Sunday, May 10, 2015

The Book of Mom

We use the table
in front of us as common
glances and a love.

Certain shoulders of
blanket whispers not un-said;
the pleasure of reach.

It is a fabric
chair – swirling around the room
when I say “love you”.

It is the gather-
ing of family and trouble
because of family.

In the love series,
there are so many touchings
that reach beyond touch.

*                      *                      *

Don’t overlook the mom:
the eyes, the throat, the lightening,
the simple, of course.

The place beside her,
the vases full of flowerings
ripe with thirsty birds.

The sweet between of
the holes and the broken time,
asleep and dreaming.

To go, together,
like we feel each other’s hearts;
the beat in the same.

The things we say and
don’t say, always a better-
than option to do.

The glow on your face
tasting life like we made it
makes me live better.

Do say what we will
or want to say always that
over and over.

*                      *                      *

Time in memory
can be magnificent, or
just a beginning.

A spatula me,
spanking all the pancakes that
are still sweet with you.

The smile sun burns
so brightly with your sunrise,
the happy mother.

And so the fresh thing
comes and grows with years gone by,
years like seas:  alive.

And I write this book,
finishing with words of love

& close the book like a hug.

"Armand Capanna"
"Armand F. Capanna II"

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

For Mom (Senior Citizen) On Her Birthday

That wild piggy-bank full of all things metal,
covered in acrylic paint and posture;
the one that sat in my room as a child,
the one that I always shook with glee:

I don’t know where you got that one,
but I remember it like a dead friend;
still fond of and wanting to shake it again,
trying to gauge what was inside of it all that time.

I sometimes miss that bank, terribly, in
trying times when I have to ask you for
money, but I know there’s a bank - one you have
fully stocked for many - whenever I need it myself:

And whenever I shake your heart,
there is no rattling, no part empty;
only a never-ending fullness of love,
for all things,

                        and I'm forever thankful.

Friday, February 20, 2015

Berries (2015 - )

Sometimes you
want rasp-
berries, like
when you were
an adult.

Sometimes you
want straw-
berries, like
when you were
a child.

Sometimes you
want black-
berries, like
when you were

Sometimes you
want blue-
berries, like
when you were

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Love (In the telling) - haiku

tell me you love me

tell me you love me again

tell me you love me

Saturday, November 29, 2014

2 x 3 (Post-Holiday)

You wrote me a note today telling me how grateful you were that I was there yesterday and how you were left alone tonight, missing someone still.

I spent the day alone, writing back to you, telling you how good it was to cuddle up with something with a screen given the weather – awful.

A breeze & rain fell down upon us both, both in different places, but still aware of each other, of each other’s mutual combination of genes, fears & hopes & sorrows.

Friday, October 31, 2014


the ten-bit chorded off into the corner/struck in the back/bleeding/but nuzzled like a buzz/hope in the future/no future here/stuck in the soundless station of all the empty/so full of empty it’s empty/fistfuls swallowing the sweat/alongside the similarities next to the next/hands striking pubic bone and gristle/shining buttocks/nipples blown back/the bit bitten off like a carrot top/breath exchanged/then withdrawing/beneath the rag, ear, chin – blood/barely breathing now/grime of the shaft to the back of the gums/tethered still with teeth (still missing) but somewhere still champing at the butt/in the still corner a couple of cripples rest and restore one another with a salt snack of/salt/the semen kind/and regain one club foot over another until each are able to stand/on one another/and regain a fortune in the future

she stands aloof/always with her hair in her hands/feverish/almost touching the tip of her tongue/she stays that way like a baby in a crib/rolling over the remnants of what she shat out/the night before/through saliva boiled over twigs and twine/she speaks/belly full of steam/”who’s the little beast-maker with the hands?”/heated by more flames/she falls to her knees/”like climbing back into my ass/all the better to make a cleaner fart”/she stalls above the slipcover/sandy head over creeping ivy/resting/pubic curls down to throttled thighs/she sits down/hands spreading the odor wide/fondling the fat of her baby’s belly/belching out the sound/of soft legs/youth/stiffening with each burst of putrid putty/-first/spewing out onto the open/”that be the story of an evening spent”

a tortured branch of philosophy/he fends of the chords and bites down on it/down with the phallus/down with the flank/against the back of the blonde worker/double backed/and bent over to take all that is given him/this is tender stuff/my boy/pressing cheek to saliva saddled cheek/there are things that can still crawl downwards/ellipsis/heads now buzzed/lifted backwards like buzzards/inside of the torso like a Sunday away/between arms/cocks paddling across lips and then cut/off from the lip/streaking across the bed like used floss/he burns down the silky wet with want/shot up with fear and distrust/hands on shoulders/pulling down/down/down with the rest of the between thigh mania/springing into the garden like a glans in the heat/scraping trust off of dried blood-stained sheets/always & quick

Thursday, October 23, 2014


She was 44 and, no, not a woman
as such, but something that medicine
left nothing but bad stories and bloat.

That was on the day of the pushing.

*          *          *

She sucks up his talking and makes him
pay for it, like a summer singled out for
death, and harps on him for being him, now.

This on the same day that love coughs.

*          *          *

There were policies against such somewhats,
like the tender heart of November, always
caramelized together in mush and spice.

Odd pudding, he’d say, and nevermind.

*          *          *

She takes what a woman takes, alone
and to the point of the middle afternoon,
all day building a ceiling of honeysuckle and pouch.

She is that, that which compartmentalized her.

*          *          *

Thirteen days after the beloved, she velvetly
sweat out the rank and rigor of the bankroll.
The crippled cock, ordered like cheap Chinese.

The bars and shops of art and artifice, love.

*          *          *

Everything is orange and burnt and ember,
now a force that bleeds over the streets in
remembering and alternate remembering.

She is the ark and spark of a live wire.

*          *          *

Later, she will be the kind of woman who
men look at as a force of scare, an old Jenny
whistling like a kettle, the me sold solid of it.

Scared of words just because they exist in the air.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


He stands over the old man, still cooling off of the hot coals he had recently been toasted upon:  Now that he’s done, the young man says, I might as well tell him.

He tells him of the many mistakes he has made, of the many more he has yet to make, of the many, many more he will never, if ever, make. 

The old man rolls over to his side, scraping his crisping skin against the cotton, smiling, saying atta boy, atta boy and all.