Verse From The First Confraternity:

The Late Foundational Period

 

 

Hallway

 

Ghosts in the hallway, echoes of fear,

clouds of confusion to drink,

heaven lies millions of sorrows from here,

in hurt disillusion, I sink,

an image blurred with a tint of hate,

a million long shadows of dark;

haunting deceptions infuriate,

arrows insulting their mark.

Abandoned, blind, love-scarred,

frozen through and through,

a manifested graveyard

for a love I never knew;

reluctant to be taunted,

pray, My Savior, set me free,

nevermore be haunted by

the wretched sketch of me,

nevermore allow concern

—distorted views of things;

ended all a vengeful burn,

or ended touched by wings.

 

 

Flowers

 

Under sky, in perfect garden,

swaying on a breeze,

is spied a prized chrysanthemum;

is spied by... I, a weed.

Emotion in her pollen smile,

glisten on her leaves,

a sheathe that speeds the breathing

of the ever-wilting me.

Spilling lilts of every hilt,

and tilting toward a pond;

to effloresce and underdress,

with near transparent fronds.

 

 

Mud

 

Words rendered altogether meaningless,

we breathe to each other the stale air of

our dying friendship.

As we both, wear, tear down

the hazy road to disillusionment,

I take one final look deep into her swollen eyes.

 

We can’t explain why it happens

to rain on a day like today,

when tears and earth mix in an audible sigh;

come rain, come mayhem,

thoughts of you drip like venom

from a rattler’s fangs,

and I sink down eye level with

the surface of the swamp.

We are two creatures,

wonderful in our own respects,

but impossible together.

 

 

Crisis

 

Exit house.

Exit chair.

Exit mirror.

Exit hair.

Exit friends.

Exit wife.

Exhaust charge cards.

Exhaust life.

Smoke no pipe.

Drive no car.

Harbor no malice.

Bow to no czar.

Sort no mail.

Sort no clothes.

Recognize

no eye, no nose.

 

 

Bloodshed

 

Spat on master, hanging on a tree,

pinned by sin allotted once to me,

riddled with belittlement and sleaze;

 

stabbing thrusts on upward trickle down,

in streams of clean and purity, he drowns,

sounds of jeering merriment surround;

 

witness senseless prophecies fulfilled,

gripped with sickness, man of sorrows killed,

evidence of hate, innate free will;

 

catch the rabid master gasp for air,

pass as though the bastard isn’t there,

mask intent with malice and despair,

 

and never dare repair the tear of wear

with blood clots.

 

 

Communion

 

Tasteless crackers—

symbolic?

Could be.

Of who?

Me.

 

Wine.

Another bottle,

maybe more.

Does the potency cure?

Sure.

 

Prayer—

for strength,

for love.

I’ll need it when push comes

to shove.

 

 

The Weight Of Guilt

 

There’s a sin my heart is now committing,

a fabric of black and gray I’m knitting,

a destructive note I’m always hitting;

it drags me down ‘til death is fitting.

 

I’m trapped inside the walls I built,

my pinball game is stuck on tilt,

I’m trying to walk on just one stilt;

I’m crushed beneath the weight of guilt.

 

 

I Know

 

I sense you,

and freeze,

because I know.

 

I feel you,

and tremble,

because I know.

 

I hear you,

and cover my ears,

because I know.

 

You see me,

and run,

because I know.

 

I become you,

and cry like you,

because I know.

 

 

Shreds

 

Tear me to pieces,

rip me to shreds,

pounce like a rabid wolf,

leave me for dead.

Break these disjointed limbs

and disappointed heart;

it won’t break my spirit.

Tear me apart.

 

 

Get, Then, Out From My Head

 

Alas, I cannot but think of thee,

and all we may profess to be.

 

Get, then, out from my head.

 

I paint or sculpt thy lovely face

on pillar, granite, still, or vase.

 

Get, then, out from my head.

 

Ye, in mine slumber, flavor dreams,

eternal on the mind it seems.

 

Get then, yet, into my heart.

 

 

Act

 

go

like a storm trooper into the world

unshackled and zombie-like

armored, honored

into the world

 

know

intentional, with great faith and unalone

inhabited by his great Spirit

powerful, nonchalant

and unalone

 

lo

beholder of wonders miraculous

showered blessings heap

reaped harvest

of miraculous

 

revival of awakened spirit

by action committed newbies

inspires a fresh sense of awe

and a short call to act

 

(Until “Cut” is yelled, years into production.)

