Christian Ochse / Poetry

9/27/2009
Sitting in 30th Street Station
without my glasses.

Columned at both ends
and fixed with dangling lights.

It looks like Berlin during
the Third Reich outside.

But in here, the warm ooze
of an American prime
glows faintly.

Emberish, it captivates and comforts,
like the sad end of a fire.

————————–

9/25/2009

I looked up from my Riverside Complete Works
to see the white sun enshrouded
by blue September clouds
setting tamely behind Philadelphia.

Writing while you’re moving
is like singing in the fields
or telling stories by firelight.
It keeps the soul’s rough edges
burning bright.

Time sits behind us, grinning
His big fat wallet doesn’t fit in his back pocket.
Hoarding greedily, never shelling out
what we’ve been giving.
He just keeps on holding
our alms for oblivion.

Let loose your songs and poems
like arrows let fly at once.
Don’t hide them at the bottom of your satchel
It’s not as deep as his.

—————————–

9/25/2009

The world is overflowing with art.
Freakish green eyes brim over,
Welling up with tears from her soul.
Like rain on a meadow
the condensation of expressive particles
into heavy droplets
become the painted words
with which we scrawl our heartful lamentations
on the side of our home.

Sometimes, like Tom Sawyer,
we get our friends to paint our fences
but all of us,
not just those who paint prolifically,
sometimes are not satisfied
by the whitewashed fence they brushed out for us,
and we push forth our own
thickly colored rain
from weighty, smoky clouds.

————————–

9/17/2009

These visitors I see in dreams
Don’t speak or show themselves to me.
They command fear in sensations
and imbue my envisioned eyes with rain.

The rain is unending in my deepest sleep
The stars come out only when I wake
and then I am afraid to look at them,
while ringing in my ears are taunting mysteries.

It is irrational to fear invisible entities,
but is it rational to write off a dream?
I find that sometimes when I wake, in sweat,
that these dreams are impossible to distinguish from reality.

During the daytime, they reoccur in the back room of my mind,
and they are the same as any other memory.
I am not insane,
but they tell me they are coming,
and I believe them.

—————————–

8/28/2009

There’s a lot of sadness coming
Time lives in everything
And the plans you make
are saddened by their outcomes.

A worried man sings a worried song
He’ll find himself knee deep in water
Before he reaches the shores tattered margents,
and he won’t be worried long.

Motion pictures play an ancient game
They keep alive the templed flame
of ritual and sacrifice
And all our martyred TV heroes
are born of this same vice.

I don’t know what these things
have to do with one another
but I wrote them anyway.
And there’s a lot of sadness coming
There’s some purging to be done
through song and ritual.

——————–

8/24/2009 - Like the Stones of Venice

We are all imperfect images
with the limbs of God. (of the eyes?)
We are all imperfect buildings
like the antique stones of Venice.
We are all crafted of
material as ancient
as any in the Rialto.
Nothing between the Po and Piave,
No ship upon the Adriatic,
No palazzo built on sinking wood
is older than our blood.
We all have our gothic windows
Asymmetrical and flawed.
No rounded edges smooth our touches
No pure white columns yield our secrets
We burn low and ugly in the sun
We become more intricate in old age
No unending youth,
No eternal golden piazza
lays white under the sun.
We gather up our assets,
live huddled near the sea,
groups of unique buildings all:
community, friends, and family
make up our city-states,
and wait
against the undertow.
Wrought with wrinkled buttresses
and marked by six pointed arches
Long fixed upon our faces
Steady against the years and weather.
We burn low and ugly
Not crafted in a line, the next as the last,
but one by one
our elders wrought us
Not grand or richly spangled
but strong and built to last.
We may not symbolize perfection
but occasionally our dreaming towers and spires
lift up some soul to heaven.

———————-

8/15/2009

Laying on our big London bed, legs crossed
And thinking that this is right.
Thinking that you are here.
This is now and England.
Around the slow curves of the Earth
is a low golden band of light
That each year emboldens with each night.
The image passes fondly.
You’re at the window, soundlessly
I bound across the room, loudly
and come up behind you.
Attacking you with me.
The windy passage
brings crisp Thames-clipped slips
underneath a bright lavender sky
It is a low city
but high enough
for our love.

——————–

12 August 2009

I sentimentalize classrooms,
but not the other students.
I sentimentalize the room.
I take in prophesy
and doctrine from
a strutting peacock
with a flapping tail.

In the windy gap
of my recipient mind
I lounge on mountain tips
and falls.

———————

31 July 2009

The magpies are sprightly snatchers
Bringing their winged bodies to rest
while they raise their speckled little hatchers.

I invent fictions for the woodpigeons too
their necks are ringed with downy gorgets
and they bring me news of you.

There’s three white cows across the Queen’s Road
that live ‘neath the shadows of the Backs
the long tails of grass they eat always shining gold.

Canadian geese appeared here one sorry year
and all the university wits said “send them back!”
but now it’s much too late I fear.

There are animals here I know not
and badgers still have babies to be got
and college chapel bells ring hot
when summer sunsets start t’rot.

————————

12 July 2009

The imprint of our dreams on the every day
always leaves lines of sadness in our faces.
And those night-glossed images are not so far away
from the daylight soul’s resting places.

The lattice shadowed leaves upon the grass
signify nothing.
Remember nothing.
Recall nothing.

I look for reflections
of myself
in the windowpanes of glassy campus buildings
and in the hoods of cars.

The apparition that I see
is not the avatar
of my slumbering reveries.

It is an image once fantasy
It is a face I’d never seen
In all my desperate attempts to glean
the locus of some truth.

It is the face that I longed to wear
since I’d seen it on display
but couldn’t seem to find anywhere
until in fate-like sympathy
I experienced the honey-feel
of your shining truth.

————————–

15 July 2009

Among the watergrasses and flowering weeds,
lies a castle on two isles, stately Leeds.
Against the siege of Longshanks you stood,
and in you now lies something virtuous and good.
Proudly, your nobility shines hardily in a time
when of monarchs we have small need.

You are the bounty of England, the sweetest grape
on her vine.
And so ends these heroic lines.

Among the gnarled grasses and clutching weeds
Looms a petty little castle, Leeds,
with itself much beguiled.
The house of six English queens,
if English we can call these.
Ladies given, or taken, or traded to be defiled
by some brute like Edward Two
or Henry Eight.
You are a reminder, ignoble house,
of frustrated men who devoured
enough of their country that now
we are still in the process
of digging from your slit-bellies
the worthy years and truths
that you have eaten.

———————–

6/27/2009

You woke in time for breakfast
but everything was burnt.
The tabletop was glass
and you were in the past.

Now, everything I’ve learnt
has broken under pressure.
In time I’ll laugh again
when clean water is a treasure.

But right now I’ll write this poem
in an amiable flurry of rain
about the moments that are gone
and all the thoughtless pain
that continues to wax and wane
amidst a life of love regained.

At dinner you were seated
next to the aunt you’ve hated
since the fires of hell were heated
but lately… it’s abated.

—————

6/21/2009

The rolling endless hum of the engine
is the constant backing rhythm
to all these satellite radios.
But the trip is at its inevitable ending.

Sitting on a blue milk basket
Slimy and slick from hundreds of scallops
My orange oilers glow with a sickly vibrancy
under the hazy lighting.

My mind is soothed back to irregularity
by the lapping of the seas on the hull.

Gone soon will be the throbbing Zen,
Gone soon will be the crystalline fog,
Gone soon will be that paradox of
clarity and murky dread.

I still see, behind closed eyes,
the knife infinitely cutting through
earth toned scallop guts
and scraping perfectly the muscled medallion.
But my consciousness will soon lose the
constancy of routine;
the structure of the watch.

————–

6/20/2009

I wish that I had written more
out on these lonely banks
but after working six-on-six-off
my eyelids slam like doors.

I look for you in every dream
so that I can find your eyes
but all that I can see right now
are things that simply die.

The light out here is a pageant
but all that fills my head
is thoughtful pent up anger
and the six more hours I dread.

——————

6/13/2009 - Handle Compass Like Eggs

Waking up on the top bunk
of a boat named after me
Nothing about it resembles me
but its desire to navigate the sea.

We’re twelve hours out of sight
of either land or tree
and the softly painted light
from horizon to horizon -
is all that we can see.

The seabirds in their flight
lazily trail above our wake
Unbound they drift awhile
in the gaining bright.

Unlike them, I hold the trailing tight
and remember with a smile
the compass in the pilot house
reads “handle me like eggs”
beneath its trusty dial.

———————–

6/4/2009 Sir Thomas Malory, on himself.

He died a long time ago
the man who wrote this book.
He wrote legends, about men who forsook
and about the places they did know.

He lived a long time ago,
the man who they mistook
for a rapist and a crook.
He wrote all one winter
in the soft English snow
held up in a dungeon
for what, I don’t know.

His life is a fact.
But not one we can see.
His life ended one night
that’s all it could be.

What he wanted to be
was something long gone
a knight of the sun
down before his bed on one knee.

—————-

6/3/2009

The skull of a dog
or a raccoon
maybe a rat,
near the ocean
jumping off the pier
into the sand
under the chilly grey skies
of my ever more abstract memory.
Grasping for magpies
They are right there
My mind thought
They are gone now
My eyes sought.
The beach is filled with
shark teeth.
It’s no wonder
the scavengers are fleeing.
These lonely shells
of once graceful organisms
I can see
have been completely picked clean
by the ever-hungered tides.

Some of us stand
on the left or right sides
of this continent
some of us live
in the now
or the then
of our memory.

