Writing On the Water
I write secrets atop the surface of the water
This pond is my journal
The fish within it are my witnesses
They alone know the intents behind each of my words
My finger is a death-ray; silent but efficient
against all my deepest-felt notions of humanity and faith
It swirls out spells without a somatic component to them
Change has come to the shore of this little nook in the woods
I write down my fears on each ripple
They fade into infinity
Becoming none from many
Becoming mythology rather than substance
The sky above my mad errand is fading to night
Stars are trying to peek over my shoulder
The leaves on the wind attempt to tap me on the head
hoping to distract me long enough for those stars to read my secrets
Like my secrets across the surface of the water
I am fading
Like a loss of hope when faced with overwhelming force
My great work becomes insubstantial
The water continues to move
Subsuming, absorbing all that I was intending to make of it
The best laid plans are orphaned notions
The Soundtrack To InevitabilityThe stars have a cold expression to them
as they seemingly drift wordlessly through infinite darkness
They have only moments in my sight
as Science ends them, in the knowledge that time is more powerful than their glow
Miles are ritualistic truths
steeped in longing
Across the gulfs
Where all my little issues mean as nothing
A gas cloud surrounds me and my little nuances
I am so small
I, the finite and the obscure
I, the carbon spec in a sea without end
The lonely space-ways
Lanes of traffic which are empty vessels
Not unlike my heart
If you listen closely, you can hear truth
in the spaces between the stars
It is called NOTHING
It is forever
Trackless, intractable, lonely
The soundtrack to inevitability
Declaration of War
I am going into a hole
Self-imposed exile recuperates resolve
Self-directed diatribes underscore a need for clarity
Undiluted refutation of the established tumor
Unapologetic refusal to bow to the machine
Rancor and bedlam aimed at the heart of enslavement to the mundane
Dissident of the establishment, rage of the innocent
I am going into a hole
Declaration of war-without-end
Knees bloodied but not crouched down upon
Will not repent
Will not genuflect
Will not give in
Will not stop
I am going into a hole
Creating a thought-bomb to blow them open wide
Reclamation of my humanity, one tactic at a time
Dismissal of the overlords, one eye at at time
Eyes to see, hands to grasp, ears to hear, hope to nurture
I will prevail
I am anathema
The Dance of Inevitability
None of us remember how small it all is
This life, this microcosm of the here and now
We intake breaths like pimps attaining cash
We accumulate regret like a hooker attains beatings
Wallets are filled with history
Purses filled with 'eventually I would like to-'
All we have is right now
All we own is this moment
All we know is fleeting
All we hope for is always on the horizon
Stars are born and die every second we waste on trivial pursuits
Galaxies spin about us, unseen as we wear our suits
Species are erased from existence while we fuss about opinions
All we are is dust
Amongst the stars we once were not aware
All we are is dust
Amongst the stars we will eventually drift once again
This life, this game, this dance
It has a face, then it has no face
You are here
Then you are not
What does it take for us to remember?
What push will be the shove that reckoning is satisfied with?
How many hours will you drain from your timeline before you smile?
