Mimes know exactly the excrutiating pain
involved when words are not enough.
Silence prescribed for appropriate
gathering of wool witted wisdom
as one gesticulates a game of charades.
No one wins.
In frustration, you walk away.
How can I tell you that every time
you smile my heart is still subject
to sedition. I can't so I just try
to keep feeling out the sides
of this unseen box in which there is
only enough air to choke me.
Paint my smile and let me
pretend that I do not love you.
I think though that these fingers
give me away when you are near.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Kaustikós
It seemed harmless enough,
that smile
that wink
that sudden wing of flight
bird in our hearts
fluttering
until we could no longer hear
anything but breath.
I wonder sometimes if we
look like stool pidgeons.
Do we sing our guilt with
every smile, every look
that is just a little too long?
It seemed harmless enough.
But how can you land
sane, normal, unharmed
after the sky has filled you
brimming with blue
on a Tuesday afternoon
in a park alone with
profane love.
Sing sorrow
Sing sorrow
sweet nightengale
to forget the sky.
It seemed harmless sweet
darling dearest love,
Icarus.
that smile
that wink
that sudden wing of flight
bird in our hearts
fluttering
until we could no longer hear
anything but breath.
I wonder sometimes if we
look like stool pidgeons.
Do we sing our guilt with
every smile, every look
that is just a little too long?
It seemed harmless enough.
But how can you land
sane, normal, unharmed
after the sky has filled you
brimming with blue
on a Tuesday afternoon
in a park alone with
profane love.
Sing sorrow
Sing sorrow
sweet nightengale
to forget the sky.
It seemed harmless sweet
darling dearest love,
Icarus.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
What You Don't Know Hurts You
Your visits, friend, seem incongruous
to your stated position of peace.
Why do you dig through these pages
seeking to rupture your spleen;
flat line your heart.
Is it not enough for you that you sleep
the perfect American Dream?
Shameful how secrets draw us
because we all know conclusively
we cannot know
the stranger by which we sleep.
Look inside for what is missing.
It isn't a love letter or a poem,
unless you write it for yourself.
That cavernous mawing empty space
you feel is waiting only for one person:
YOU
You to love you.
You to know you.
You to like you.
You to understand you.
You to BE you, and not this man's dream
or that mother's idea of you.
You have your own dreams, don't hang them
like lonesome laundry to flutter fly
out of reach in a billowing blustering wind.
What you don't know hurts you.
You are stronger than you know,
More beautiful than you think,
and smarter than this wraith wandering
searching for the thing you have.
Cross your arms
Squeeze tight
This is your solution.
Words are only words, meaning is found
criss cross your heart true
only inside you.
to your stated position of peace.
Why do you dig through these pages
seeking to rupture your spleen;
flat line your heart.
Is it not enough for you that you sleep
the perfect American Dream?
Shameful how secrets draw us
because we all know conclusively
we cannot know
the stranger by which we sleep.
Look inside for what is missing.
It isn't a love letter or a poem,
unless you write it for yourself.
That cavernous mawing empty space
you feel is waiting only for one person:
YOU
You to love you.
You to know you.
You to like you.
You to understand you.
You to BE you, and not this man's dream
or that mother's idea of you.
You have your own dreams, don't hang them
like lonesome laundry to flutter fly
out of reach in a billowing blustering wind.
What you don't know hurts you.
You are stronger than you know,
More beautiful than you think,
and smarter than this wraith wandering
searching for the thing you have.
Cross your arms
Squeeze tight
This is your solution.
Words are only words, meaning is found
criss cross your heart true
only inside you.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Candor and Cotton
Smell of winter and cotton
and something unmistakably
you
as your arms encircle me
and I let myself
fall
into your comfort.
I am not as strong
as I seem
and tonight I would
let go of all this
and lay it into your
strong hands
because I
need you.
I find there is a longing
and a wish
second star to the right
that you would
lean in
close
and closer still
to kiss me.
We shy away
from the things that
hurt too much
but still
I thank you secretly
for at least this
touch
this moment
when things seem
right
and I can rest
salient dreaming
in your arms
released
of this guilt
that plagues me
in the midnight hours
when I cannot turn
to hold you
or be held.
I whisper I love you
but you do not
hear it in the dark.
I admit I need you
with this baring of soul
secret thoughts
and my hands seeking
purchase
in the hollows of your
form.
I beg time to stop
and let me remain
holding you
holding me
with the winter chill
and the smell of cotton
and the memory of
your hand against my
cheek forever.
and something unmistakably
you
as your arms encircle me
and I let myself
fall
into your comfort.
I am not as strong
as I seem
and tonight I would
let go of all this
and lay it into your
strong hands
because I
need you.