————————–

5/30/2009

I used to stand at this door
and watch the headlights
come downhill
North Main Street
Trying to tell
from the shape and configuration
from their strangely human affectations
which was my mother.
I used to sit on these steps
Merlin’s Crystal Cave on the tape player,
listening silently
to the conversation
and the Mets game on TV
coming up the stairs.
Ears awash in the secrets
that come out after nine o’clock.
I used to have
an imagination
and now
all I have
are my memories.

—————–

5/29/2009

I’m shutting down now
I’m shutting down the windows and doors
I’m making the rounds, floor by floor.
I’m the one who tends
to endings,
who completes the daily cycle
with custodial grace.
I’m shutting down now,
Washing the windows and floors,
I’m shutting down now,
Moving in and out of doors,
I’m the unseen hand
that closes up the drawers.
When you find that things
do not begin again,
It will not be
on account of me
not closing up
When the sun fails to rise
Do not blame the night.

——————–

5/26/2009

What do you see in her foreshadowed eyes?
Why do you look at me
and not her, the ancient one?
She is as old as the sun
and her roots as deep as any tree.

What do you see in her penultimate teeth?
Why do you look at her
and not me, the newborn son?
I am as old as no one
and as young as the first word on this page.

——————–

5/25/2009

And let us live under the sea
And let us sleep under the waves
And let us sleep until we dream
And let us sleep until we wake

Do not harm us, thoughtless knaves
Let us sleep, let us dream, let us wake, let us be.
Do not tear us at the seams.
Do not cause our sea-foamed eyes to weep.

The turqoise, amber, and emerald
that you seek
and would take
is only the bed
we would rest upon.
Submerged here with us, your sunken treasure.
Time will not let you speak
until the rhyme is nigh complete.

————————

5/24/2009

I’m walking near dirty trout-stocked ponds
A yellow dog by my side
I’m averting my eyes from every ear that passes by
I can’t believe I even tried.

These houses all hammer my twilight moods
The memories they wield
produce quantities of bruises.
I don’t even like the people that live in them.

They are all silent now.
The people in this town
resist the winters.
They are a moderate group.
People who throw rocks, and sticks, and logs,
on newly frozen ponds
to stop them from freezing.

——————–

I’ve Noticed

I’ve noticed lately
that when I am explaining things
I use the same hand motions
that my father does.

I’ve noticed lately
that I think about endings
more than beginnings
and I think more
than I speak.

I’ve noticed lately
that things don’t appear changed
until they do.

I’ve noticed lately
that I never think
of the right metaphors.

—————–

5/17/2009

The thickness of night
compliments its promise
of lonely dreams
and endings.

The heaviness of night
is natural to its
somnolent urgings
and scattered scents.

The earth itself
pulls over us
her own
starry blanket.

———————-

5/17/2009 - Ottawa, Canada

Hoping you’ll remember what I said
and what you felt
Is all I have left; and dread.

Hoping I’ve got spades
to go with these I’ve been dealt.

The blue heron drops; and wades.

The waves are over there to the East

I can hear them at least.

——————————

5/27/2008

By the piercing

majestic throb

of the gilded horn

A smoking bass

builds a river

that pulses

between the stars

and the

shadowed leaves

someone shouts

into the golden fist

of the advancing battalion

someone laughs

at the three-legged giraffe

whose neck

thrashes

like some vulgar appendage

as it dies

in this circus of the absurd

this congregation of the pure

the pulpit trembles

with liberated purpose

it all exhales

and does not reutrn

when you look for it again.

————————-

6/3/2008

I.

In all the broken mirrors

That I see inside your eyes

A flash begets a shudder

And light kills our vision

Still ringing in your mind

Are the words that fire brings

Comes sweeping on the wind

Is a blast of noise, ignored

The flush of praise and joy

is only impotence.

The wave of angry righteousness

Only the roar of honking squalor.

II.

Images and testimony

Television narrative

Sensation of tragedy

Filtered through a whitewashed dream

A pitiful Kumbayah

An irretrievable plea

The world no longer listens

to anyone who cries

or shouts or dies

The only weapon is

your own

allegiance to a disgraced flag

that hangs its head

and flies

upside down.

help.

III.

The riots of 1967

An unimaginable time

A subdued slaughterhouse

of drugged and blinking bovines

Eating from a trough

of ground up grandfathers

As the bitter yellow smoke

Bursts forth from smokestacks that cough

and the grunting smog of extortion automobiles

las its hands upon our shoulders

Industrialization is dead and gone

Now we build more efficient

Boys and girls

in human factories.

“Travails”
Out on the trestled railway, two hundred feet above
Cattails and lillies, the somber turtle rocks,
A whistled tune of long forgotten origin, Pandora’s Box
It opens, creaking, speaking, of something, perhaps like love.

Out on the solitary shoreline,
Amid the lonely Nor’eastern winds,
One vision of a forsaken life,
Appears among the roar.

Back on the rusted trainbridge,
Sitting high above the rushing fray,
Once they were both rivers,
bound for differing destinations,
But progress that gave one life,
Ended with it’s death.
Its corroded carcass
like a long felled treetrunk
Stretching forth across the Copper Canyon Waters.

Images of the austere past,
Remembered not all at once,
But single file pass him by
Crashing, one by one, like
every barreling wave.

His limpid mind now distressed
by waht could have been.
I who was a witness can attest
to what should have been.

Rail after rail he oversteps,
Inching ever forward
Beyond a broken dream
Into another chance
at waking to a voice.

In those malevolent seas,
In those timid rivers,
And on those  snarling winds
And felt in the burning sun
That paint him summer rust
In the ominous vagrant existence
In the punishing elements
Is always the buoyant memory
and the sanguine expectancy
of hope
for a return
to what was.

—————————-

Why do I let this happen?
Why do I peer through these portholes
When I know that all that is out there
is green, impenetrable, murk?
I’m looking for something,
however cliche it sounds.
And of course, you know, I know
it’ll never be found.
Especially not beneath the rest
of humanity.
Nothing has ever been found down here
in the pillbox asbestos underground
except vice, and crime, and early deaths
one or two rags-to-riches dreams
I don’t know which I’m looking for
the amoral
or the abandonment.

————————–

All these deaths. All these obituaries.
All these people saying Rest in Peace,
my condolences. My heart is with you.
Those regrets and
words of comfort are not needed
for she who has gone.
One rarely thinks of the person.
We think of their facticity
Their life as an object
Or an abstraction
As history, as narrative.
We are often moved.
Yet we rarely think of
that moment that happened
just a day or two ago.
When that person met
What we are all waiting for,
eyes open.

What she felt when she
Lost her husbands hand
on hers.

What she felt as the sensation fled
back to whence it came,

“She’s gone,” somebody said.

The spark hid once again
Where? We can not remember.

Her heart. Filled with so many
fragments which she treasured,
is buried in the sun.

Consciousness said goodbye
with dignified eyes
to itself.

——————-

4/5/2008 6 AM

I want to stand
in the city
having spiritual
fits of passion
pour through my
chest.

I want to listen to
the peals of
glorious music
stumble over itself
but never cease.

I want to throw
purple flowers
down in the street
and watch
the cars
grind them up.

I want to dance
without shame
without threat
of being
castigated
for my cliches.

I want to laugh
not heartily
but silently
to myself
not for you.

I want to believe
in the lyrics of a pop song
in the ocean gods
in poetry
in my ancestors
in the freedom of consciousness
in love
these are my idols.

I want you to believe
in your own
golden calves.
In your own transcendent treasures.
I see them rising up now
in your nine to five eyes.

I want to fill this world
with people who build
statues out of water
I want every one to beleive
in their own
beautiful lies.

I want everyone to tell each other
their own
beautiful lies.
And we’ll believe in
every last one.

Instead of choosing
just the one
about Jesusmosesmohammedbuddhavishnu.

—————————

“And there was no fire”

I looked at a laughing lizard
in bemused delerium
Waiting for the seven o’clock bus
while a grey sky drizzled.

Echoing behind my eyes
Were half-remembered novellas
about persons of subdued interest
five or six pages of brilliant lies.

Spilling over come French and Spanish films
the least subversive of all the arts
with their fleeting revelations
Slipped in between the desolation of thrills.

A James Wright poem about hell
And a passage from Dante
or was it Bridgeport, Ohio?
This is all I think about.
Perhaps that’s just as well.

—————————–

Leap Year Blues

There is
An unattainable will to share
This flame inside my lantern
But
There is a world between us
There are two bodies between us
There is an inadequate language
that dies on our lips
when we try to say what we really mean
And the cage that chaffs our young bodies
can never be torn asunder
except by our perception
our uncompromising art
and perhaps
by love, but what do we know of that
except that we feel it in ourselves
but can you feel it?
And then it is only a recognition
of something similar.
I can never show you me from the inside
I can never show you you with my eyes
What is the difference between truth
and all of the wretched lies?
Just belief.

—————————-

Empty boys with business degrees,
Artists, too, have nothing to say
A road is just a clearing in the trees
And it can not hold the wilderness at bay.

Children that have become men,
Men that have stayed children,
They provoke without intent,
And they have no hope unspent.

For what is there that one can be
In this great mass of disconnect
What is there that one can be
That does not find intention in stagnation
Before the great head rush of eternity
taken like a shot of [null]

I know that someone out there has the answer
Go west young men just isn’t working.

—————————–

Unpardonable, undisciplened - an ideologue.
I’ve got nothing to say.
Powerless, antagonized - a frustrated dialogue.
I’ve got nothing to say, today.
Lost in the six a.m. weariness
of the previous error ridden day.
Yo mock me and
then I turn out the light.
I can see right through
the dark.
I turned out the light
and then there
was
something.

