I am happy here—
Content.
Slowly,
I see lazy shadows
Swaying on the feet of laughing dancers
Silhouetted by a warmer, floating sun.
What gentleman is this
Who locked my madhouse door
And bade me well?
The Blue Spider
The blue spider
Crawling languidly
Up my face
Stops to divide itself.
Two halves
Piercing my skin,
Entering my brain;
Rejoining—communion
Of body and spirit;
Weaving a monument
In my mind.
A silk ladder hangs
From my mouth
Allowing the blue spider
Freedom of passage
To and from my thoughts
Trapped
Helpless within its web—
Waiting for the blue
Spider
To return.
A Thousand Tomorrows
I have borne
A thousand tomorrows
And I feel no different.
I have stumbled
To kiss sweet soil.
My passion made mud.
I have heard
A haunting echo
Fading into void.
My hands
Have clasped your throat.
My mouth
Has sucked your venom.
I have swallowed your malady
And I suffer no wounds.
Still, my cross bears down
Under each sunrise
Until I taste Christ—
Out-stretched,
Dreading resurrection.
I Have No Story
I have no story but my undoing—
A spirit help captive by confusion.
I am singular vanishing—
Take no thought
But for yourself.
Live, my love, that I may subside.
No longer a part
But lost in the whole of creation,
I will weep/caress
The callus of my failure
Under loosened shackles—
Such joy in the prospect of choosing
My own chains.
The Waiting Chair
The waiting chair,
Poised forever,
Is holding me tonight.
I collapse
On apathetic cushion—
Confusion singing softly.
Searching,
I picture pretend—
Pushing deeper into the chair.
This world spins
Endlessly beneath me—
Numbing my mind;
Poisoning my sex.
I become desperately
Nothing.
A Death Sentence
Birth is a death sentence.
Life is the waiting—
The fear of an inevitable end
To my existence.
Pull me from her womb—
Inject me with the disease
Of my sentence.
Chain me with knowledge—
Refuse to pardon the crime of my birth.
I appeal this incarceration—
My being was not premeditated.
My Angel
“Be brief,” my angel requested.
My voice would not utter…
”Hurry!”
I could not.
Did I even know what I wanted?
My angel, reveling in speech,
Quotes,
“Time’s cylinder is vast
And there are people dying
More quickly than yourself.
You find me and play the fool;
I refuse your silence!”
And my angel ascended—
Adverting its eyes,
Acknowledging some distant plea.
My Demon
My demon came to me
And I held its cactus hand.
“Where shall we go?” I asked.
My demon only smiled.
“I know! We will climb a mountain
And pretend the world.”
My demon only smiled.
I dragged it through the air,
Pulled it closer to me,
And whispered,
“Which fire should I quench?”
My demon, smiling, answered,
“I but follow you.”
Yet I Knew
Withered—you found me.
A redundant, silent pulsing—
Flawless and lifeless,
Unable to alleviate hope.
Cradled thick within
The flowering
Whirlpool of belief,
I’d gathered faith
You could not see.
I had gathered guilt
You would not ignore.
You’d begged me run
Yet I knew
You would never follow.
Gathering Time
So, you alone gather time—
Stacking second upon second;
Building but a minute.
And you alone doubt truth—
Stepping lightly on mind’s mist;
Sealing lies with perfect persuasion.
Is it you
Who convinced the seasons change
While sitting in quiet contemplation
Or are you as I?
—A figure fool
Watching your shadow dance
Across dust and rock colliding—
Merging with darkness
As you wonder when you ceased
Being center of the everything.
Until I Laugh
Shaking…Shaking…Shaking,
Yellow sin.
I will dress naked today
And travel ugly through the laughter.
I shiver disease from my eyes
And I promise change
As I fear death at night,
But know not what to say,
To do, to think.
Jesus, tell me that I live.
Look at your child—
Arrogant and stupid.
My God, frighten me
Until I laugh.
The Push
Welcome to my hour—
The extinction of thought
A garbled hell
Shelled and sovereign—
Waking
This is a gift?