I find there is a longing
and a wish
second star to the right
that you would
lean in
close
and closer still
to kiss me.
We shy away
from the things that
hurt too much
but still
I thank you secretly
for at least this
touch
this moment
when things seem
right
and I can rest
salient dreaming
in your arms
released
of this guilt
that plagues me
in the midnight hours
when I cannot turn
to hold you
or be held.
I whisper I love you
but you do not
hear it in the dark.
I admit I need you
with this baring of soul
secret thoughts
and my hands seeking
purchase
in the hollows of your
form.
I beg time to stop
and let me remain
holding you
holding me
with the winter chill
and the smell of cotton
and the memory of
your hand against my
cheek forever.
Nietze's Lover
Your hands
are what I remember
and the sound of your
voice as you
lay sleep dreaming
drowsey telling me
of where you have
been and where you
might be going.
The passion blurs
in a mirror reflection
that shatters
at the roughness of
your touch upon
skin that begged
to be hurt for all its sins.
Redemption
that all fallen angels seek.
How did I know then
that you would be
my resurection
after all this time
in the land of the dead?
This child
Our child
has brought me at last
back to the world
that I had forsaken.
I cannot tell you the
lost years and the
lonely hours
of a life full of
wandering ceaslessly
looking for home
begging for ways
to die.
I thought that there was
nothing for me
but endless days
empty days
of nothing and nothing.
Stupid struggle of
existence.
I was Nietze's lover.
I went down empty
into your arms
and came up full.
And it is your hands
that still linger
in my mind
their rough touch
gentled by a long
labor to bring
something good
at last into the world.
are what I remember
and the sound of your
voice as you
lay sleep dreaming
drowsey telling me
of where you have
been and where you
might be going.
The passion blurs
in a mirror reflection
that shatters
at the roughness of
your touch upon
skin that begged
to be hurt for all its sins.
Redemption
that all fallen angels seek.
How did I know then
that you would be
my resurection
after all this time
in the land of the dead?
This child
Our child
has brought me at last
back to the world
that I had forsaken.
I cannot tell you the
lost years and the
lonely hours
of a life full of
wandering ceaslessly
looking for home
begging for ways
to die.
I thought that there was
nothing for me
but endless days
empty days
of nothing and nothing.
Stupid struggle of
existence.
I was Nietze's lover.
I went down empty
into your arms
and came up full.
And it is your hands
that still linger
in my mind
their rough touch
gentled by a long
labor to bring
something good
at last into the world.
Overheard In Room 15
Bleed out in Room Fifteen. No, you don’t need
any supplies. You’ve seen this before, the
hollow eyes, the wild haven’t slept for
days haunted look of someone walking half
in and half out of their skin until they
bleed out what is left of their mangled spirit
for us to scrub up the pathetic mess
in bleach and blue or green pills for all your ills.
Not even a fucking thank you very much!
You can't handle your life? Try working
here and watch every asshole broken bone
tortured soul walk through the door and take its
insignificant toll on the lives of
the living. I hurt. I need. I want to
forget the pain. Let that pain press you up
against the wall, vomit up the poison
and pray in the dark it won’t be you next
week that is cut up on a white sheeted
gurney for all of us to see how fucked
up you really are with your secrets pinned
down like a goat’s heart on a tray to be
dissected, desiccated, and disseminated.
And now Fifteen wants to leave after we
have started the paper work that will frame
her in these lines of indelible ink:
Off-kilter, uncertain, unwell and unfit
to do anything but heavy medication.
Doesn’t she know that we can't just stop?
That paperwork is in progress and I don’t
give a rat’s ass if she has someplace to
be. Should have thought of that before she came
spilling out her insides on our nice clean
sheets. You should be dead or dying here. No
protests from the living about living .
any supplies. You’ve seen this before, the
hollow eyes, the wild haven’t slept for
days haunted look of someone walking half
in and half out of their skin until they
bleed out what is left of their mangled spirit
for us to scrub up the pathetic mess
in bleach and blue or green pills for all your ills.
Not even a fucking thank you very much!
You can't handle your life? Try working
here and watch every asshole broken bone
tortured soul walk through the door and take its
insignificant toll on the lives of
the living. I hurt. I need. I want to
forget the pain. Let that pain press you up
against the wall, vomit up the poison
and pray in the dark it won’t be you next
week that is cut up on a white sheeted
gurney for all of us to see how fucked
up you really are with your secrets pinned
down like a goat’s heart on a tray to be
dissected, desiccated, and disseminated.
And now Fifteen wants to leave after we
have started the paper work that will frame
her in these lines of indelible ink:
Off-kilter, uncertain, unwell and unfit
to do anything but heavy medication.