—————————–

Furthur on is my manifesto
The overman on a Greyhound bus
Traversing the old inspiring roads
Transcribing relentless energetic thought
Transcending a past life, a mouse life
Turning on the feline and staring him down.
Out over the horizon is an ancient city
that I will never find
Laziness lurks its streets
and the patient domestic herd smiles blankly
at its gilded walls, not the open gate
Its suburbs spread out against the world
A true slave needs no physical barriers
for it dares not to run
It dares not to risk the change.
It dares not to live
unless the master says “you’re free.”
A picket fence will never be my Doom
unless I so choose.
All that is sacred lives in me.
All that matters is that there is no ground beneath my feet
yet I still believe

On the terrace the young men come and go
Speaking of political woe
And out here amid the dirty snow
We pace the weird old country, to and fro.
Some birds like their ages and their prattle
Some birds fly further, they’ve won the battle.

“Ode to Dreaming”

Spirited away from a powderkeg insomnia,

Just dust and chemicals but ready to explode,

The phantasms; not fire but claymation paranoia,

Not suffering, ever - but eternal fleeing.

The mythology of martyrdom; the cycle of death,

The ghosts of these false relatives and friends,

They are seen complacently acquiescing,

Giving up themselves and all of their essence,

to the invisible demon of the modern man’s mind,

Gnawing on the marrowbone of morality.

This nightpanic twilight is barren of conscience

It is fear and delusion; fantasy and truth,

Its’ patience is infinite

and it’s grandeur - baroque. The outlet

for guilt and pitiful erotica.

Don’t fend it off with barrels of gin

or a milky syringe.

Submit to the night, and tacitly oblige

the whims and desires, of the primordial mind.

Meet it inside - this congregation of dream

and face only the unrelenting silence of self.

A man can not be blamed for what he dreams,

but condemnation awaits every suffocating action.

————————-

“Meaninglessness”

Waltzing through life alone,

My invisible partner unknowable,

Lost beyond the incoherent contingencies,

of mackerel spotted mannequins.

The banks have credit cards in their vaults.

Marble eyed mothers show no love for Baby,

They only shine in the light of Horse,

and wait for the state to repossess.

Marginalized artists give up their craft

Swerve off the side of the road

in a fit of blindness - they had already forgotten

their glasses anyway.

and never saw the proclamation of truth; blow away

their crystalline bonedust remains.

The wind will carry them somewhere they’re wanted.

Vodka scented children with armaments,

stand on their petticoat decks,

Greyfolded skies overhead

and a fistful of bleeding pariahs

All for nothing or a trough full of prize

The pockmarked officials in their lonely pigsties

The meadowlark - It’s beak fell off; it died.

All for nothing you filled my heart with lies.

All for money, you filled this world with lies.

————————————

“Ode to Failure”

I fought a thousand battles and I lost every one,

Martyred every time, I never stopped to run.

I turned down ten thousand blue roads and got lost every time,

Almost saw the light, but it never turned out to be mine.

Sang one hundred thousand songs, but botched every rhyme,

I never gave up though I could not hold a tune.

I wrote a million books, that all have tragic endings,

And every one is true; I’ll write another soon.

Failure is like a leather belt I always wear,

It holds me together and fends off the responsibility of success,

You’ll never find me complaining that life isn’t fair,

’cause ev’ry time I lose my way, I find myself again.

Every scar attained in hopeless clamor, is pain that wakes me up,

From dreams of gilded power that’s always partly brittle,

A precious metal, a dusty jewel; these are no match for a lonely fiddle

The sound of sadness, the sound of wounded hopes,

The broken pillar of mankind’s glory

is more beautiful

when pieced back together

from fragments gathered

through the years.

————

“5 A.M. At the Port Authority”

Tangerine tiled walls scarred by elusive Time,

Who never seems to rescue those who wait

Sitting impatiently, heads bowed like monks, in rows and lines,

Their vagrant clothing reveals their class; their reason; their dire straits.

The West Indian general with his hat and spectacles,

A black beret on his mahogany skull,

His singsong voice burrows into my ear, like an infestation of termites,
His troops; lackeys of the Authority with mops and buckets, at war with the rectangles

that divide the floor, despite the certain fact that it never gets clean in here.

Nowhere else does Mozart sound so lifeless,

This place; it bores even the illustrious wunderkind,

And the soul feels filthy and concentration’s a mess,

Every beadle eyed, fishmouthed passenger is obsessed

with watching the digital clock, hoping to find

a bus that will surely come.

Like hopeless refugees they cower, somehow they’re dead to me.

Even when I hear them speak to the general; I can not empathize with anyone.

And every moment is a propped up chair

Just about ready to collapse under the weight

of a gigantic wrinkled woman with rats in her hair.

Every moment is a doomed fall down the stairs,

An inevitable journey to a meeting with Fate,

An unavoidable surrender to this emotional freight

that an imprisonment here will always create.

—————————————————-

“February 1st, 2008″

Pablo your world and mine are a hundred years apart,

Your alpaca mountains, your dying farms, your fading culture,

Your angry losses, your bloody poppies, and your glorious Macchu Picchu,

Your America and mine, one North, one South,

They are not so far apart as the lords

of mine would hope.

The ocean here, too, is formless unity and exponential energy,

The farmlands here are filled with weathered faces and

shrinking capacity.  The healthy one’s replaced with

cow factories and inedible plaguefields.

There are unappreciated men who live like a set of hands,

Creators who build, grow, make and die, silently.

We have wine. We have books.  We have the need for peaceful

Revolution. We have Poetry.

This country walks the path at midnight

It lost the starlight that once guided it.

It is inebriated with debt, homogenized children, and

television worship.

A drunk man in the dark always falls.

Unless another holds him up.

This is our bond.

The Failure of Revolution

(A Poem In The Form of An Allegorical Novella)

I.

Smoking pot, the big questions, surfing, and girls were his main interests in life. Revolution was living the good life in a small, upper-upper class, coastal town where he had no responsibilities and plenty of time for thinking. He could never really pin down the feelings he had about the nature of things and he was often troubled by the clouds that lingered in his line of sight. He peered out from behind young eyes into a mist that would just not clear, though he would often catch glimpses of what lay behind that unsettling curtain. He was saddled by unfocused emotions and the incredible desire to know that is thrust upon the steed of youth.

Stability was a close friend of Revolution and they spent many days straddling fiberglass and many nights drinking and carousing. Often they’d be the last two up on those summer nights, sharing a joint and philosophizing, while Sleep tried to get into Awake’s pants. Stability was always an optimist at times like this and saw the world as a place that was already perfect, good, and just, while Revolution saw the world as filled with self serving old men, who ruined things for the rest of us. He saw it as a place that needed to be changed in order for people to be happy. Stability would often get intensely angry when Revolution railed against Government, the fawning Masses, and Corruption. Revolution would gnash his teeth at what he called “dried up old crustaceans and lizards.” Stability would come back with the argument that “one day you too will be an old man who desires to provide for and keep his children safe.”

“You may be, but not I,” retorted the ever prophetic Revolution.

 

 

II.

They’d hang out and watch cable news networks and read the newspaper during the winter months. Revolution always thought that 99% of the arguments being made and the stories that were being reported were to further the status quo. He’d get angry about the pointless things that so often fascinated the populace and often ask him self what happened to the spirit of Journalism. Stability thought it was better than ever and loved hearing about celebrities driving cars drunkenly into swamps and getting eaten by alligators. This was wonderful to him and amused him to no end. He didn’t want to hear about how poorly the peace effort was going or how another nuclear arms race was being conducted in far off places.

“When I’m running this country, I’ll be privy to those details,” said Stability, and without a trace of sarcasm continued, “Have trust in Politics and Military, they’ve never failed us before.”

Revolution simmered with frustration at what he saw happening to his friend, but resisted the temptation to argue or hit him. He also started to see something dangerous not only in Stability, but in his other friends as well. Music, Morality, and Education were also propagating such views. He didn’t understand what was happening to these people who he used to look up to and whom he thought represented the best in humanity. That’s why he was drawn to them in the first place.

Revolution always felt that the things he was occasionally grasping hold of in his midnight trysts with Poetry and Philosophy were too distant and obscure. When he tried to believe in something modern and current it was always attached to a Jim Crow lie or a liposuction sky. He felt the world he was living in was artificial and malicious.

 

III.

The next summer after school had ended and Revolution had enrolled in a well-respected, liberal arts college in New England, was a time when he distanced himself from his old friends, especially Stability. Revolution went off to stay with his aunt and uncle, who were called Literature and History. He listened to them talk for hours as they’d sit on the beautiful wrap-around Victorian porch which faced a lake that turned purple in the summer dusk. He felt mature and grown-up when they listened to what he had to say and let him drink red wine with them. He regained some hope in the presence of the wonderful people his aunt and uncle knew.

He learned a lot in those three months, but sometimes thought about Stability who had been accepted to Harvard on his father’s merits. He looked forward to telling him all about the people he had met. What had most surprised Revolution was that these people he now admired so much were ones that were ridiculed as being eccentric and unrealistic or too different to be of any relevance. Things he thought esoteric sparked new creativity and passion in him. He latched on to what he had been exposed to and absorbed whatever he could that he felt was meaningful. He also met Love that summer and she changed him every bit as irrevocably as his exposure to Wisdom, Knowledge, and Enlightenment.

While he had become friends with his aunt and uncle’s neighbor, Hope, Revolution heard something devastating at the same time. On his last night with his aunt and uncle, they sat him down and told him they had something important to tell him. His parents had called that morning and told them that Grandmother Society had been attacked and ravaged by Disesase in the night. She laid side by side with Death now, his arms around her and his tempting offers filling her unconscious mind. There were also rumors that Stability was somehow involved, but Revolution refused to believe this and nothing did ever come of it.