 

 

Potter’s Plot

 

Fresh from kiln’s scalded mouth,

a simple round base spat up

to lend its grip to life’s decor.

Impartial and beautiful, it sat up,

filled with soil rich with patches of Golgotha.

 

 

The Disgrace Of Miss Ruth

 

Nothing now but silence

can defiant yet afford,

saddest minor chords diminish

vast duration scored;

aftermath of afterthought

may gladly coincide

with the suicidal temptings

of forlorn, rejected bride,

mulled and juxtaposed, upheaval,

disappointment in her breast,

in a bedroom with no bridegroom,

torn and tattered wedding dress.

Yea, the virgin’s pent excitement spent,

and etched across her wrist;

what a cruel and harsh awakening,

so easily dismissed!

 

On the mantle, framed with layered dust,

a thousand years have settled

on the photograph’s torn edges

and the bouquet’s wilted petals.

And the virgin’s wasted image,

on its inward-eaten youth,

impresses children’s whispered rumors

of the fall of Old Miss Ruth;

yea, this haggard and unfortunate,

forgotten, sickly witch is what

became of poor Miss Ruth DeLeuth,

so easily dismissed!

 

 

Words Without Beauty, World Without Hope

 

Where’s your God at, Bible-Boy,

in this corruption?

Where’s your Savior at the swollen

cheek of this grieving mother?

In the reality I call home,

children get beat to death

and live-in girlfriends won’t rat

on their rapist men-friends;

remind me again how rosy life is?

How cozy life is? (Sometimes I forget.)

Wake one afternoon to the vomit

and poverty of a reeking shit-hole, then

proclaim your All-fucking-mighty’s deeds!

Pray to your wishful thinking for

some blessed fucking miracle.

And pray me into a million dollar

inheritance—you pricks are despicable!

Stand on lit street corners and babble

some useless foreign tongue,

with your trimmed, clean head

covered with the ashes of your “brother”.

Witness loud in proud words about

the same God as that reverend down the

street, then secretly attack each other.

And embellish phony testimonies

and S.O.B. stories,

exaggerate the partial truths you twist;

say you were once scum like us,

‘til you made high society.

 

But don’t stay past dark,

or a cracker like you’ll

get a real quick trip to Hell;

maybe we skip on over to your block,

see how long it takes to break past your locks,

cuddle up to your wife and kid;

then you know a whole new truth

'bout that wickedness you preach,

that side of sin you ain’t never fucking seen!

 

 

Surprise

 

It’s been a long time;

too long for me.

Heaven knows I’m the last

one you expected to see.

But I just had to see you,

to know you’re okay.

And now you probably

want me to go away.

It was bad enough

when I hurt you before,

so what am I doing

back at your door?

I suppose I should leave;

I should never have come.

I guess I was just

being foolish and dumb.

It was a bad idea;

it won’t happen again

—why should you

care how I’ve been?

Sorry to bother you;

forget I was here.

Don’t give it another thought.

Forget me, my dear....

 

[Door shuts tightly.]

 

 

Anything

 

I would dance for you if you taught me to.

I would do anything.

 

I would lie with you if you asked me to.

Anything.

 

 

Happy Faced

 

You look so grim, it breaks my heart;

though not without reason, you play such a part.

But life is too fresh when its wonders unfold,

to be girded, guilt-laden, with passions untold.

When perception refuses the volume of half,

just tip over the tipsy glass, brace for a laugh;

and in social excursions, we’ll grin, you and I,

at the happy faced gestures of clowns in the sky.

 

(And get that horrible expression off your face!)

 

 

Regret

 

Now as I recollect,

and solemnly reflect on what has passed,

I expect I’ll be saddened to remember correctly

how few times we spoke directly;

even as early as when first we met,

I can’t forget the regrets I had

for never taking time to sit, to talk,

never suggesting we go for a walk;

even when the rarest of moments were shared,

I dare say I never betrayed what I felt.

 

So now that our lives will no longer align,

you’ve gone on your way, and I’ve gone on mine,

I wonder with sadness what might have been;

now that I’ll never see you again.

 

Time has insisted that now you shall be

only the essence of faint memories.

 

But I’ll flirt with your ghost, the hostess

of my fantastic sorrow, and may borrow

fragments from a different source,

a course with differing tomorrows.