Savor what is stupid
Cherish the failures
Arguments are like stones above the ground in a graveyard
They stand testament for something, but a mere handful of people remember
The rain batters them, like memories of lost love
the wind slaps them, like meaning well never did
The ties to that image binds us, each and all
We are finite, but we stand tall, faces to the sunrise
For all it's worth, it all winds down to zero
Spring and summer exchange tongues
Fall and winter dance naked in the moonlight
Bright is the promise
Tarnished is the mantle
What came before is what comes now
We merely dress it anew, to sleep better
Birth still turns into gone
Hope still turns into silent halls
The mold will grow, regardless
Bright was the promise
Shadowed is the outcome
The Twigs of Your Cage
Skip a stone
across the water of your life
Listen for the audible evidence
Progress through each layered spectacle
holding your judgments at bay
Skip the pleasantries
beneath the commonly seen
Dig deeper, where justification goes to die
Trudge over each breathing mistake
snapping the twigs of your cage
Skip through the fatty parts
and leave room for deserted delights
Your chewing remembers former meals
Dine now, divine, sanctified in certainty
crumbling all the while, all around what you have built
Skip past each
song of your misspent youth
Ignore the crescendo from the foreground
Lounge against, between each loss
tripping alarm bells in your straw bed
Soundly judged by the winds
My aspirations sweat pure excellence
Tasting the changing season
Flailing about as a Trout in a mountain stream
the dance of us and ours is welcome amidst the pines
Follow the birds to their secret nests
allow their song to enrapture your inner child
The winter is gone now, asleep in her caverns of elsewhere
The stars await us
as the sun passes the rest area along the skyway
Dawn to dusk to dust and back again
On knees we shelter the smallest things from scrutiny
The soil is a soul
The soul is afire
Wind ChimeFrom where I sit
Breathing my breath only serves one master
I serve too many
Each one inside my head
I hide backwards up the cavern of ideals
riding in a clown car filled with corpses
Horizon to horizon
Hue against hue
Eye against eye
Hand in hand with failing health
the path I walk is narrow
Close in kind to the space between breaths
One day gone
Two days missed
Three days forgotten
A melodious wind howls in my pile of bones
I am but a wind chime
For a porch where nobody resides
I stain my era with hope
I bleed back into sand underfoot
One day missed
Two days gone
Three days misbegotten
A melodious wind howls in my pile of bones
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,
the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,
and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,
or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out
as so many do when they wake up.
The poet paints them into existence with his words:
“ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.”
And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,
put a price to labors and words and even to thoughts
because we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedom
of saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
The Son, the Father, and Whatever is HolyDo you ever stop to think about those
Old, old stories bound in myriad cantos?
The kind that are all in iambs and Latin
Or Italian – the language of a world in the grip
Of a renaissance that is seeping drip by drip
Into a darkened age, like so much lantern oil.
I do, but for purely selfish reasons –
I think of them as balm for lesions
That keep popping up in my mind.
Lesions, mind you, that are not literal –
They are but the inlets in the littoral
Region of my morbid thoughts.
When the inlets get flooded, I build leather
Boats to keep myself afloat. Whether
I construct them well is up to interpretation.
I cling to the old stories in cadent verse –
When I am particularly low I rehearse
Them aloud – as my mode of survival.
He never understood that, though –
He never really could, and no
Matter how I tried, it was no use.
He didn’t see that for me finishing
The rhyme kept me from diminishing
Into slow-burning insanity.
It hurts me more than him, t
Cyclical loveI see a beginning and an end
clasped within the lines of your palms, echoing
in the ripples of your irises;
I remember the apricot april morning
stumbling over your outstretched legs
in the park which I had never seen as
anything more than a cut-through, but
my life changed course and the park
became a destination and I still don’t know
when I noticed that I was waking up
twenty minutes earlier just to
talk to you before work, just to hear
your lilting voice flow through my ears and
fill my mouth with ideas;
And I remember the dew drops kissing my feet
when you convinced me that it was practically illegal
to wear shoes in june and I watched as
the grass pressed hatched patterns into your skin
and for a moment I wished that they were my fingers
holding you in eternal summer lawns, swan choruses,
whirring rollerskates, the smell of peach blossoms;
And I remember you blooming and shedding
the remnants of your cocoon as you pointed out
made-up constellations littering a swelling augu
a timeless ringshe wears me upon
her withered hand:
an angel's halo
with no beginning or
she didn't like
but he brushed away the
drops of jupiter
twinkling on her
return but it was
just a fool's
and now i am
a memoir of
because he is
dead but he is
not, he is
gone but he is
here, he is
a memory preserved;
she wears me upon
her withered hand:
the crown of a
king lost in battle
grazes me with her
because soon i
will be a
she will be the
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
It's hot in my apartment even if you're not hereWhy do I wake up,
halfway drowning in sweat and rattling thoughts
about who you could be,
candles in my room down to their wicks end,
and me just laying in bed for a few hours.
the worst part is that you're not ignoring me.