So while he had learned to sing, to write, and to embrace the beauty in those different from himself, Revolution went off to college terribly upset. He had grown a lot, but he now had a kind of fierceness about him, as if behind those friendly blue eyes was a fire capable of burning down whoever tried to take away one more thing he held dear. He felt sorrow for his grandmother, but when he saw her he realized that broken things are incredibly beautiful when they have no chance of being fixed.

 

IV.

People go off to college, lose contact, and often get jobs in places that only further separate them. These two friends followed this very path and though they were already distant, due to their volatile ideologies, grew into men who barely recognized each other. Revolution was a poet and a writer, one that had not broken through on the national scene, but who was beloved by Academia and his fellow writers. He thought that if he had been accepted by Pop Culture, he probably wouldn’t be very good anyway. He thought she had terrible taste. So he wrote subversive, inflammatory, angry novels and enjoyed the company of his peers. Some claimed he had lost his fire and his spark, but he didn’t pay any attention to them.

Stability, on the other hand, became a political hero. He fought in the peace effort overseas, got his Law degree from Yale and several years later ran for office. He was about as cliché as any other politician and was very successful at what he did. He never lost one election and by this time held a very prominent position in the Presidential Cabinet. Somehow the two old friends met at a social function that would probably be the last of its kind that Revolution would ever be invited to.

Revolution had been trying to get a word with his old buddy all night, but Stability sidestepped him at every juncture. Finally, when Stability had partaken in just enough champagne for the lights to be sparkling merrily and the marble floor glowing exuberantly, it could not be put off any longer. Revolution was drunk and Stability was engaged in conversation with Lobbyism and Greed, when Revolution came up behind him and clapped him on the back. Their eyes met for a brief moment as they shook hands, and then Anger came and stood next to Revolution. What followed was a tirade that would see Revolution in danger of losing his life, but at the time there was no one to stop him from berating his childhood friend.

“Tell me old friend, how do you sleep at night?” questioned Revolution, “I saw you selling your ideas to Common Man earlier, but you know that later, when his son is dying in a hospital cancer land, you’ll tell him he bought the cheapest insurance plan.”

Stability was indignant, but attempted to defend himself and look as if he was in the right. He stood closer to Morality, hoping for support. Lobbyism fled the scene, hoping no one would notice his hand had been stuffing greenbacks down Stability’s underwear. Nationalism, with his black sunglasses and cane, began searching for the door. Stability muttered something and Weakness and Embarrassment came and stood with him.

Revolution continued his tirade, yelling louder as Haughtiness and Gossip put their delicate fingers to their painted red lips. They made astonished noises as they left in a huff; make up crackling and tumbling from their cheeks, their hideous masks crumbling as their wrinkled faces revealed them for the witches they were. Revolution would not stop shouting.

“Tell me my old friend, what happened to you those years that I was gone? Was it all that free coke dumped on you by pillfiend lobbyist radio hosts, which turned you from what you used to be looking for? Now you wade in the dregs of a political garbage dump, while your old friends whom you promised the world, are living in ranchhouse shacks, separated from you by rusty suicide train tracks and all those people you call ‘wetbacks.’’ People like you are the reason we’re all gonna die, in the worst possible way.”

He would simply not let up with his tirade and in an attempt to soothe him, Stability made two-faced pleas, offering to listen to whatever Revolution had to say, as long as he calmed down. At the same time he nodded to Cronyism to go fetch Law. Some of the people at the party stood near Revolution as a sign of support, among them were Youth, Counterculture, Intellectualism, and Academia. A large crowd had gathered to listen, sipping their drinks in their tuxedo uniformity, as Revolution railed against Stability further.

“You used to trip in the dark with us,

And we’d watch the Aurora Borealis behind our eyelids

While euphoric jazz played on the little black radio,

But then you bought into the death chants

And the money worship cults.

Now you’ll pay the price

And watch your senses burn

When your miniscule morality turns

To dust.

When you are the last old man alive

And your name has been changed from Stability to Stagnation

And Innocence has been killed by nuclear fallout

You’ll know you sold out.”

 

Just as Revolution spoke the last word, Suppression and Secrecy burst into the room. They brutalized the now exhausted Revolution and dispersed the crowd. Revolution wasn’t seen for days until he showed up at his home, where his wife, Love, was worried sick. They soon moved to Europe, much to the dismay of their friends who now saw their friend as a legend for putting himself on the line and standing up for their beliefs. They were worried about what would happen to their movement without Revolution to guide them.

 

V.

When the last ray of sunlight had been buried beneath the cold, dead, Earth an everlasting twilight fell upon the weary lands. The once green grass was replaced by a permanent frost. Revolution and the few survivors left were living in hovels in the remnants of Paris, which had been the last free city to fall. Revolution, Inspiration, and Duty sat pondering, in the time left allotted to them, what had happened. They huddled together trying to keep their aching bones warm, holding their hands out to the small wood burning stove, and drinking vile broth from cracked cups, as they looked despairingly at the world around them.

“Was it a must?” asked Duty of his friends, “Did those responsible ever ask us if we wanted death clouds for a sky?”

“It never crossed their minds as they rolled in their political mud pit, bureaucratic pig-sty,” declared Revolution, “that those of us with open eyes might not want to watch our families die in useless oil tantrum deaths.”

“They called them martyrs and defenders of freedom,” recalled Inspiration.

He continued by remembering aloud, “Flag waving poodles pointed furry fingers, inflicting guilt on those who asked the most innocent question.”

“That was me who asked the question!” exclaimed Duty, “I was just a child when I asked my father, Law, if killing was wrong, even though I already knew it was. I grew a bit older and started asking that question again, of Government and Stability, who told me I didn’t belong. They said I should get the hell out and not return until I wore bars and stars for undergarments and learn to not question the necessary deaths of our enemies.”

“That’s when they declared anyone who asked the question the enemy,” interrupted Revolution, “Their conclusion was to purge every child who asked if what they were doing was bad. Only then was there no one left but those who were clad in good deeds and patriotism.”

Duty spoke again, “I remember hearing Media say ‘That’s all we want here,’ while interviewing Congress who proposed capital punishment for all crimes.”

“Kill all the lawyers, was the motto of the unelected king,” recalled Inspiration, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

A few moments later Revolution spoke. “You forgot the part of Seven Deadly Sins, who after the king had spoke his delightful little proposal, would cry out ‘And everyone else, too!’ Or was it his Cabinet who was made to sing? I can’t recall. It’s all the same now.”

“Nevertheless, it happened and we didn’t do anything to stop it,” Duty spoke softly, with his head in his hands.

Revolution looked out from his lean-to tent at an atomic winter that would never see Spring and sighed to himself.

“We can’t just blame our elders and our enemies. We didn’t even raise our fists when the death squads came. We were already here in Europe, walking in the Louvre with fancy ivory canes, sitting at cafes in Paris pretending to be sane. I did nothing but write junk about rebellion from a coffeshop, while I thought I was safe from the soldiers killing children and mothers in distant places. We were the cowards who didn’t live up to our words. We are just as much to blame for this flickering flame that is all but snuffed out.”

Revolution spoke with a steady voice and then rose. Inspiration was silent. Duty sat patiently awaiting a cause that would never come. Revolution walked outside, and fired his first and only shot of a war that had taken all he valued. The revolution had ended before it had even started.

———

In a dream I felt my father die,
Like a shimmering wind I felt him leave,
I held him up and my brothers were there,
As we departed the train to Germany.

We had returned to the Fatherland,
Out of instinct to a place we never were.
It was green, and cold, and frozen winter.
The train wept smoke as it wailed

And it was a feeling of destiny that we trailed,
The need to feel our history; just one time.
But as he faded in our arms,
I saw him not as he will be, but as he is.

He was not my grandfather then, as I often pictured him in old age.
He was the figure of boundless stamina, fortitude, and vitality.
The security of his voice and the uncruel command with which he captained us,
The anchor of our volatile, immutable, family.

I remembered a quiescent bus ride from Philadelphia,
When we spoke in soundless whispers,
I had never stayed up that late,
and he explained to me the way starlight takes many lifetimes to reach us.

I remembered the times I feared him, but he showed me love instead,
And I know it was he who feared losing me.

This dream unconcealed every cloaked memory,
It threw back the cover and revealed the perfected statue underneath,
That we crafted together, over many years.

I knew he would be leaving soon
and frozen rain drew us closer together still.

The landscape was so unfamiliar and all I wanted was to be home,
Is that not where we were?
It was not like home at all.
My eyes went dark and I became him,
glowing green energy fled from my vision.

Never before or since have I felt such emptiness,
The feeling of the end was all there was,
And we died together,
As a son must always do to be reborn in a father’s image.

He was gone and I awoke in the crevice of my bed and wall,
Freezing tears upon my face,
Like the frost upon my windowpane
Illuminated by orange streetlight.

Then I heard him speaking from downstairs,
In candid, human, ideologies,
And I knew that what I took from him,
was not a country or a college education
or a genetic code.
What he gave me was
the soul of a man,
and a chance, to be,
like him, who faces this life with dignity.

————

“Some kind of ocean ode.”
The wave-crosser comes to me at dawn,
And sits with me through the falsity of soft light evenings,
His scent is tinged with salt and brine,
And his voice breaks at the mention of home.
How he loves to talk for hours,
on the tail end of a glass of scotch.