Doesn’t she know that we can't just stop?
That paperwork is in progress and I don’t
give a rat’s ass if she has someplace to
be. Should have thought of that before she came
spilling out her insides on our nice clean
sheets. You should be dead or dying here. No
protests from the living about living .
Medea
Husband, her heart
she will fracture
for you; for
she is faithful
even still.
Batter and burst
do your worst
crush everything
cruel
courageous.
She is only a
woman, a weak
and wanton
jug
to drink.
Husband, her tears
from home to here
will bulwark
break with
lamentation.
Ash not stone
she begins to
waver at their
sweet smiles
returned.
Medea we beg you
Medea we ask
you to hold your
poison behind
your mask.
But resolve
clabbers curdles and
spills her ill will;
napalm
soul ignited.
In motion
the world kilters
hurdy gurdy forward
machine
universal.
Come to me then,
little vessels of love
little pots of laughter
all things
good and gone.
Clay pots,
scattered like islands
on a red sea of trouble.
Intent
broken wide open.
These pots
will never hold water
again so why do you
gather the
pieces into your arms.
she will fracture
for you; for
she is faithful
even still.
Batter and burst
do your worst
crush everything
cruel
courageous.
She is only a
woman, a weak
and wanton
jug
to drink.
Husband, her tears
from home to here
will bulwark
break with
lamentation.
Ash not stone
she begins to
waver at their
sweet smiles
returned.
Medea we beg you
Medea we ask
you to hold your
poison behind
your mask.
But resolve
clabbers curdles and
spills her ill will;
napalm
soul ignited.
In motion
the world kilters
hurdy gurdy forward
machine
universal.
Come to me then,
little vessels of love
little pots of laughter
all things
good and gone.
Clay pots,
scattered like islands
on a red sea of trouble.
Intent
broken wide open.
These pots
will never hold water
again so why do you
gather the
pieces into your arms.
Isis and Osiris
In dim memory, the bright glow
of the candles made the room
a tomb of Egyptian treasures
with Pharaoh presiding
over the afterlife, his head cradled
upon the breast of Isis in her
reverie; a game of jackals at best.
Yet, my heart, always too tender,
my mother said, could not abandon
him. as we lay wrapped against the
cold, juxtaposed white on the dark
leather of the couch; a bench in a museum.
Beautiful bright and silver dreams
spread their wings upon walls.
Frames of moments past,
some of copper, some of brass
others fine and feathered.
things of a lifetime gathered lovingly
and hung with quiet reverence.
They thought they knew him.
Much weighed upon the scales
of Pharaoh 's heavy heart.
Anubis had buried his
curse deep within Pharaoh’s
alabaster skin. Words, I feared,
might tip the delicate balance
of Pharaoh’s papyrus grasp.
Wasted ink; The Book of the Dead
lay open like a hope upon the black
and glass table. Amber flame
spilled light upon its pages,
wavered like Pharaoh
in my arms, asleep at last.
(II)
Grace, her hand with held, muttered
apologies and mumbled help,
fumbled us careful close a last time.
in the darkness before all things
would in memory begin the ending.
A down comforter seemed a sin against
the cold night that bore our bodies
witness against the shadow of the lamp;
Nagasaki etchings into walls.
The end of beginnings isn’t always an end
I whispered against your heart willing you
not to leave me in this cacophony
of expectant silence; hush of hospital halls.
The Ave Maria’s were crows hanging
upon a fence gathered, like dirge notes,
Ave Maria,
gratia plena . . .
gratia plena . . .
I would not be there to see you again
would not let them speculate how
we once lay tangled in white sheets
Isis and Osiris on a winter’s night.
The white of the billboard broke
the clean line of the horizon.
He will be missed. Raised
above green grass, asphalt
yellow lines. My heart a
red stop sign in traffic on a
Tuesday afternoon lunch break.
(III)
Open casket. Visitation begins at 6PM.
Newspaper crumpled in the front seat
where roses lay, peach tipped white,
like the ones he sent for my birthday
a year ago. Is this what you bring to
the land of the dead? Reminders of
your life for them to peruse and curse
Or perhaps bless like this letter
a last offering to the boy who
wept like a child,
I don’t want to die
I don’t want to
say anything to anyone as we
sit cold marble against cheek.
Strain of ears against stone
at twilight for your resonance
telling me of flying machines
jungles I have not seen
until at last I must concede
I will not hear its like again.
(In memory of Ken Spano)
of the candles made the room
a tomb of Egyptian treasures
with Pharaoh presiding
over the afterlife, his head cradled
upon the breast of Isis in her
reverie; a game of jackals at best.