But reality will set in at a crucial moment,

and I’ll be back in my dark room,

enveloped in the unhealthy gloom,

where all I can do is pray, hope to

God you’re okay, even though I’m not,

because I’ve got too many mistakes

to come to terms with; it burns to know

I threw away my only chance,

threw it all in the face of romance.

 

I wonder if I’ll ever be truly over you.

 

 

Such Is Better Never Mentioned

 

I wrote a word—absurd—on love,

or what I thought affection was;

with eloquence ideas fell

upon the feat of life itself.

At once I shunned my own intention;

such is better never mentioned.

 

Often heard is still her voice,

in grieving over fateful choice;

frequently, on bended knee,

I coin concern in surge of pleas.

And these diseases drew attention;

such is better never mentioned.

 

Yea, I have in past been led

to not reflect on what was said,

when you in all your disarray

could not have grasped it anyway.

In this I measure some prevention;

such is better never mentioned.

 

 

On A Night Like This

 

On a night like this, we were together,

while we both were very young,

the words I had to say froze

to the tip of my forked tongue;

with one last kiss and last embrace,

that parting moment stung,

and I shed a final tear for all

the songs we left unsung.

 

On a night like this, my heart was heavy,

and my nature chained me down,

it dropped me at the dregs of pitfalls,

left me there to drown;

I took a final look at you

(that midnight evening gown!),

turned my back and turned my head,

and left that gloomy town.

 

On a night like this, perhaps, we’ll

reunite when years no more remain,

you’ll have loved and lost a thousand times,

and I’ll have done the same;

I’ll kiss anew the youth in you,

and utter fresh your name,

then oldest, sweetest friends we are,

we’ll nod and drift away.

 

 

Gold Street Mansion #7

 

When years turn to tears

and give way to remorse,

and the birthed have seen death,

and all life’s run its course,

when the servants and kings

befriend worms underground,

and their catacombs cave

and their walls tumble down,

when our skin and our muscle,

too heavy for bone,

tear away from their tissue

and drop like a stone,

when our hearts halt their

beating, and arteries still,

and no lawyer or heir

may inherit our wills,

when the centuries cease,

and the decades desist,

and those opposite Adam

at length end the list,

and the cynics and scoffers

join nursery marms’ hands,

when eternity’s hourglass

empties of sands;

then at last will the sculpting

of heaven complete,

and in grace will we throw

ourselves down at his feet,

and with merriment, laughter,

contentment and peace,

and a wellspring’s abundance

of banquets and feasts,

will creation then fall

to God’s chosen elect,

and rewards, yea, and

treasure beyond our suspect,

will yet fall in allotment

to royalty, slaves,

and the vermin of earthen

and worldly gain,

and the street corner bum

who has died in his sleep,

and the toilsome sower,

and planter who reaps;

and the streets sheathed in

golden, the glimmering lane,

where the ends of our labors

are finally explained,

is the sight, where our souls

will then settle in time,

of my heavenly mansion,

and yours next to mine.

 

 

Verse From The Second Confraternity:

The Early Sociopathic Era

 

 

tO maKE yOu LaUGh! (tHatís LaFf)

 

Oh, FOr heAveníS sAKe...

heRe Iíve bEEn cArRYinG on,

wHilE youíVE BEeN siTtiNg theRe,

thAt BoRed LOok on yEr FaCe.

And I hAvENít noTiceD

--wEll, uNTiL NoW--

IíM aS UttErLy eNteRtAiNing as a coW....

 

(Hmmm... now that I think about it, cows are actually very entertaining.

Especially so would be a cow named Bob.  Wearing  pants.  Ha ha ha haa!)

 

[Now back to our irregularly scheduled poem.]

Iíll tAtToo a mUscLe on mY CaLf

fOr tHe soLE PuRpoSE of mAkinG you LaUGh;

iíLL buY tOyS iíll NeVer nEED,

liTtlE GolDeN BooKs iíLL neVEr reAd;

wHen ItíS QuITe inNaPPropRiAte,

Iíll StRike a PoSe,

oR StiCk a PiCkLe UP mY nOsE; *

iíll QuIP the FliP thAt niPs My hEAd

(aNd WoNdEr whAt thE HEcK I sAiD!);

Iíll PAint tHe BluE BoY ShADes Of bRoWn,

aND dReSs mYsELf a CIrcUs cLoWn;

Iíll PaSs and AsK yOu hoW YoUíVe beEn,

thEn dROp fRom A cEiLinG tiLE,

asK yOu AGaIn;

iíll sKeTCh cArTOonS thAT MaKE no sEnSe;

yoUíLL wonDEr wHY i aCt So dEnSe;

iíll CaRry hIGh mY loOnEy StaFf,

JuST AnY oLd tHinG To mAkE YoU lAuGh.