With his departure comes the slight ship-builder,
Who snickers at the lost old sailor,
His beady eyes filled with a rodent’s mirth,
His pockets full of dead men’s coin.
The parity is astonishing, the man who sells and
the man who goes. The salt would
kill a man like this, I think.
Like a slug, he’d shrivel up and die.
Or tie an albatross around his neck -
destroying all that flies for greenpaperlust.

It is hard to remember the boundless landscapes of urbanity,
but never does one in love forget,
the taste, the odor, and shining face of his cold, green, sweetheart.
This tinder cell contains my shell,
Picked up on some distant shoreline by an excited lass,
and locked away by a curator with handcuffs.
Yet I am like that doomed old dog who can not stay away.
Still my calcium frame has some bits of soul attached
that long for her danger; her crashing voice.
And if you put your ear to me,
You will hear her eternal whisper.

————–

Parasitic thumps in the deathly grip of night,
One too many mornings come colder than before.
Washed out greys and melting ash; pure white.
It lays on the ground outside the convenience store.

Generic yellow light on the bile colored floor,
The heat inside is colder than the snow outside.
Frigid, dead, caffeinated eyes walk in and out the door,
Time and time again the weather man lies.

“It will not get warmer,” said brown eyes.
“It never has; never will,” agreed two blue counterparts,
Huddling with their smokes in hand, eating tastycake pies,
Filling themselves with the poisons of a society of minimarts.

Periodically, some intrepid raises hopeful eyes or an angry first,
Shaking themselves off and rising from television mindsleep.
Spirit on fire with creativity and passion; beautiful like the last green leaf.
Only to be told that “people like you should not exist.”

Power is only power if you hand them your fear,
Death is only death if you leave nothing behind,
Never let anyone else decide; choose your own time,
And I shall return, like an elephant, to your grave,
And mourn gladly over your bones.

————–

Grey is the color of the hour
as dive bombing sparrows gather
A bit off in the distance blinks
an esoteric radio tower.

Two figures in the cattails
Kicking rocks and drinking a bottle
Setting off on some personal matters
Up the shallow current comes a third, in the saddle.

He stole up behind them.
His holsters were empty.
His knuckles were white.
He finally caught up again.
And said goodbye again.

I’ll just be using this as a place to store my poetry. Enjoy if you happen to stumble upon it, or tell me how bad it is. Yes, I realize a lot of it is sentimental tripe, but it’s my sentimental tripe.

“Artificial Lives and the Only Constant.”
There is an ambivalence that haunts me now,
Ambidextrously, too, I juggle these unfocused feelings,
Though I know love is true and mine is real,
this is the only constant.
The Taming of the Shrew, but who is the rodent?
Ideals are tainted left and right,
by dried up old crustaceans and lizards,
sold in bulk by mindless buzzards,
who hawk belief with their merchandising pleas,
I’ll never follow anyone who leads
because their family said so.
I’ll never follow anyone who ever speaks,
in pleasing paranoia lies. I’ll laugh when they are dead
and covered in horseflies.
I can’t find the answers anywhere, I probably never will,
Blocked by the insipid drone of what has become of journalism,
my mind grasps for all that is left open to me.
In the texts of those who everyone says are so different than me,
I grasp the only clues and then forget. Too badly flawed, am I.
Summer drifts along and winter thaws, they pass
like those fleeting truths; too fast to hold on to.
Don’t step on the grass say the policemen.
Then they shoot me for forgetting when.
Fantasy is too literal, escapism is too real.
It’s a disease of a society,
that wants to change but is not allowed.
Behind those flickering computation screens,
Lays another set of hopeful young eyes,
too tired to try to get up and fight
for things that are too distant and obscure.
I never feel like anything I briefly know
is ever truly assured. It’s always attached,
to some Jim Crow lie, some lyposuction sky
of true artificial life. That’s what most
of us are living. You gotta try not to.
Get up and don’t be afraid to sing.
Broken things are always the most beautiful,
if they have no chance of being fixed.
Martyrdom is all its said to be, and more.
Wash the floor with gasoline and
take your daily supply of morphine; derivatives
that’s what it all amounts to.
All I can do is seek, seek, seek and hold
on to that one constant. And everyone else
they just speak, tweak, and act so pathetically weak.
Join me and remember art and love.
Dance until the morning comes.

“Part 2.”
Tell me, old friend, when you go to sleep at night
do you plan all this madness that you cause by light?
Tell me again, because I didn’t hear you right,
and I know how much you like to hear yourself speak,
Just don’t wait for my applause.
Though you might get it if you pay off enough geeks,
All the grandmas and social tough guys will love you if you imprison enough freaks.
Tell me, my old friend, what happened those years that I was gone?
Did all that meaningless sex numb you to what you used to be looking for?
Or was it all the free coke dumped on you by all those mishmash pillfiend lobbyists?
Was it them who dragged you into the dregs of the political garbage dump?
Now you do jumping jacks for any man who will slip some greenbacks down your underwear,
While everyone you cared about is living in ranchhouse shacks,
Separated from you by rusty, suicide traintracks,
And all those people you condemn as “wetbacks,”
You’ll sell your ideas to the common man,
And then tell him he bought the cheapest insurance plan,
When his son is dying in a hospital cancer land,
Nobody is getting better, we’re all getting sicker.
And it’s because of people like you,
That we’re all gonna die in the worst way,
Remember when we used to trip in the dark,
and listen to liquid guitars sing like the pouring rain,
and wish that everyone could feel this way?
Well it ain’t ever gunna be like that,
It’s gonna be like that time, when we were a little older,
that I showed you the same place in your mind,
And you cried and said you were scared of the black.
You should’ve been, because that was your heart.
You couldn’t get back to the good place,
The place we shared all night til dawn,
You were too far gone, down, down, down,
Too far gone and too much down,
Looking down at the people you thought you were better than,
but you weren’t you just thought your ideas were too much for this town,
You bought into the death chants,
And wished you had went to the high school dance,
instead of watching the Aurora Borealis
behind your eyelids with us,
while glorious jazz played on the little black radio.
You wanted to be part of that high-strung money-worship cult,
And now you’ll pay the price
and watch your senses burn
when your miniscule morality turns
completely dead. And this time when you eat that gel tab, your face will melt,
like all the innocents who will die to nuclear fallout,
because of your inhuman greed,
and you’ll know you sold out.

“Part 3.”
When the last ray of sunlight is buried,
Beneath the cold, dead earth,
And an everlasting night falls upon these weary lands,
And the once green grass is replaced by a permanent frost,
Those of us left alive on this tarnished silver orb,
Will ponder in the time alloted to us,
Why all of this happened; was it a must?
Did those responsible ever ask,
If we wanted death clouds for a sky?
It never crossed their mind as they rolled,
In their political mud pit; bureaucratic pigsty,
That those of us with open eyes,
Might not want to watch our families die,
In useless, oil tantrum deaths,
And then called martyrs and defenders of freedom,
While flag waving poodles pointed furry fingers,
Inflicting guilt on those who raised the most innocent of questions,
The question a child asks when he sees something unjust,
And asks his pa if killing is wrong,
Even though he already knows it ain’t ever right.
If you’re a little older and you ask the same thing
of your governmental patriarch,
You’ll be told you don’t belong. You should get the hell out and don’t return,
until you wear bars and stars for undergarments. And point accusing fingers
at those that sing so-called subversive songs.
Those who ask the question are the enemy.
So the only conclusion is to purge every child who asks if what you’re doing is bad.
Only then will there be no one left but those who are clad,
in good deeds and patriotism.
That’s all we want here, says the hooting owl
as he is interviewed by some brown nosed, brainwashed pundit
who proposes capital punishment for all!
Kill all the lawyers, says the newly elected king.
And everyone else, too! chant his seven deadly sins,
or is it his cabinet who sing.
But as we huddle in our lean-to tents,
In an atomic winter that will never see spring.
We can’t just blame our parents.
We didn’t even raise our fists when the death squads came,
We were already in Europe pretending to be sane,
Walking the streets of Paris with fancy, ivory canes,
Writing junk about revolution from coffee shops and cafes,
And watching pansies with hard ons fire automatic rifles,
At dark faced mothers in distant places,
While we claimed to be stifled. We were just cowards.
When the time came we didn’t live up to our words.
The pot had been stirred for naught.
We are just as much to blame,
For this flickering flame.
Now it’s snuffed out.