These slopes
Have become too steep
The water too shallow—
I fail to understand
The one reflection I have seen
My fingers fail me—
I have found a lower level
Of destruction where face
Down is safer when waiting
For the push to continue
And the poison takes hold
The Mirror
Cover your face! I am fed up with its pointless patterns of grins and smirks. I’d like to smash your face to pieces and spend my time re-staking your countenance.—A new face with scars and tear tracks—honesty and hauntingly melodic eyes; blood-shot and thirsty. I would make you into so much more than just another worthless reflection.
A Proven Passage
Are all my heroes in Hell;—
Regretting time’s perpetual reminder
Of the ancients’ white-washed faces,
Or are they just an idea,
A film in the making,
To transcend the truth of evil?
But December has already claimed you.
The love and the lust
Disconnect godhead.—We
Callused observers forming lines;
Marching past your plastic silence—
We’ll greet you with a proven passage:
Happy birthday and good-bye.
Song Of Sorrow
Sorrow kissed her last lover
then followed south to the sea. She found the sand and asked if it had been crying. “No,” the sand replied, “we’re drowning. The sea steals us from the wind to hide her secrets. We must perish so the sea can keep her dignity.”
Sorrow removed her clothes and lay shallow in the sea. “Can you feel me?” she asked. The sea laughed, pulled sand from under Sorrow and answered, “I gave birth to this world. I knew you before you were. It is I who should ask, ‘can you feel me?’.” Sorrow rose to her knees, wondering if the sea would steal her. “Should you drown,” the sea continued, “I would cover you with sand to bury another of my regrets.”
Sorrow backed away from the waves and called to the wind, “Cover me with sand that I may taunt the sea.” The sea crashed, scraped sand to her belly and roared, “Sorrow, you fool, I will gladly destroy you!” Sorrow stood motionless, allowing the sea to rise against her. “At last, you will be no more,” swelled the sea as Sorrow threw off her arms and became beauty.
Weather Vane
A rooster on a weather vane
Is laughing at me
What does he see
What does he know
He spins and he is not afraid
I believe the wind had jaded him
How else can he stand so still
Armageddon
The last sounding of time—
Trumpets,
Horse hooves,
Flapping wings,
Battle cries
And goddamns.
I didn’t see the sky split
Or feel the westward wind.
In fact, I noticed no change.
Underneath Sails Of Midnight
Underneath sails of midnight,
We quietly cursed the rain.
Our heaven twisted—drowning
The useless voice of reason.
We had prayed the sun stop.
We had called—
Named ourselves god and I,
Noting but a face
Scattered inward,
Knew you not.
I tried to recall
Simpler times—broken
Autumn winds dividing the clarity
Of a turned back.
—Some supple hand reaching for you;
Hoping to reveal, recognize a lost friend—
Though my vision had melted;
Causing your identity to remain
Restlessly forgotten.
A Small Stone
A small stone fell
Beyond the mountain range—
The valley trembled with fear.
Who dares wake a slumbering monster?
I lifted my head—catching a glimpse
Of God’s pale hand descending.
Death’s stare staggered across my bed
As I counted God’s fingers—
The same as mine;
Able to make a fist!
Come God,
Let us pound the earth—
Make death stand still!
But the stone lay silent—swallowed
By a vast mountain.
Come God,
Let us pour wrath upon the valley—
Guide my hand in battle!
But the hand of God was old and tired—
Needed elsewhere
To support his weary head.
The Hollow God
Whom shall I say
This aged god is—
A spectacle coughing madly
Like the fire-breathers
He danced with
Forming barriers of illusion
Fooling even himself
Whom shall I say
His mirror reflects—
A familiar shadow
Of proven existence hanging
Heavily around his fear
Whom shall I say
I am
When the hollow God
Mimics my every move
The Soil Is Growing
I know, my shining idiot!
I claim your translation.
The soil is growing—
I am not so small!
It is the soil that dwarfs me—
Nothing can stand against the soil!
My body begs to return
To its earthen form;
Engulf civilization.
Soon, dear body,
You will join the dust—
Become larger
Than my mind would allow.
Steeped In Barnyard
Steeped in barnyard,
I wadded wide-eyed—
My soul caressing the primitive.
Determined, I scaled barbed wire
To pillage the wooded other.
Final dreams are laid upon this side;
A beginning of the road leading—
Following nature’s pull.
