Category: Poems

My great purpose
Was to wake
With the wind still blushing, under her cloak,
And feel the blades of grass break
Beneath my weight
And breathe, and breathe, till my flesh sag, and bone wither and blood turn to soup
To water once again
This cycle of rhyme

But you of quartz time
Of a world more divided than honeycomb
In psychedilic prose
And liquored lyrics of
Cowards crooning catalysts
With pink thumbs
And wide mouth still wet with milk;
Your purpose
Serves no purpose
The skin you wear feels not as your own
For the treasures you parade bought on loan
Were last held perhaps
By some Mrs Smith of Montauk
The day she died, alone in the woodwork
With the tune of the choir and the name of her Lord
Still in her head, the part of her head
That didn’t partake in the horror
But paused at it’s most beautiful

It is a world of resonating hands
For I can touch you centuries after
Through the wooden mask on your wall
Once wielded as wood
By the lumberer whose mother use to run with a friend
In the wilderness of Wyoming
Where the friend had a father
And he an aunt
Who was my first kiss, one autumn
Under the breaking cherry blossoms
Her limbs, soft silver
And sorrel eyes, tinged with tears and
Floating tenderness
Dark with youth

And thus we are no strangers
You and I
Voices in the void, a century of suns apart
But a pair amidst pairs
A tremor within tides
Remembering life as you lived
With memories of mine
And I with yours, like words yet ink
Thinking thoughts I always had, even before I could think

So perhaps I am here
Raven haired, raven eyed
Painting a still lake, with a husband by my side
And you there
In the courtyard of my autumn age
Under cherry blossoms, and a splintered moon
Kissing my love, as me
Upon a different page

Perhaps I am just a being
That hides in radios
And pretend to sing
The static from my second skin

I

Long answers shortened
Spilled upon the white tar, gathering garbage,
A small hand, pitiful,
Drops from the cradle,
Pale palm; alabaster,
Raking the sodden leaves, black and gold by
The decay of time.
Does it feel the lips of sand through the heap of shedded flesh,
Or the odour of armless guests sail through the rest
Of the garbage
Gathered upon the white tar
The white tar, the white tar, a fell desert of fallen stars.

Look right at the left
Till you are left, looking right at yourself

Since when did the rhythm of words
Have escalated the flavor of form?

II

This age has been kind,
To the cattles
Roaming freely along the roads
As Hermes on hash and
Eyes full of fear and tear and tar
Sitting symposium on walking slow but reaching far.

The moonlight falls through the trees as trick
And bees with honey hover
Over the pink froth of crusted smiles
Their be sounds of tiny teacups
Taming thunder in her wild.

Take the napkin, sweet love
Wipe the wine that stains thy face;
The chiseled contours of constraint
Holding together the cracks of your feelings,
Lest the painter in pain find faults
In your peerless beauty of tarnished times
And burn home the truth, in whipping strokes
Of his, that reveal the bones you hide
Under the youthful peach tree
You have watered every moment
In perfected agony

I was a yawn
Before I slept
I shall be a yawn
After I awake

Heaps of men have gathered here
I too from a far away land
To witness the world anew
And reshape it by my hand.

But too many now wet the streets
In a mass bohemian parody
This wrinkled humanity
Has staggered to a halt
Too close to the cusp of being
Stitched into silence

The traffic light blinks
Forward ye knights in shining armor.

How far would these wide eyes walk
Into this moor of mapped mirages
Before they know
That all the conquered castles
Have been cast aside
Into the white foam
Of purple sea;
Fathomless
Set free.

True
There shall be signposts around
Thousand steps
Falling in a single sound
But since when did the common denominator
Never divided
Us into I

So perhaps this time too
One may see
A brave soul
Diving
Into the depths
And the rest follow;
This domino,
White lines
Crossing the oceans
Only to greet
An infinity where
The Black lines meet.

The needle was cold
Like ice
Drawn on paper
And my skin
Poured forth, at it’s touch;
Soft as vapour .

My, my, rainbow blue
Where are thou
In this sky:
Past Siberian prairies
Or neath valleys
Spilling high?

These dreams aren’t mine
Aren’t mine are these walls
I was taught to build them
To learn how to fall
And I still can so hear
Those bricks seeping salt
‘ We keep a part of you
As souvenir for each fault’

Dandelion, Daffodil
Kaleidoscopic in wind still.

Their is a saint at my door
His hands are all tied
He has one eye upon his forehead
To weep for the world wide
And he asks for the key
To be free
From the Pain
So I whisper to him the causes
Of the criminally insane.

The world, the world
Wither not by my words
It’s the pleasure in my veins
That so flutters as a bird
And breathes, full of life,
Even with autumn in my arm
Hold fire to my lips,
And let the numb still feel warm.

What you do
And you don’t
Are both the same
Is this a question
Posed as answer
Or life
Laid as game

An ageless existence awaits
Without eyelids
Beyond sound
Sans shape
Or a source of sense

Where nothing is preached
Except
This
This
This…

I was once a baritone,
Timbre like the weight of stone,
And yet in the aching arms of a piano
I could weep and keep the sweetest soprano,
But that was long ago, you see,
When the curtains rose just for me,
And not for choruses, such as now I abide,
Like an tuneless trumpet, by the side.

I have no voice left, so to speak,
Just a twig of pitch, dry and weak,
Which I wring each day, north and south
For a morsel to fill my mortal mouth,
So in glory of the dream slain past
Could I sail again, against this motion vast,
Of arpeggios the world claim true,
That once left my falsetto in ruin and rue.

In this halfway world
Of shared demise
We walk few paths together
Till different sunsets lure us home
And we fall apart;
Like petals.

I have far less words
Far lesser time
There is a sun for me to swallow
Without a whiff of wine
Will the wild man keep, open his shop
Till I find some coin
For a single drop
This sober world is not for me
All colored one way
So none may see
The boiling rainbow in someone’s yard
Or the aces aligned in another’s card
Those worry lines on a toddler’s face
And the moral codes we wear as brace
Cause it will break the hives
It will free the bees
Who shall hum that honey, truly
Taste like grease
One that winds your watch
One that grinds your wheel
One that drives you on
One that holds you still
For this world is full of paradox
You buy makeup as cure for chickenpox
And put band-aid upon a broken heart
If willing to trade the spare parts
So all in all
This place is sick
Filled with filth as if the bladder’s weak
And none clever enough to make it stop
Nor kind to lend me for a single drop.