 

* not that it is ever really appropriate to stick a pickle up one’s nose.

 

 

Blameless

 

How can you tell me I am

blameless in his sight,

when even now I spit on a Bible

in front of his face?

I have mulled over the words

a thousand times in my mind,

but examine my actions;

you will find not a trace.

 

 

What Little Left Time

 

Come rain or come morrow,

come quickly what may,

come apocalypse,

come freedom,

come you,

I pray.

 

 

Callously More

 

I give you without reservation my bold heart;

you drop it back frail and wasted.

I open the palm of my soul to clasp

the thin fingers of your own;

my arms and digits are knocked away by

the swinging fancy of your frantic limbs.

I unfurl the details of

wrenching accounts for your whims,

and am rewarded with a sucker punch to the gut.

 

Still,

you petition for more than what is already yours,

as I wonder what further damage I might incur.

 

 

Speak It

 

What sort of answer do you expect,

when you vaguely turn my

imagination to such violence?

What brand of generic cure-all

do you hope will soothe the ills

of your churning stomach?

You hint at unthinkable,

unmentionable,

unforgivable things,

and spare me details far less grim

than my own inferred intimations.

Speak of such—you coward! You cur!

Speak, and befriend the

repercussions of intention.

 

 

Low

 

Here comes the part when I cry,

on blistered knees and face,

when forgiveness is over-ridden by depravity,

and morality is replaced,

dethroned by calamity,

vanity in place;

I weave threads of newly dyed fibers

into the sheet of sins erased.

 

And plead for death to end the wheel’s spinning,

that the tapestry may hang.

 

 

I Know No Happy Songs

 

I know no happy songs;

if I heard one, I could not sing along.

What, then, would I sing if not through tears,

with troubles stilled and a skyline clear?

I would not know a tune to hum,

no songbook I could gather from.

Then, for the sake of music, may

I be tormented all my days!

For happiness without a song

is worse by far than all gone wrong,

for pain at least may yet be soothed,

while happiness remains unmoved.

 

 

A Fine Day To Die

 

Ah, what a way to go,

already in Seventh Heaven;

such a pretty day,

a fine day to die!

 

Amanda in the car,

riding off;

how perfect!

What a good day to die!

 

Andrea walks over

countless graves,

through grass, very cheerful.

What a nice day to die!

 

Tara looks around,

through wind tunnels;

how nice—the breeze!

What a right day to die!

Kelly stands at the corner,

under a blue sky,

seen through green leaves.

What a grand day to die!

 

Laura with her friends,

all with pretty eyes,

and pretty smiles.

What a crisp day to die!

 

Angie carries herself as if

she owns a small town,

quite contented.

What a ripe day to die!

 

Amy waves

and giggles;

such sweetness!

What a prime way to die!

 

And Vanessa pulls back her

hair, laughs gorgeously,

while clouds drift into anonymity.

Such a fine way to die!

 

Shannon wears red,

and a yellow ribbon;

explosion of color.

Such a good way to die!

 

Kristy bends and kneels

purely, innocently,

terrifically.

Such a nice way to die!

 

Mary silently concedes

that she is happy,

as we all have reason to be.

Such a right way to die!

 

Georgianna lowers,

sits considerately near;

how kind!

Such a grand way to die!

 

Tracy prances, sure-footed

and awkward as a child;

angels laugh.

Such a crisp way to die!

 

Brandi tucks her shirt

to the top of her jeans,

folds the ends of the legs.

Such a ripe way to die!

 

What a wonderful life, full of

wonder, bliss and merriment

—without regrets;

such a prime way to die!

 

 

Back Again

 

I’m back again,

sitting behind this thick curtain;

did you see how far I got?

That was my best one yet,

but I’ve returned

to the house of regrets.

 

So sorry to keep you waiting,

but I’m back again, and ready to start over.

