I dip my bread in blood,
persist into obscurity
	as any voyager
upon the path of liberty
moon or tropic Venus
       lays upon the seas
the restless seas.

Worship this woman 
flesh & spirit
   (the easiest portion unless one is 
ungifted, then impossible)
   prepared to suffer each surprise
she finds herself
	     called to inflict.

One loves		limits
& adores	by rules.  The body
imposes of those   a whole handful.

Look around-

Di quanto per amor giamai soffersi
   Di mi quando tu verrai
et aggio a foffrir anco

for pride & anger must surrender
    while one remains a man.

But the ear that I sketched-a black 
& white endeavor of a day,
that day my being first drew
in her aura.

I would bend
me-wards	   speaking as a male
   upon whom Love walked,
		in	out
bent on Its purposes
   that are never our affair
For she in whom our age delights
   to marvel at itself 	or ought
as a plant,   its root & flower
   triumphs incompletely
till she descends to the caress
  arena for the path to spirit
requires a nervous system
			held in meat.
  Any who looks on her w/o awe
dips his slice of Dante's wood
  into a lake of lukewarm lead.

Pink cotton candy in the pine trees
       my assemblage looking fine
hanging on my wall.

Dried grass embedded in paper
   & dried grass laid on photograph
of dried grass under my sketch
         on a transparency and tinted
engraving of dried grass titled
     Even this alchemy converting
each moment into the next
             forges locks on your heart
had seemed trite & a trifle 		
       in the gloom last night.

Green, crimson, black, or purple
The garment that displays her
Hair twisted in blonde braids
Or tumbled, loose, or drawn
Back from its widow's peak
Light as morning's wing.

Sometimes her hair is braided
And I am upbraided
	calling my assemblage
Woman.   Not so,
I see         specifics.  But alike
In that her chest is unlike mine
While between the legs, the way
Leads in, while mine juts out.

The gender differences multiply
  so that woman
	is an honorable name
  & to address one 
& just this one
and for him, Laura
speaks to more.      

When, we
Poor mutts, hear her breathe.
As one more day goes by
Headed for the hoarded years
		he keeps apart,
		              & counts
As Vesuvius, I hear,
Believing, never does.

Drawing w/my finger in the air,
  does any of this exist?

There's a lot going on,
sitting in a chair in the sun
  and the volcano, risky, a steep drive, manageable, but
  it's hard to walk just on the toes
of this foot w/o making it bleed.

Oh, boy-who knows,
  it may be good for it to bleed, 
though not if you're shot in the heart

Or in the gut
  and you're lying there 
for five days.

This is the Petrarch Project,
and no one is lying around or lying about their sexuality.

What started this?

"It was the semester that I was teaching one day each week in San Francisco, 
and perhaps it was reading 
		graduate students' poems

It was fall, and the thing was
I was getting sicker, my heart 
was failing, getting clogged up,
and by the end of that semester,
I couldn't walk up an incline, short of breath, it was just too much for me."

You who scuttle into sound sparse verse suspire
	ill of your nude heart
juvenile error	altr'uom	attend

Various styles raging on this piano
   vain hopes, vain sparrows

To prove her ovaries the prime intent of Love pardons us, amigo
	perdono mio 	perdu."