

(and endings whisper,

on full death refrain - offering or demanding


yester-years - gone)

here between brick and wind

an open spoken blue planes the

sky - enclosing this concrete

and flesh world,

somehow free -

and from far above - through a dust

pained window - tears fall for

tomorrows forgotten -

do i remember anything but for

this silence, on tomorrow

towards today!

- jude




sweet insanity and a stage!

cold labor in my mind

somewhere drifting -

someone moving in through

on, north of time

while all these people

around me - speak of growing small,

i read the words of

a dead poet

and i cry the tears

which froze crosses onto

the color of her eyes

sweet insanity, and a stage

we grow only for nowhere,

suggesting our creation




page -

earthless prose - we shape our

own concrete walls

till they fall,

and as she lay

back her fingers and hair

into a wet wind,

death chosen

or freedom in refrain,

she drifted how far

away -

how far into,

"if that which we create,

must also mirror death!"

still upon my lips -

blood and ink,

how deep do i feel,

how cold does blow

all that which never begins -


shadows fall

and beyond midnight.

- jude




dusk and a long time coming

and when my fingers

seem to grow tired, lying still,

no tapping on a wooden


and naked - but where

across a blank written page

on a stage unlit -

the wind cries distance,

as itís whispers only hint at sound -

so long, all too soon

where the palm of my hand

wants - yes wants to cry ...

but on where is

a reason -

so naked, lying somewhere near by

a sky divided by color

on long lines - broken

dusk on a long time coming

all till i yearn deeply

just to,

to walk off, away

through glass and wood

just to ?

a woman with just a name

or maybe something

more -

i met yesterday, sometime

;she grew small -

so long growing

small -

tears no longer crossed

her face on those

silent lines who trace

yester-years in place

for what play -

for what character rides

quietly upon her shoulder -

whispering tears

whispering years


slow wind -

across a bend in my soul -

blank paper fall,

there upon a wooden floor.

and these fingers

rage skin hard on

what edge for music to begin

and words whisper

blues on the raw edge of

my voice -

verses born i've never heard,

and no refrain

- jude



what rage of flesh torn tears

slow sweeps, what rage of

flesh torn tears,

black sharp snakes

crossing endlessly into the front of

my feet

on a floor

paved in concrete

and childrenís names

carved there - ever too,

the same -

an urge to turn away,

an urge to stay -

a page folded and torn

as a stage for living verse

sweetly strange,

in my side pocket -

not quite fallen

from -

never quite frozen fingers -

i believe in, only but what i know

face up upon a mountainís edge,

i lie for a passed? moment

still whispering along side

that whispering -

sharp never more

and nameless as water

filled with drifting crystals,

lines upon lines

sweeping time easily aside

a ride of sweet freedom

i lie for a moment -

my feet dance

alongside concrete - and snakes

defeat just themselves

and stain the floor,

with blood instead

of water -

tears cry through the distance

and tears cry through the distance...

- jude



on a cold dark winter morning

where do we go

on a cold dark winter

morning, somewhere before

the time of snow falling -

clouds white on gray

pull the sky into distance

parting time with a concrete and pane glass

earth fall,

shadows fall from within

owning entire rooms

back deeply into


i run to the wind

crossing my window sill

pounding rhythmically

against wood in glass -

step to the edge of time,

drifting onto a slow edge of

a free void,

yester-year mirrors back away,

on the face of somewhere cloaked

into black -

on my,

back - leans

into -

blow sweet wind, my

opening fingers

and my mind,

into a long sight

whose tune is but,

the freedom of my soul,

to lips on

moments whose birth is now

and whose life,

wanders long into the corners

of tomorrow -

somewhere like the sky,

is moving on towards me -

back into a deep blue in dark chair

holding memories of time but yet -

like of,

cold clouds raging through the

layers of my skin -

in -

layers in . . .

- jude





mid-night beyond

sweet night - black night

cold and only ,

on a lonely night

a picture within your mirror

drawn in color fine -

against shadows , slow and drifting

concrete and flesh

falling from a shattered line -

wondering, ?

and born too slow -

how often with

nowhere to go

hard into these

ever glass walls -

tears across a window sill,

quiet on this morning

where birth - seems so long ago.

for what is so -

sweet night - black night,

a silver moon,

a free mirror

lying never too lonely

within a slow slide of

fingers -

the longest of phrases

drawn by a poetís lips

tremble as sips, in birth eternal

across the long of your sighs

where morning flies . . .

she drifts how easily - where

deep within a water-free ocean

of whys

as dreams upon all

the slowly ancient


to say hello ; to say good-by -

stand quiet - child alive in a

womanís tears

stand free - woman alive in a

childís years

move as you move upon

your wave of tomorrow

counting not the years of your birth


or the tears of your stage -

counting just the crystals of your freedom

deep within the clouds upon which

your fingers dream -

free to scream but free to be . . .

for it is the morning of your

birth -

midnight beyond, this

sweet night - black night !


- jude




where only trees stand naked and cold?

someone says,

it's going to be

a long winter -

season of ancient death

filled into pockets of flesh and concrete,

retreating from shadows

are these shadows themselves

with eyes

of crystal glass,

opening too fast

who wants to be a star

who wants to be nothing,

to rage in dance for

form - or on - ever on

of what was lost

and lies feared

her fear - stretching years long,

till he's forgotten

as an ice naked tree

and a rage of wind -

staged to feel - on a stage


on cries a woman, even in her

dreams no more -

and hate somehow remembers

wrapped in questions of her own

asked - so repeated;

"never more"

down dark shadowed wooden stairs

shadow cutting into shadow

over by a time closed window

a middle point to nowhere,

to the black of night

long where sleep should stand

with unseen sand under her

fingernails -

watching through glass

winter in a frozen rhythm

tear onto!

and where -

so far away - where only

trees stand naked and cold,

where only trees stand naked and cold?



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