“Ma-mom.”
I remember how your house used to smell, and I can feel
how hot it was in there. Pink walls turned yellow by
Parliament smoke. Stealing sips of warm, diet coke.
Joe, asleep on the couch. The nicest man who ever lived.
Your lazy chair that was truly a throne, because you were
a queen. You were so vital to my life, and still are.
You had a way with children, because you still were one.
At sixty eight, you still were that girl from Brooklyn. Rags.
You even had the ignorance of a child, but somehow
it sounded wise to me. Until I grew up and thought I
was above it. Even then I longed for those weekends
when I’d sleep over and eat ice cream and stay up late
with you. Jeopardy at seven thirty. That big hollow tree that
is still there. The run down house next door, filled with
mystery. You were always there, always a comfort.
Always a constant, always watching and I could tell how
proud you were, sometimes. It is so dreamlike now.
I can’t even write about it poetically. It hurts but
in a distant way. Like a scraped knee
coming back through the years. Sneaking peeks at Christmas presents
with Tara. We tore it down, and moved you here, when bitter
feelings grew. Guilt. Guilt. I hope you forgive us. It was so hard,
but shouldn’t have been. Dad and you never saw eye to eye.
But he couldn’t talk because he would’ve cried at the funeral, I think.
Mom took it the hardest. I can’t imagine.
After you died, I was a mess, for many reasons.
Brooklyn. Crack and heroin made it all so remote. I was
not that boy anymore that used to be happy
to spend time with his Ma-mom. I was not this boy either.
I know how much I disappointed you.
I don’t even know how many years it’s been.
You’re gone now.
I cried to “Don’t Let Me Down.”
The chip. Special person’s day in first grade.
Embarrassed both of us, but we laughed after.
The race-track. Two dollars across the board.
You were such a presence.
The Michelangelo to my David. The stars looking down
are always you. Mets games. Don’t tell anyone
but I only like baseball because I got to spend time
with you. You might already know that though. Joe’s laugh and
his nine o’clock snoring. You taught me the meaning of “night owl.”
I carry on the tradition. Laughing. There was so much of that.
Pulling weeds in your yard. Three day trips to
Rhode Island. Myrtle Beach. Morning coffee and
the jumble or whatever it’s called. Soap operas.
Your smile. Pink lipstick on cigarettes in soda cans.
Even the filter is burnt through now.
I’ll see you again, I promise.
—————-

“The Struggle Reflected”

A scarecrow soul
inherits a pigeonhole in the sky,
Stringent switchblade laws against getting high,
Punish the unwary, the lost, innocent enlightenment seekers,
The ones who don’t buy what’s coming out of your speakers,
Instinctual carpet sensations through your toes,
Expression of action, of a representation of
the juxtaposed falseness of reality.
The lie is interwoven with the truth,
the perpendicular nature of smiles and also frowns.
Jesus wore a crown
of thorns.
Older gods wore laurel, or so I’m told.
Broken vocal chords hit high notes,
And your childhood is reflected in a smashed dovecote.
The pogrom has broken Time.
The Cossacks have suppression stamped their hooves upon your chest.
Red sash covered in mud.
Your thoughts escape silently.
Wriggling through a Culver pipe in your mind. To another cell
in the line of ever increasing
fermented fragmented sedimentary fossilized ramshackle
democracies.
Old and broken.
The river has spoken.
Life is a token.
Slip it in a slot.
Hope for more to spill out in your lap.
Or even just your money back.
Maybe taste what’s sweet and throw it back up,
Lest you get caught up
in the race for the treat.
There is no treat.
Only eyes that satisfy and scents that are compatible.
Touching and sensing.
Blind except for sight.
Chemicals are just another pipedream vision of what might be.
A spyglass into another truth twisted into
false classification by an animal mind.
A simian train of thought.
Souls attached to perfect prisons for eighty years.
Like this one.
Trying to say what can not be said.
The struggle to express.
Some call it art.
I call it…
——-

“Clouds”
Sometimes I feel like my head is encased in metal,
A metallic shell that won’t let me free,
It feels like a vice grip on my hypothalamus,
Removing joy and stopping the flow of all artistic expression,
It feels to me like some parasite,
Who wants to imprison my mind inside my skull,
Instead of letting it slip through cosmic realms,
Or simply perceive with clear minded skies,
Maybe something is wrong with my cells,
Maybe I Just need her voice to be lulled,
Or maybe my mind just ain’t right.
But right now it wants to be sliding down a river,
It wants to be fluttering through the night,
My mind yearns for the crowded, rhythmic pulse
of New York City,
And the mountain fangs of Wyoming,
White tipped with the blood of our atmosphere,
The lazy summer heat of Appalachia,
And the salty, ocean scents and colors of the Atlantic Coast,
It craves to break free,
Not to feel like it’s been doused in beer,
And given a permanent hangover leash,
But she’s asleep and I can’t wake her,
She’s too beautiful, so I’ll just follow her footsteps,
I’ll drift off in the clouds,
And find clear skies in her dreams,
Not the nightmare visions of m y lonely days
Which have long since been swept away,
So I’ll lay down in haziness,
And wake in purple night with swaths of stars,
That flicker like fireflies on the West Canada Creek,
Because that is our dream now.

——-

“The past is gone.”
I wish that human beings, so inventive and clever,
Could find a way to understand each other, together.
Silhouettes of personality are all we see.
And distant howls of lonely souls are all we hear.
Spilling over into consciousness and perception.
Have no fear, it will all be over soon, forty years or more.
Your misery is not infinite, nor is it eternal.
It will fade as your life; it disappears
like nails pounded into poplar wood.
If you try and fail, don’t be disappointed,
Nobody ever told you that you should, or that you could.
Some primal desire from a fairytale led you to this fate.
Don’t blame society or psychology,
for this world you’ve come to hate.
Several bitter years will pass between our last meeting
Leaving shadowed words in the corners of your mind.
These casual May-December loves are fleeting,
And someday maybe we’ll be friends again, in time.
Or maybe distance will outrun us, too fast to grasp.
Maybe what matters is that we realize our failure.
Seven bitter years now gone, like your surprise
at a metaphor. Now I roll the floor with someone new,
I hold a fragile heart in my own,
I dance through darkened fields with someone not like you,
And we throw our arms in the air; not alone
we call down the light from a crystal moon,
I hope you find the same, someday soon.

——–

“You can’t go home again.”
I think I miss those summer nights. Beer drenched and young.
I think I miss the laughs and boyhood love,
The kind that none of us would ever admit to,
But was always there in every insult.
I miss it until I realize it would never be like that,
There is no way to communicate anymore, except the same
empty reminiscences. Some of you still chase it here.
In cocaine nights and painkiller days,
The world works in mysterious ways, but not really.
We’re not meant to stay here all our lives.
Like fishing boats we come and go, returning only to
unload our catch and figure out what’s next.
Some of you are permanently docked,
decaying in this rumor mill.
Inbreeding with the same old faces; maybe it’s a good life.
I don’t know. All I know is what’s missing now.
Mowing lawns in this one square mile of hell.
It’s no where to live out my days.
I can’t even show my face, because of how far away I am from you.
I hope you’ll find a way to remember me the way I was.
The music fiend, the cosmonaut, the grinning face that sometimes talked.
My world is different now, and if I ever came back.
I’d only suffer.
My veins would once again be filled with poison powder
and my nose would bleed from fifty dollars cut with coke.
I hate that life and what it was.
I hope you find a way to leave it, too. I found my way out.
I found that girl I used to talk about.
She’s real and so am I.

———-

“Summer #1″
Dreams of glowing green vines,
Ripe with sweet purple fruit that’ll make you leave this world behind,
The mind knows where it wants to go,
And in this realm of life without time,
Human beings can find the ability to grow,
It is in this place that we seek our answers,
and it is a place where they can be found.
Confusion also calls these lands its home,
And restrictive tendrils climb the walls; while sound
is twisted into formless terror.
The dwelling place of every type of reason,
Thought-dreams that look different in the mirror,
of distinctly parallel, opposite planes,
Somewhere that even your best friend commits treason,
Truly endless beaches that are not a paradise,
But a doldrum hell of heat and flies,
Death does not come swiftly on these barren sands,
Can quickly change to golden lands,
Where the wind is as sweet as honey,
And the grass is soft as lion’s fur,
The answers can be found or can be lost,
Delusional dreams may turn to a storm cloud existence,
But the only place where it can happen,
is in your mind.

————

“Pine Barren Blues”

Thoughts meander through my mind; affecting moods
Sitting here so lonely, Wading through mental grime.
Spinning mutations that call themselves ideas are those of fools,
Not something to put in written word and passed off as poetry.

I’m dying here, lost in madness,
perpetually.

I’m crying here,
hoping a foolish smile will come take
these evening blues away.

Chilly plastic winds set in,
But time strolls by, unaware of my dismay.
The oily scented needles pierce my feet
as oxidated life fuel meets the air.
The time is now, the past is gone;
The now is all there ever was.

This moment by the shallow pickerel lake.
I think I ate something rotten,
because the things I’m seeing are too fabulously imaginary to be true.
These drainpipe tears are of a sadness misbegotten.
Sometimes you just have to be content with isolation.
It’s not so barbaric; it is sometimes therapeutic.
Not like the tortured prisoner’s desolation, continual solitary
confinement.

Those gentle airs will come again
and lift me up to her.
There is no true despair when hope is still here.
There is always hope when the buds are still on the dogwood tree.
Lunar sea this is not. Life is all around us.
Even the light side of the moon is dead.

Yet there are footprints in the soil.
The only thing that false conquerors leave behind.
The only thing this momentary sadness will leave, is footprints in the heart.
Not dead yet.

—–

“Gone Fishing”

I’m going fishing. I need to get into that zen place.
My mind has been on ON on all night. I didn’t sleep at all ALL all.
I don’t know why WHY why it won’t turn off when I hit the switch.
Maybe a fuse is blown.
Maybe I’m too often alone.
Just wouldn’t go off.
My body has that creepy, all-night ache.
When your joints feel like they’re made out of wires.
Rusty wires that make your bones feel polluted by lethal doses
of copper.

My manner is shy; quiet.
But when I’m like this every word is a struggle.
Every thought carries some unnecessary luggage.
Into my veins perhaps I’ll smuggle,
some sleeping concoction.
But then I’d be wrecked for the day and the night.
I’d feel even more metallic and watermelon ice and family wait.

I’ll be heading home. Northbound with an empty, android set of eyes.
Even animals seem to tell me lies
when I feel like this.
She could rescue me, but she’s saving others and I know she’s missing me, too.
Her waves will come rolling in.
I hope.

Too much thinking for this unfortunate hour.
The bluelight hour of five, almost six, A.M.
The air conditioning freezes me to my soul.
I think I once described it as a chilly plastic wind.