 

Sometimes I frighten myself,

sometimes I’m not a bit surprised—

I’d nearly forgotten this place,

when I caught sight again

of its ugly face.

 

Many pardons for the delay,

but I’m back again, and ready to start over.

 

I’d the golden opportunity to change,

I’d everything in the world to gain,

but so high were hopes overshot;

I was to be released,

until the resurgence of the beast.

 

A thousand apologies for my rudeness,

but I’m back again, ready to start over.

 

 

Crip

 

Gouge you these bluish-ruddy sockets,

with all bluntness and all malice.

Free cruelly from the pivots of wrist

these housings for pudgy fingers.

Separate with serrated edges

this slit tongue from its eroding base.

Unattach these vile, unreliable ears;

sever or wholly split the sensory curse.

String out these organs, muscles and tendons

across a live wire of high voltage,

and hang the remaining frame, a monument.

 

 

A Charismatic Moment (It Happens)

 

IN THE NAME OF CHRIST JESUS,

WHO DIED AND ROSE,

IN THE NAME OF GOD’S

ONE AND ONLY SON,

AT WHOSE AUTHORITY YOU CONVULSE,

IN THE NAME OF BOTH LORD AND SAVIOR,

BY THE BLOOD IN WHICH I BATHE;

 

I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE ME!

 

 

A Place

 

Immoral world of mirror and diamond idols,

personage indulged of filth and rot;

I stow, like a novel-bound boy, away,

climb from the shore to some height

on Olympus.

 

Glaring from the Cyclops eye

on the face of each reprehensible

link in the barricade,

the ravenous lynx narrows in, intent

to sink its teeth into the fresh, cold

neck of naiveté.

 

From a lofty overlook of cloud,

the gods converse,

discuss with a detached interest

the plight of mortals,

zero in for example on impending dangers,

and mildly brush away the new dust of terrors.

Elsewhere, a tender, frightened sort

kneels in submission

before the alter and clergy of a monastery,

and with profound compassion,

is smitten into embers and salt.

 

Yea, Solomon! How true

the disinfecting sting of your words!

The abolition of earthly justice

mocks the simple penitent;

no place our eyes may yet drop

shall offer refuge.

 

 

Get Away!

 

Get away, you and your unwanted patronage!

 

Upon you now is the sudden twist

of the utensil I’d secretly lodged

into the first five layers of your heart.

In precision timing, you become

the recipient of a century’s worth of

deeply neurotic tendencies.

Blame falls in rage across the gape

of the vulnerability you’ve displayed,

as objects hurl and fly and whirl centimeters

past the unprotected mass of your head.

Half the voices say one thing, and half another,

as I struggle to maintain a safe distance from

the tempting display of vanities you’ve become.

Run or duck or hide, or take random shots

at the moving target of my ego;

you are the focal point of the concentration

of all anxiety and persecution and grandeur,

and you may not be so fortunate as to see twenty.

 

 

The Sun Is Relentless

 

The sun is relentless.

Waves of heat rise above the sand.

An oasis mocks my

weakening grasp of reality;

what a cruel joke to play

on so torturous a day.

Vultures dive through seas of blue;

in distress, I call to you,

“Come, provide me shade.”

Through worlds of time my life slips;

come winter, altogether hidden,

I shall be surprised if you find a trace.

But for now, the sun is relentless

and I must endure.

 

 

A Crime Without Passion Is No Crime At All

 

In the time it takes to light a cigarette,

I rage, blow a gasket—a fuse—

irreversibly age, forget the initial spark,

flutter like a mad, wounded meadowlark.

Sailor vocabulary, Navy mentality,

whip and spin and cut

like a circular saw in a lumber mill;

the hands that create are the same that kill.

Vitals throb and convulse,

inflame and agitate an irregular pulse

with hate and unpleasant wishes;

you, caught in a crossfire of beams, novels,

and collectors edition dishes.

Violent thrashes trash and scatter

the shattering glass and mirrors,

and the announcer refers back to the screen

for the not-so-silent replay of the last batter.

 

 

In These Very Pages

 

In these very pages,

the details of my conception

were documented and

stored away in some great,

hard-to-obtain scrapbook.

In these very pages,

the memories of those first

days of rivalry and insecurities

and affirmations were scratched.

And what later became

commonly referred to as

“the good old days” saw light for

a first, and essentially a last time.

