Bay Poets

Todd Hale


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 May 2001



Astral torus, donut of dizziness,

A long insecure suspense with

No assurance that all this primal

Worry and vigil will finally end;

Should the epilogue now proceed,

Close this mock-life epic

With all of its earthbound farewells?


One good-bye at a time, perhaps. 

Questions, the queuing up lesson,

Answers, training in durable poetry

Made for the odd duration of life.

To endure insecurity at its heart

Is to ease all tension during sex,

Be relaxed at the petting zoo,

Bear the echoes in long corridors.


Venus-like she waves to her

Man on a bone white stallion,

Heroic in scale, rearing in salute

To her fresh, luxurious makeup,

Classical subcutaneous areas

Of both amplitude and attitude,

She’s worth every parting tear.


Non-mortals suffer and tolerate

Their immortality realizing that

We immortalize them for good.

The ash tree, Yggdrasil holds

All life together, the epitome of

Sacrifice, a strange commitment,

A root goes up to touch heaven.


Aimless desire infatuates her,

As jeweled electric eyes aim

Decorous little-girl ions at all

Who attend. Unable to deter

The appetite of a saber tooth,

She goes as far as she can in 

A far-out quest for perfection.


The prime of life awaits her overly

pampered body tho her enthralling,

Yet uneventful death will be a worthy,

Noble voyage of impatient pacing, 

A psychic interlude with herb and

Brew, a reading or two, astounding

All who stumble across her eerie


Jeweled beam, caught in laser fix,

Detected by a state of the art trick.

To life’s inert company she toasts,

Mixing business or pleasure with

Round-Robin drinking contests for

The drunk, infinite, fried or couched,

Rusticated or merely out to brunch.


Anatomy speaks the loudest verbs

Reaching out, remaining illusive

Carrying out the main illusion, one

Too many illusions lead to staggering

Conclusions, illusory language is

The astronomy of a billion wishes

Drifting chill-white against forever.


No whiteness too sacred for hope,

A whitewash primer dope soaks in.

She can thank her earthly coinage,

Name that catastrophe, shaker of

Tectonics, no thanks to the Venus

Of three-coin wishes, thankless orbs,

thank you very much. Oh spit, now!


Her sons may come away healthy, rich,

But not thankful, no groveling allowed.

Spit on everyone who’s thanking you!

To be thanked is to throw back the wish

Like little boys fling rotten fish to sea.

No child of hers should go near where

The old monsters of childhood swim.


Childlike, on the road to Babylon

The children sink or swim along

The way, a brother, a sister, Venus,

Too slips on the bank. A brotherhood

Of enchanted fishes behave brotherly,

Turn the tide, rescue all, a fraternity

Rescues like a big brother teaches sex.


Ordinary incantation, extra unction.

Ordinarily one would think it odd

To look like the mother of sexual

Research, the bow and arrow kid,

Refreshing the woods of Arcadia

Basing love on the pull of strings.

At the well, Venus’ personal source,


Shots echo as the worn point dies.

Seated, she pays the well-digger.

A deep south contradiction says

She would rather keep her throne

And hold court in the underworld    

Than marry a November Scorpio.

Whatever omens happen to befall


Her in toil, filling her jar at the well,

A soul MUST be sealed. Our common 

Clay shell will not hold as much as

The empty snake shadow on her arm.

A heavenly queen, she is one wink

Away from chaos, another from an

Overhaul of the image of suspense.  


jw icon c.2001




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