I should be going now. Out in the muggy, grey, heat.
Maybe I’ll catch a fish. Maybe I’ll catch a break.
Maybe I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll stay awake.
But I gotta end this with hope.
So I’ll say it’s name.
———-
“Perseid”

I saw a silver meteor, not yet
a meteorite. It streaked through
the navy nightblue ceiling.
It originated in the constellation
Perseus. Greek star picture.
Home of meteors.
Home of shooting stars.
Mother of August inspiration.
Like a bus-trip through
uniform states. They are all
foreign countries.
The opposite of nightly news
Nationwide campaign of
schizophrenic paranoia
hatebreed panic feed.
I heard the word “jihadization.”
I can only hope to someday be part
of a jihad, whatever that is,
of my own.
A warrior of something intangible.
Perhaps to bring inspiration to others.
Like that falling metallic traveler.
Is that preposterous?
My hopes seem so infantile amid
the cacophony of sterile, inhuman, voices.
As she is to me, I would be to
you.

And you
to
the next stream
of
consciousness
manifested in
cell tissue clusters.
I am always falling
like that friend of mine.

——–

6/28/2007
Rambling down a small town side street,
Raving at the moon and trying to stay on my feet,
My love holding me up while my pal follows me to the edge,
She’ll be there to make sure I don’t pass out in a hedge,
And wake up cursing that damn bush,
For all the scratches and scrapes it left,
But she’ll wake me with her young girl scent,
and give me a push,
Out of bed and into a head long ascent,
Back to the once relentless world, no longer bereft,
of the one desired presence; no more emotional theft,
Rapidly unifying singularity of two human beings,
Who can’t get the word love out of their heads,
and hearts. Pulled back to bed,
Her mind is changed,
Bodies nestled together will be arranged.
Golden flecked blue eyed sparkling smile.
Lets stay here for longer than awhile.
Nothing better than our love, together.
Nothing stronger than our love, forever.
Last nights clouds cleared from our minds,
Leaving sunrise skies the color of red wine,
Her hand tracing my spine, followed by
a glorious shiver.
We’re alive.

————

6/30/2007
Snowcapped crashing green mountains of water,
Laughing human beings at the base echo laughter,
From across the distant reaches of the desert sands,
Churning engines trail advertising banners,
People span the shoreline; faces of every manner,
The ochre sand scratches my tummy,
Clouds pass over in a lazy stroll as the sky returns to sunny,
My love’s voice comes to me on the cool ocean breezes,
And soothes and calms my rising tides,
Swells remind me of my own pride,
And admiration for my beautiful lover,
The seriousness with which she speaks of love,
And her lighthearted nature towards life,
She unfolds her mysteries before me,
Yet keeps some for me to discover myself,
Making our relationship rife with adventure,
Spirit and soul, heart and mind get lost,
in the lush sensations of nature,
Honey is sweet, but life with her is sweeter,
I’m losing my place in this meter,
Can’t stop thinking about her,
and the way she captured my heart.
If you see her, look in her eyes,
And you’ll see the same recognition,
that you perceive in mine.

—————

6/8/2007
I try to look at nature, and the universe around me,
and compare it all to you,
But everything, it pales, in comparison to my view,
of your icy little eyes that somehow radiate warmth,
And to your mischievous mouth,
With its rabbit-like movements.
Your beauty is the only thing as true as our love.
I really don’t understand what makes some people,
Act the way they do; violent and cruel.
Humanity is not inherently like that, is it?
No, it could never be when it created a being,
as beautiful as my fairer half,
Who moves like mist across a windowpane lake,
And I’ll stake my life on it, taht she sure ain’t fake,
She couldn’t if she tried, even if she did,
It’d be real to her.
People come and go, like the Atlantic tides of my youth,
Keeping track of the lows and highs becomes impossible,
But the ocean remains,
Like her eyes, deep blue-green, and unchanged.
Across the vast expanse of time,
She will always, in my mind, be as she is now,
Beautiful even when she frowns,
I’ll paint her picture in words across the sky,
For every human eye, to process and admire,
Perhaps to envy her radiances,
Or to covet the love we share,
Sure, I’m proud of it; it’s all that matters,
And though I know others can find it, too,
I know that ours shares that same pinnacle,
of human existence, that all others this true,
Inhabit.
And though they are all unique, they are all the truth.
Because to live is to fly,
and to fly one must love,
or the air will not carry you,
beyond the narrow path offered at conception,
Skulking in the dark is no way to exist,
Unless like some jealous rogue, one hopes to steal,
What can not be lifted,
Love will always heal, if its for real,
Hexagonal visions of a sideways world,
Spill through the eyes of some deluded girl,
Who cast aside the hopes she once had.
Not mine; she can feel our fate,
And her hope is stronger than my own,
She’s got it all; especially me.

————-

5/21/2007
“Oh Where Have You Gone, T.S. Eliot? Probably to Another Hell.”
Creamy white skin,
Grainy blanketed beds,
Black and white pictures of sex,
And modernist paintings with broken frames,
Split the atom and make me moan,
My only hope in life, yeah right.
Bastardous pigeons peck at my brain,
Which rots with corruption and death.
It is a picture that is stained,
with the blood of hope.
Rough hemp rope burns my skin,
I hear ravens laughing within,
I see caves in my dreams,
That beckon me to sin,
And broken, beautiful men,
Rendered impotent by hatred from old lovers,
It’s a time honored tradition,
These abortive, unfulfilled songs,
That leave people walking the streets in throngs,
Mindless creatures with broken homes,
Chintzy styrofoam souls,
And tinfoil ears that hear only lies,
Sexual denial and unloved children,
This Wasteland is the end.
————-

“The Genocide From the Point of One Lonely Turk”
Dead souls in the night blow across desert sands,
My people spit venom through their teeth like vicious cobras,
But no threat was near,
Like snakes at the behest of their wicked master
My people spilled the blood of an ancient race,
Who were once their neighbors,
How could they not know,
That spilling blood will not grow a thing,
except for festering souls,
and blackened hearts overflowing with disease,
These villages empty, these homes robbed of their master’s ghosts,
These ghosts taht now walk the darkened deserts,
Strewn with bones and rotting clothes,
The bodies of children at their mothers feet,
Ghosts now float on the life-giving river,
The eternal Euphrates,
Mother to both our races,
Except her waters are not stained with Turkish blood,
This crimson water is stained with the life of Armenia,
and now has begun to flood.

My people have turned their backs on humanity.
My people have become something else.
My people are not my people,
My people are not people.
—————-

5/11/2007

Dropped into a deciduous blue-sky landscape,
From the belly of a stagnant white whale,
I fell into a ghetto mineshaft paradise, of soot
and dusty old mustachios. Farmhouses who lost their
red; Stare back at me with black square eternal eyes,
Voids that summon the empty feeling they must
forever cling to, peer into my own punched out, darkened
windows. Steal me a silver glance, cause I’ve
noticed your eyes are the only ones with life left.
Dancing through black and white worlds, bereft
of a painter’s touch, we leave the necessities behind,
for they are not needed in a homogenized world,
where everything is necessary. And sterile, processed,
aluminum guitars screech through something that has a melody,
but no semblance of a soul.
Give me the things that can no longer be real,
In a world where reality is the only option,
Lend me your fairy tales, your Sunday dinners, your
beautiful mothers who no longer exist.
Women like that don’t come around much anymore, though I knew a few.
Send me your old Chevrolet, send me your record player and your father’s old harmonica,
this world doesn’t want anymore bed time stories,
or nights warmed by laughing family.
This world has no room for music from the soul,
or purple lotus paintings from your memories,
“We are children of the stars,” so lets find a world
where fairies and outcasts can merge,
with the slipstream,

——————–

“5/7/07″
Slimy little pasty skeleton faced blips,
On the radar. They beep and beep and beep.
And disappear offscreen to never be seen again, they slip
Past my consciousness; streams of images that seep
Into the phenomological silver mind of my lovely girl,
She glares at them, but takes them in, temporarily;
Laughter and sobbing; moans and whimpers;
Recede into nothingness, but a simple gentle caress,
The blind man comes but does not stay,
He blinks his white quartz designer eyes,
And slips me a note under the table, goes away
Before I can digest it. Forget it. We both did not see,
You know this better than me. I’d rather not see,
I don’t want to know.
The muddy, squalid pond down the street is filled with
artificial life. Falsified filth.
What’s pure is pure, and what is doomed is doomed,
And if I let these storm clouds loom,
Real spring flowers will no longer bloom,
Who knew the end of August would be the most
important of the twelve, I trust
what will happen to be the path I need,
I will not see red roses bleed,
The unwanted guest will leave,
And though I know not what will happen,
And do not presume to be amazing,
I know that love is stronger than death,
And that most assuredly does mean,
It is stronger than the rest,
The paralell thief that seeks her body
Can not overturn what can not budge,
And this my friend, is definitely love,
More than any presumptuous horse-faced thug, or
A creepy, mastubatory entity,
Who will never know the truth,
But who may touch it momentarily,
I know my heart lies bound to her sacred lands,
And though I do not see the future,
I know her truth completely,
I know her loves full bounty,
I know her minds lush harvest,
And even if she kissed the rest,
I know her heart beats as one with mine,
And when the sun sets in the West,
One last time,
They will still be locked, entwined,
In seamless, perfect harmony,
A unique melody of tears, and kisses, promises, memories, insecurities,
And most of all, true love and unending unity,
When it sets upon that day,
I will have known her love completely,
And she will grasp, as she does now, the everlasting
Deathless love that is and always
Will be, for her, as my life will have been,
For her.
——————-

“Wintertime in the Springtime”
The stark grey wall above,
Breaks and buries the world in a fresh white blanket,
Time stand sstill as the gentle snow fades,
Your spine feels a shiver, as it slips between your shoulderblades,
Spring is on the wind, but winter is in the air,
Smiling faces reveal chattering teeth,
And reddend cheeks apepar from behind windswept hair,
Icicles shatter your frame of mind,
Leaving attachments to existence behind,
Disappear from the cold,
In a warm, cloth nest,
With me by your side and in your arms,
Share this night with me by the fire, protect me from danger and harm,
And give me the warmth that flows from your heart,
And melt all the ice,
Thaw out my bones,
You’ll melt all the snow,
with that boundless fire,
That lives in your soul,
And shines in your eyes.