I could call you up,
lasso a conversation like we never left our last one
tell you I love you like always
but it's worse
because you would only ever be half there.
I could never have all of you,
could never take the full moon for what it is.
so why do I try to sleep,
with a wild hare up my ass
about what could have been of us,
candles burning brighter and hotter
than all of the solar system,
drowning in perspiration
when I know I'll just lay in bed for hours.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of your
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages. They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple. Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp. She had wondered if he thought of her this way.
She wondered the same now.
Her hands were not her own. A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads. Her mother reminded her of this when the
every chance i didn't take IIYou tell him about your cancer on a Sunday,
in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans
and speculations about whether or not the weather
will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November?
Just the strangest.
You casually mention that somewhere
deep in the secret space between your hips
your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably,
whispering treason and passing down forgeries,
teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent.
You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages
mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast
and predictions about the game later that afternoon -
easy as breathing, even as counterfeit armies
shred through the soft tissue just below
his favorite place on your spine.
And as you stand there
calmly making conversation
and sharing the last of the soap,
he watches the water
run quiet rivers
through your hair.
Short PoemHer eyes return my gaze,
A gentle “Hello” at first glance.
Those chocolate brown coloured eyes,
So full of love and compassion.
Without a sound from my lips,
A solitary cry escapes.
Her serene marble-like stare,
FaeriefireWe all hid when the faeries dueled.
You and I were in the closet, wishing to each other half-secretly among the motes that the duels could be rare as dragons, at least. Instead they were only rare as quarter-moons.
Ground liquifies, sometimes, during a duel. The stars brighten and fall faster, leaving holes in the ground and setting forests alight. The sun hides in a bird’s nest, they say.
We did not see when the damage was done. We were accustomed to avoiding to know even the names of those who fought. Our eyes were far from windows.
But duels always ended the day after they began, and we stepped out as if we were free.
Your eyes caught the light first, and when I followed them my air caught in my throat. Like going underwater without the protection of a mermaid.
That day our world was on fire. The glass of the town hall had melted to colorful puddles on the ground. Some houses were gone - some people too, I realized. Surviva
PinesThe pines bend over
Dark against a satin sky
Old and wind-twisted
Weary of winter
of going on
They stretch in a sweet spring sun
Stretch, straighten, and start over
pale new needles poke
out of paper-crisp wrappings
tender and soft
having never seen a winter
oppression.Rebellion is a funny thing; being denied the right to something
simply makes it that much more tempting;
forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, as the saying goes.
But what of oppression? What taste would that fruit have,
riddled with hatred and malevolence?
Would thorns sprout from it's surface, would the juice taste sour?
Would eyes water as the foulness of it burned our throats, and caused us to weep?
Our world is far from perfect, lights doused
by the hopeless tears of those whose suffering
God turned a blind eye to. Wealth equals power equals the ability to have your mistakes overlooked, swept under the rug so silently.
But when a young teen is murdered because of the color of his skin, when a young girl is raped because of her clothing choice, when a loving couple is denied their right to marriage because of their sex, where is the justice then?
The poor, the misunderstood, the marginalized; looked down upon for things they can't change.
And even though we are all made of atoms and
Charred remains of a modern society The little girl was dancing on the street, among the entrails of a once bustling suburb now strewn chaotically across the scorching asphalt. Her blithesome essence shone through her skin, in the whimsical way she twirled and threw her arms in the air, brushing her wayward curls aside. She crafted a dust storm and trapped the sunlight in her eyes, oblivious to the rubble sinking into her toes and the loaded gun in her brothers hand.
She fell, asphyxiated by her own storm as the bullet carved its way into her flesh. And as the last gleam of light left her eyes, poppies blossomed from the cracked pavement, their crowns swaying in the chemical laden wind the way the girl never would again.