In these pages photos were pressed

of holidays and vacations,

birthdays and high school dances;

then eventually weddings,

then the cycle all over again.

 

These were the pages that caught the tears

the night we found that Jonathan had died.

 

In these very pages,

the span of all life was laid out,

with vivid descriptions of

how the author provided

for the chapters to end

with any sense of finality.

But perhaps they became

so cluttered over time,

so worn with study

and yellow with age,

that we forgot the content

of the original text

beneath our own notes.

 

 

Idol

 

Sip the minds of your followers,

intertwine identities;

yes, now you are a part of us all,

the happiest of tragedies.

Draw us closer to your web,

interweave our lives,

sing a touching sequence

of a fairy’s lullabies.

Penetrate the layers

built against attacks;

celebrate your entrances,

which once were merely cracks.

Hide your understanding

under fellowship with fools;

search for double-meanings,

then utilize as tools.

Accommodate your victims,

follow through tradition;

wrinkle latex carcasses

to spread a new religion.

Sink a little farther down,

deep into the sea;

drown yourself in the process

of illuminating me.

 

 

Winter Seasoning

 

Winter adds such delightful seasoning;

another overcast this evening.

While temperatures drop another degree,

cottontails dance from tree to tree.     

White sheets contrast the cold, nil sheaths

that envelope the Christmas wreaths.

Yet few ever notice this masterpiece,

and fewer love it as much as I.

 

 

Am I So Strange?

 

No one around here laughs anymore;

how terribly depressing!

I see three faces where I should see but one;

who do we think we’re impressing?

Am I so strange?

Doesn’t anyone else want a perfect world?

Isn’t anyone else so strongly convicted?

Doesn’t anyone else strive for the ideal?

 

If so, we should get together some time

and have tea.

 

 

3 AM

 

The clock—

it strikes 3 A.M..

I’m in that crazy state again.

I toss and turn to pull you close,

swallow hard a lethal dose.

I’m half awake and half dead;

I only half heard what you said.

How are we close if you’re so far away?

(Things are so clear during the day.)

Oh God,

I’m so confused!

These pillows—they aren’t you.

You seem so near,

you get so far;

I’m locked behind

these unseen bars.

Where are you?

 

 

Lost

 

Lost is a child with eternal ideas,

lost are the dreams that come true,

sometimes I ask around,

hoping to find him,

the odd little boy of my youth.

Before age destroyed faith,

imagination ran wild, and I hoped

and I wished and I gleamed,

but time locked its fingers

and choked what was hope,

now my heart is no longer that free.

Year after year, I gave up more and more,

fearing the child would soon die,

and I noticed the corpses—rotting decay—

of my friends who had changed with the tide.

I wrestled inside with the feelings I hid,

of hatred and love and dismay;

the emotions conflicted

and clashed so intensely,

a stoic emerged from the fray.

And now I am tired,

and the child is quite sick,

as am I at my weary old age;

I lean ill in my rocker

and stare at the bricks,

a senile wretch—

ragged, deranged.

From whence I came,

I long to return;

I count the final days.

Awaiting me, a grave for two—

my final resting place!

 

 

The Someone

 

Girl, it hurt to find out you’ve got someone,

someone to look into your hypnotic eyes,

someone to tell you all those lies,

someone for you to love.

 

Oh girl, why him? Why not me?

Why can’t I be the someone

to touch your model’s face?

The someone you embrace?

Because I love you, girl—I really do.

And I’d love for you to love me too.

 

 

Nowhere To Turn

 

Thoughts circle like vultures

in blades cast across my ceiling.

Visions and prophecies drip from

                                                my

                                                walls

                                                to

                                                trim.

Sheets of air send my self-image reeling.

Splatters on the inside of my habitat turn grim.

Lyrics in the background

cause excuses to rise and fall—

a jolly roller coaster ride.

My sharpened sword stretches a mile tall,

as ominous as my pride.

Creon climbs through barriers to sentence me;

from another dimension he ascends.

Idiots swarm in from alternate

worlds to condemn me;

beginning where my world ends,

and I’ve nowhere to turn.

 

 

So Much Sister

 

Come now, sister, stay sweet—

withhold your basket full of treats.

You, my dear, dear as can be,

must hide yourself from beasts like me.

You mean so very much to me—

too very, very much; I can’t protect

your purity while longing for its touch.