———–

“Moment”
I live only to see her satisfied,
To see her eyes slitted like a cat,
While you rub it’s neck.
And a particular bliss on her face.
I live only to see her inspired,
To see her eyes shine with the fire,
of thousand stars,
And magic slipping from her fingertips,
In the shape of words, art, or simple touch,
I live to lie in the amber of the moment
with her by my side,
when everything else is nothing,
but the melody to the song we sing,
and the conduit for the love we bring.
Summoning love to the tips of my fingers,
Summoning tenderness to my lips,
Gentle caresses as we sink to the Earth,
The spires of mountaintops,
or are they trees?
Cathedrals of the mother,
The resting place for lovers,
And the place we will take our final sleep.

——————-

“Train thing”
Rumbling down these rusty old tracks,
A northbound train for New York town,
The best girl in the world next to me,
And we’ll have to wait and see,
what the night will bring.
Sputtering towards destiny
on this transportation capsule,
Still on the tracks but not for long,
Listening to the urban song,
the endless hum of people talking,
the quiet breathing of a special one,
Not startled by anything, takes hurt like it’s expected,
But can give the kind of love that comes undetected,
The fire in her eyes down to embers,
Giving off warmth in the midst of a cold iron world,
Glowing softly, still warm behind closed eyes,
Compliant slaves don’t realize or comprehend,
Who she is or how she does it,
she stays truly free,
Manages to blend in,
While staying above the clouds,
But if you take your time to look at her closely,
something so rare and unique,
that you’ll never want to look away.

——————

“Ode to Kilgore Trout”

The dark jester of love,
A clever soul with a bite,
And a teacher in the truest sense,
The loss of his presence,
Is devastating to our polluted race,
Laughter and truth will show up less,
The sardonic wit is now lost to us,
The black comic is gone over the edge
which he longed to stand upon,
and always did.
Minds will still be changed
but the source is out of range
and humanity will not last much longer
if it continues to be so viciously deranged,
He saw it, but saw our hope,
In the simple things, the honest things,
And the absurdity in the darkness,
“We’re here to fart around,
so don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
So long, Mr. Trout.
Farewell, Mr. Vonnegut,
We’ll try to make this world a little better
and love each other a little more,
while you’re gone.
But we’ll never stop laughing,
Even when your words
make us cry.

———–

“Poetic Home”
We’re worth our weight in gold,
But that doesn’t mean we can be sold,
and what we are fits no mold.
It is beyond my comprehension,
Not of this dimension,
but it sure is beautiful,
or so I’m told.

Glowing in dark, cold waters,
Phosphorescence and luminescence,
Let’s go down to the ocean and start undressing,
Ocean breezes feel like a symphony;
caressing.

Common sense leads me to dive right in,
Swimming in the light from your eyes,
They’re not so dark right now
and they make me shiver, somehow.

I often think how you make me feel,
Could not possibly ever be real
Because it’s just so unbelievably right,
and this world always seems to come out wrong.

But I can feel your touch,
And I love you so much,
That it’s beyond reality,
It would survive the worst calamity,
and come through stronger than ever.
It’d come through smiling wider than ever,

Like an angel that flies from Montgomery,
We look down on the world,
from a phantom ship,
with it’s sails unfurled,
But it’s time to go,
We’ve been gone too long, no.

Never mind, lets not go back at all,
We’ll survive the fall,
Time will slow to a crawl,
and we’ll make it on our own,
out here beyond the wall
of humanity,
In our own
poetic home.

—————-

“Untitled.”
A way to forget reality would be too convenient,
Hurt is necessary, and convenience is detrimental,
Like some one said, those that suffer together,
Have stronger bonds than those who are most content,
And we’ve both had our share of suffering,
Whether it be together or apart,
And I take it to heart,
When you’re cruel to me,
’cause you know I can’t be cruel back,
And love is something I don’t lack,
so call off the attack,
and meet me halfway,
with a crown of flowers on your head,
and a dove on your shoulder.
Tell me the things you used to say,
In that same gentle way,
That you used to, and I’ll obey,
Any command you care to give me.
We’re not at war, we never have been,
We’ve been lovers even when,
You put a knife in my spine,
And your teeth turned to brine,
We were lovers all along,
No matter how many times we done each other wrong.
We’ll always have the times
Where we shared each other’s wine
And read each other’s minds,
We’ll always be in love,
No matter how many wars we fight,
No matter how many times you go away,
Forever is a fact.
————————

“Thoughts Unclear.”
Thoughts unclear and draughts of beer,
Lost in clouds of washed out feelings,
Drowned in the bitterest of tears,
The ones that sting and leave you reeling.
The kind of tears that mean so much at the time,
But that will seem so worthless tomorrow,
Cried for in a state not worth rememberin’,
Curled up in bed with her; trembling,
Soothed and sober, clear eyed and fresh,
The morning comes quickly,
And heals as much as her touch,
Her dark eyes reflect what was not lost in the night,
It’s something worth holding on to, you think,
And so do I.
I’ll give you every last drop of love,
I’ll spill every drop of blood.
If you lift me up to your green heaven,
And take me away to survive the flood,
I’ve never been one for feelin’ bad,
But you and me, darlin’, make it almost fun,
’cause feeling bad with you,
just means we get to make it better,
in the light of the morning sun,
in that gentle way we get things done.

———————

“Frenzied Dreams”
Last night I dreamt I slipped through dark cool waters,
I dreamt I had fins and really sharp teeth,
So work me into a frenzy, baby,
Let me get a taste of your blood
or put me back to sleep.
Tonight I dreamt I was a mouse,
with a tail and glassy black eyes,
I’ll work you into a frenzy, baby,
Just by bein’ helpless,
Swoop in and take me in your talons,
Or I’ll put you back to sleep.
Tomorrow I’ll dream we’re hunting together,
Our feet padding the snow, a scent in the air,
Our pack will be strong, our prey will know fear,
We’ll sing at the moon, my darling girl,
and taste our kill together,
so let’s go back to sleep.
But we’ll probably die together,
with our arms around each other,
and our dreams will all come true,
and we’ll be each other’s hunter,
we’ll be each other’s prey,
we’ll be each other’s pack
we’ll be the roots of one great oak,
entwined together.

———————

“H thing.”
Slipping down these lonely streets
Like a jellyfish on it’s back
Legs in the air
Goin’ down the wrong track
That oaky brown taste
dripping down my throat
The eyes I bought it from looked like they wanted to slit it
Lazy smiles and hyper violent dreams
Itches that feel like God’s own back scratcher
If you’d like I’ll fill your veins with golden poppies
I’ll fill your diesel engine
So you don’t break down on me
The solitude is killing me
So be my junkie love
Just nod
your recognition.

——————–

“Nice little poem.”

Write me a novel, and fill it,
with all the things you want to do.
I’ll read it twice and then start
making it all come true,
Barefoot in the morning dew,
Or getting dry in the hot sand,
Little grains stuck to our bellies,
Sun on our backs, holding hands,
Pointing out Jupiter and telling you all about
It’s moons and rings
and that great big eye
Looking back at us
From a leap away
Climbing the branches of the big old oak
that used to be in the backyard
of my mind,
I’ll show you my childhood,
if you show me yours.
Discovering new music together,
that reminds of something
we’ve been looking for
Pure essence
Pure spirit
Pure soul,
Close your eyes and go to sleep
and listen while I read to you.
In this soft, shaky voice of mine,
Let the images become dreams
As I whisper Shakespearian incantations,
The magic that is wrought
in spoken word,
Wake with a headfirst dive
Into the barrel of a wave,
Grab my feet
and pull me under,
Forgive my blunders,
Share in my wonders,
Laugh, smile, dance
and just keep pressing on,
All I want
is for you to live your life
and let me share it,
Give me your heart and let me wear it,
on my sleeve,
And neither of us will ever have
reason to grieve,
Just believe
that things will always be all right.

—————–

“Unnamed.”

I wish I had something to say,
That I haven’t said before,
but love is the only word
that I can seem to summon
And it ain’t just a word,
And it ain’t just a feeling,
I heard a rooster crowing
words like molten
rock,
with sparkling jewels
hidden inside his
unwinding spool, of noise.
And you think they’re the fools?
Just look at us,
We’re mad,
blithering, stark raving mad,
it just isn’t enough.
Simple sentient, hardly breathing beings,
wearing plaid,
Spill your insides out
and purge your self
Cause I can’t do it anymore,
I’m in love with you.

—————

“Springtime”

Every time you see her, your heart skips a beat,
Her eyes meet your own, locked on each other
With deep love and intensity.
The recognition in those glassy spheres,
The light of love, as bright as your own
looking right back at you.
The sound of her voice, which overwhelms
one with breathless passion from
the sweet gentle beauty it carries to you.

Song of Songs, her laughter filled with mirth,
Cracks the ice,
Which has frozen your lips in a melancholic purgatory of emotion,
whilst that joyous sound has been absent.
Cracked and melted, the smile appears
from beneath the final
traces of unhappiness,
Her sunshine smile’s rays bring forth
The
flower of your heart,
nourished from it’s winter long slumber,
it
comes at first like a whisper,
“I love you…”

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