Yet, my heart, always too tender,
my mother said, could not abandon
him. as we lay wrapped against the
cold, juxtaposed white on the dark
leather of the couch; a bench in a museum.
Beautiful bright and silver dreams
spread their wings upon walls.
Frames of moments past,
some of copper, some of brass
others fine and feathered.
things of a lifetime gathered lovingly
and hung with quiet reverence.
They thought they knew him.
Much weighed upon the scales
of Pharaoh 's heavy heart.
Anubis had buried his
curse deep within Pharaoh’s
alabaster skin. Words, I feared,
might tip the delicate balance
of Pharaoh’s papyrus grasp.
Wasted ink; The Book of the Dead
lay open like a hope upon the black
and glass table. Amber flame
spilled light upon its pages,
wavered like Pharaoh
in my arms, asleep at last.
(II)
Grace, her hand with held, muttered
apologies and mumbled help,
fumbled us careful close a last time.
in the darkness before all things
would in memory begin the ending.
A down comforter seemed a sin against
the cold night that bore our bodies
witness against the shadow of the lamp;
Nagasaki etchings into walls.
The end of beginnings isn’t always an end
I whispered against your heart willing you
not to leave me in this cacophony
of expectant silence; hush of hospital halls.
The Ave Maria’s were crows hanging
upon a fence gathered, like dirge notes,
Ave Maria,
gratia plena . . .
gratia plena . . .
I would not be there to see you again
would not let them speculate how
we once lay tangled in white sheets
Isis and Osiris on a winter’s night.
The white of the billboard broke
the clean line of the horizon.
He will be missed. Raised
above green grass, asphalt
yellow lines. My heart a
red stop sign in traffic on a
Tuesday afternoon lunch break.
(III)
Open casket. Visitation begins at 6PM.
Newspaper crumpled in the front seat
where roses lay, peach tipped white,
like the ones he sent for my birthday
a year ago. Is this what you bring to
the land of the dead? Reminders of
your life for them to peruse and curse
Or perhaps bless like this letter
a last offering to the boy who
wept like a child,
I don’t want to die
I don’t want to
say anything to anyone as we
sit cold marble against cheek.
Strain of ears against stone
at twilight for your resonance
telling me of flying machines
jungles I have not seen
until at last I must concede
I will not hear its like again.
(In memory of Ken Spano)
Monday, March 8, 2010
On the Road to Damascus
"I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting," the Lord replied. "Now get up and stand on your feet. I have appeared to you to appoint you as a servant and as a witness of what you have seen of me and what I will show you. I will rescue you from your own people and from the Gentiles. I am sending you to them to open their eyes and turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me."
—Acts of the Apostles 26:12-18
A broken vessel is hardly a map
Hardly anything but forgotten
and swept away.
Ah, but he is a clever potter
isn't he?
Clever indeed to crush these shards
to dust
to ashes
everlasting
water of life
stirred
Baptism by faith
remade
until I am again fired thrice
and painted
whole again useful.
A shard is hardly a map
but it is a beginning.
What was I?
A knife that cut you.
This map
a road to Damascus
traveled without knowing
the potter's plan.
I am a journey written
in skin and bones.
These scars were road stops
where others waited with me
for you.
These scars were dark nights
where alone I whispered
into the starless sky
your name.
These scars are Halleluia
Amen
and the traveling circus
whose mystery is not
the bearded lady
or the trapeeze act,
but the ever present hum
of the masses gone silent
at the miracle of Lazarus
returned from the dead.
The map whose jagged and raised
lines mar smooth white
tell you the potter
hides a message
a mission
a reason that will shine
best when broken
wide open
screaming
make me your
image again.
—Acts of the Apostles 26:12-18
A broken vessel is hardly a map
Hardly anything but forgotten
and swept away.
Ah, but he is a clever potter
isn't he?
Clever indeed to crush these shards
to dust
to ashes
everlasting
water of life
stirred
Baptism by faith
remade
until I am again fired thrice
and painted
whole again useful.
A shard is hardly a map
but it is a beginning.
What was I?
A knife that cut you.
This map
a road to Damascus
traveled without knowing
the potter's plan.
I am a journey written
in skin and bones.
These scars were road stops
where others waited with me
for you.
These scars were dark nights
where alone I whispered
into the starless sky
your name.
These scars are Halleluia
Amen
and the traveling circus
whose mystery is not
the bearded lady
or the trapeeze act,
but the ever present hum
of the masses gone silent
at the miracle of Lazarus
returned from the dead.
The map whose jagged and raised
lines mar smooth white
tell you the potter
hides a message
a mission
a reason that will shine
best when broken
wide open
screaming
make me your
image again.
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