But my cautious footing was shaken
By a single turned root.
It’s the game—
I had opened the pasture;
Declared the nostrils flare.
I had commanded the world watch
As stood erect—confused—
Realizing I had become the hunted.
Now, allowing my knuckles drag,
I turn to climb a tree
And fill one gloriously hopeless page.
Here Is The Madness
Here is the madness.
Here’s the silence—
Squeezing language into a scream.
I want retribution.
I want your soul.
This is the hand you do not see.
The sky will tell you…
Useless is this endeavor—
I’ve nothing to say,
Nothing to feel,
Nothing to show—
Goddamn your completion.
My Pilgrimage Has Ended
My pilgrimage has ended
And wisdom’s drunk relics
Offer no return
As time folds itself—
Stretching a sullen shade
Of weary complacency
Over the huddled holy
Savoring simple desires—
Repeating remembered prayers
That dissolve
Against the stone ears
Of what was life—
Was a silent sky
Gently brushing the earth—
Clearing my path
But my pilgrimage has ended—
I want to go home
Through The Forest
A child once followed an old man into the forest. The old man did not notice the child for some time. When he did, he was alarmed and asked the child, “How did you get here?”
“I have been following you,” answered the child.
The old man seemed annoyed. “Why would anyone follow me into the forest? Do you mean me harm? Are you going to rob me?”
“No sir. I wish you no ill. I only want to learn the best way to pass through the forest, and I supposed that an elderly man, such as you, would have learned the best way.”
The old man smiled at the child’s assumption and congratulated him on thinking through the matter with such logic. “Come, my child, follow me and I will show you the only way to pass through this forest.”
As they walked, the child asked the old man many questions about the trees and birds and the adventures the old man must surely have had in the forest, but the old man said nothing.
Finally, after hearing enough of the child’s prattle, the old man said, “It is true that these trees have given me shade and the birds have sweetly woven a new song in my heart, but the forest holds more than trees and birds, for wolves also roam these woods with fierce hunger in their bellies. And you shall not live to find any way through the forest if you meet a wolf.
The old man stopped walking and bent down to where his face was level with the child’s face. Sternly, the old man pressed his right forefinger to his lips and hissed, “Shhh!”
As they resumed walking, the now frightened child gra
bbed hold of the old man’s hand. At first, the old man tried to shake loose of the child’s grip but then decide that it was a small price to pay for silence.
Mosquito Wings
Of all the times
Spent alone;
Of all the rain, rumbling, rambling—
Circles of circus clowns—
Mad make-up and weary smiles.
Of all the thoughts,
Random and lonesome;
Of all and all,
There is this that I cling to—
The sound of a mosquito’s wings
Fluttering in indecision.
Holding My Heart
And it has come to this—
You holding my heart like a sickness
And me not knowing where to find you.
I give up!
Take your prize;
Grow into this concession;
Disappear with the fire of my youth
And my will to continue.
You have withstood my best fight,
My desperation and existence—
Hail to the victor.
Emasculated
Beneath my infections
And imperfections,
You hold me scarred—
Wishing to extinguish the tongue
Of love licking my sores;
Leaving its brimstone secretion.
I cannot fool myself
Into believing.
Into accepting;
Into alone.
Never were you so close—
Never defined
In the absence of myth.
And it feels obscene
To be un-forgiven;
To be unavoidable;
To be unmistakably
Loathed by myself.
Who Dared Stand
Who dared stand and roar
The world into form
What frightful force
Framed the spheres—
Set into motion
The jealous sea
What maddening thoughts
First escaped
Into the void—
Truly it is God
I don’t understand
Beggar’s Hand
Who will greet the horse—
Who will ride unashamed
On wings of distaste;
Bludgeon my wine soaked lust,
And stop the world with a mask?
Who will touch the distance
Of my eyes sunk red
Into a cigarette—
Who will hold the beggar’s hand?
The Shape Of Poison
Your longing sticks in the back of my throat
As I cry out past my scars
And attempts at a healing
I so desperately want to crumple
Your longing into a ball—
Hold it wet in my hands
The shape of poison,
The methane and the faint;
The Cardboard Night Page 3