Fissure in my memory,
full of blue noise.
Echoes breathe in hot summer air.
A voyage through the desert,with the windows down.
You would let me drive but,I have already fallen asleep at the wheel.
Where were you when I broke my soul?
Wide open screaming sky,
the sad descent of a smoking moon and the scent of burning sage.
Red eyes caught in the headlights,
a predator blinks on the cold highway.
A mountain owl screeches and bursts my midnight into stars.
Somewhere on the highway,
a fissure in my memory
full of blue noise.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Unfinished
Bits of stone cold broken glass
lying like forget me nots
where once grew
'leaves of grass'
An ocean of mediocrity
pulses with the profane
as if vulgarity were
the singular birth right of pain
well dressed blank pages
adorned in slick jackets
photographs of poets
with smiles like footnotes
distressed and in brackets
Patti, Diane, Sylvia and Anne...
lying like forget me nots
where once grew
'leaves of grass'
An ocean of mediocrity
pulses with the profane
as if vulgarity were
the singular birth right of pain
well dressed blank pages
adorned in slick jackets
photographs of poets
with smiles like footnotes
distressed and in brackets
Patti, Diane, Sylvia and Anne...
Leave a scent on the soil
Pound through the night
with the heavy footfalls of full grown deer,
the pull of wet dog,
or the pressure of the migrating sun.
Midnight pulse points
push blankets
dripping slowly to the floor,
lazy curtains
turn slowly
in the heat.
I am having trouble sleeping tonight.
The city skin is breeched,
it's weather weary boards
violated
pulled back
splintered
and left in pieces on the ground.
Someone else has been here,
left behind
indelible
black ink
on the stone cage.
A soft weak man
marks his territory
this way
with the carelessness of an afterthought,
with as much effort
as it takes to pull the trigger
of a tranquilizer.
The night moves with plentiful noise,
the wounded cries of lonely beasts
pulse
with the flow of traffic not far away.
These cages no longer have doors.
The entire wild night
is free to roam
past the protection
and the hinderance
of heavy iron bars.
The big cats no longer pace here
I do.
1998ish-2007
Pound through the night
with the heavy footfalls of full grown deer,
the pull of wet dog,
or the pressure of the migrating sun.
Midnight pulse points
push blankets
dripping slowly to the floor,
lazy curtains
turn slowly
in the heat.
I am having trouble sleeping tonight.
The city skin is breeched,
it's weather weary boards
violated
pulled back
splintered
and left in pieces on the ground.
Someone else has been here,
left behind
indelible
black ink
on the stone cage.
A soft weak man
marks his territory
this way
with the carelessness of an afterthought,
with as much effort
as it takes to pull the trigger
of a tranquilizer.
The night moves with plentiful noise,
the wounded cries of lonely beasts
pulse
with the flow of traffic not far away.
These cages no longer have doors.
The entire wild night
is free to roam
past the protection
and the hinderance
of heavy iron bars.
The big cats no longer pace here
I do.
1998ish-2007
Dry hard petals of forgotten flowers,
hand pressed by the night
into colorful clay jars.
I throw a fistful of old memories on to the fire
and take warmth as the burning pages turn.
The oak table is dressed for quiet company
tho lines of lonely silhouettes form at the door
waiting for sanctuary,
solstice,
or, that lacking,
a steaming mug of hot honey tea.
Accompanied only by the patient ministry
of a passive locomotive
I am standing at the station
soul reeling in the wake that is surely yet to come.
The grand scheme of things
marks me as a small creature,
low to the ground,
forced
like steam from the sewer
into the cold hard glare of an expectant Monday morning…
hand pressed by the night
into colorful clay jars.
I throw a fistful of old memories on to the fire
and take warmth as the burning pages turn.
The oak table is dressed for quiet company
tho lines of lonely silhouettes form at the door
waiting for sanctuary,
solstice,
or, that lacking,
a steaming mug of hot honey tea.
Accompanied only by the patient ministry
of a passive locomotive
I am standing at the station
soul reeling in the wake that is surely yet to come.
The grand scheme of things
marks me as a small creature,
low to the ground,
forced
like steam from the sewer
into the cold hard glare of an expectant Monday morning…
Youth
Dogs squirrel through my brain
The trails that they leave are tubes
pulsating with the on coming light.
With fierce teeth gnashing they create sound,
as if silence never existed.
I breed here,
deep within the sting.
I up bring children,
armies,
to pass the time before fire,
and free time,
consume my fade.
It is a free floating fish bowl world,
with shores tainted in blood that squeezes from my gills.
I lie here dying in memories wake.
Sadly,
I soak your earth in fear.
This,
your fantastic zoo full of mysteries,
is my hysterical dream.
Perched on your mountains am I,
for this is your world.
This is your horizon,
each new day belongs to you.
Every cage here,
is a new wonder.
Faeries and goblins,
content in thier capture,
deny their race and the rage that they,
born nightmares,
are entitled to.
Every cage is a closet door.
The gate,
forged from black iron in a lair of rotting corpses,
age,
opens only to you.
The trails that they leave are tubes
pulsating with the on coming light.
With fierce teeth gnashing they create sound,
as if silence never existed.
I breed here,
deep within the sting.
I up bring children,
armies,
to pass the time before fire,
and free time,
consume my fade.
It is a free floating fish bowl world,
with shores tainted in blood that squeezes from my gills.
I lie here dying in memories wake.
Sadly,
I soak your earth in fear.
This,
your fantastic zoo full of mysteries,
is my hysterical dream.
Perched on your mountains am I,
for this is your world.
This is your horizon,
each new day belongs to you.
Every cage here,
is a new wonder.
Faeries and goblins,
content in thier capture,
deny their race and the rage that they,
born nightmares,
are entitled to.
Every cage is a closet door.
The gate,
forged from black iron in a lair of rotting corpses,
age,
opens only to you.
Walking with Ghosts
Flipping over endless empty pages
full of restless night
misreading by the light
of the falling moon
I am shaking sand from my skirts
in a sepia photograph
pressed 20 pages into a book
that I am not so sure I ever want to read again
Keeping my place
is a softly burnt branch of driftwood
thrust vertical in the dunes
marking where I left off
before I started to dream...
full of restless night
misreading by the light
of the falling moon
I am shaking sand from my skirts
in a sepia photograph
pressed 20 pages into a book
that I am not so sure I ever want to read again
Keeping my place
is a softly burnt branch of driftwood
thrust vertical in the dunes
marking where I left off
before I started to dream...
We wait here on the wind
bound up from within
eager to be souls
without any source of sin
But free spirits lie in wait
with flowers at the gate
calling, 'join us in the garden,
before it is too late!'
Instead we cast away our eyes
and with wicked words chastise
determined that our minds work better
when kept a smaller size
We think it's all been planned
we'll sit right by his hand
when we really should be wondering
just where it is we stand.
Oct 2007
bound up from within
eager to be souls
without any source of sin
But free spirits lie in wait
with flowers at the gate
calling, 'join us in the garden,
before it is too late!'
Instead we cast away our eyes
and with wicked words chastise
determined that our minds work better
when kept a smaller size
We think it's all been planned
we'll sit right by his hand
when we really should be wondering
just where it is we stand.
Oct 2007
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