Sweet entreaty, can’t you see,

you’re like a sister to me?

I love you, virgin, sweet to be,

and too esteem your worth in heat.

So go now, honey—sugared saint

(epitome of all I ain’t), and mother

some other brother’s child,

with your wild, pungent smile.

 

 

A Season On The City Streets

 

These city nights kill me,

city days chill me.

It’s that time of year again,

when frost forms on window panes.

I need some extra warmth to

get through the season,

something left in the

community clothes bin;

just some old rag,

just some garbage bag.

With skin dry and chapped,

and coat old and torn, scarved

to keep my heartbeat wrapped—

most I’ve had since I was born.

 

These city nights wound me,

city days swoon me.

It’s the time I fear again,

when frost bites cracked, uncovered fingers.

God, if you’re there, my life is in your hands;

won’t you give me some reason to live?

Just one good reason,

just one warm season.

Uncaring winds freeze my hard soul,

chill me to black core; the blood inside

crushed veins runs cold—

I need a little more.

 

 

The Path Taken

 

Walking down desolate road,

edging on to infinity,

step up to a crossroads;

which direction will it be?

 

Spinning through the cosmos,

hanging on for dear life,

here choices are made quick;

with haste and sacrifice.

 

Echoes gently lap

against the inner shell of brain;

anonymous voices whisper out

words so profane,

 

“Which way to the resort?”

 

 

Phased

 

I’ve been around for you,

been there to cheer you up,

tried to keep you happy,

make you laugh;

but I don’t know anymore.

My kindred spirit’s gone.

Maybe it is just a phase,

but I’d rather be alone.

Please understand,

it isn’t anything you’ve done;

I just need time to think.

(Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.)

 

 

A Shoulder To Cry On

 

What depressing irony;

all the people I’ve been there for,

and no one is here now for me.

I need a shoulder to cry on,

a friend to rely on,

someone to see me

through this low.

 

 

I Can

 

I’m only human...

which makes for

fragile bones;

bones that break,

feet that ache,

head that throbs,

hands that shake.

I can be confused

(which is why I fell for you);

I have feelings and a heart.

 

I can love you.

I can understand.

I can be sensitive, or hurt.

I can be rash and savage,

decent and attentive,

responsible or unreasonable;

all in the time it takes

to lose a friendship entirely,

and fall off the face of earth.

 

 

Scratch

 

Keep your smelly ol’ skin

out of the draft, cretin;

no one gives a damn about

your heroic delusions.

We’re all too preoccupied with

the grand farce of life,

to pay heed to your

petty conquests.

 

It must have been awful,

but we don’t care.

It must have been terrible,

but we weren’t there.

I’ll bet you’re unhappy—

you must have regrets;

those kinds of things

no one ever forgets.

Do you cry while

you while away?

I’ll bet you do.

I’ll bet if I were you,

I’d be tormented too.

But it doesn’t concern me,

I really don’t mind;

you show me no courtesy,

treat me unkind.

 

So leave us alone,

you dirty ol’ bastard;

we don’t have time for

your hallucinations.

 

(Oh, and the lawyer will be over tomorrow

to help you write up your will, Dad.)

 

 

Don’t Ask

 

I only want the best for you,

for you to have what you deserve;

so push me off this window ledge.

 

 

Mowing Down Bunnies

 

They’re becoming a problem;

what shall we do?

Those bunnies are deadly

(but so darn cute!).

 

Aren’t you concerned?

They’re into your petunias!

What shall we do?

What shall we do?

They’re everywhere!

What shall we do?

 

(The brave man says,)

“You get inside, son;

I’ll take care of this!”

 

Yeah, man,

mow ‘em down!

 

[Mower.]

 

 

Leaving Virginia

 

Under a warm Virginia sky,

beneath the rusty Red Rose sign,

behind the pumps of gasoline,

on dusty roads that few have seen,

beside the woods where spirits rest,

in rotten rooms that rats infest,

above the flight with the broken stair;

some say the child still is there.

I saw the stone with my own two eyes;

engraved, “Here Our Child Lies.”

I shuddered when I saw the tomb

of child, dead in mother’s womb.

 

An abandoned shack in a field of weeds,

a broken dam in a sea of reeds,

a bird that drifts through heavy skies,

a willow waving slight good byes,

a door and screen of rusty frame,

a forest full of wild game,

a small and twisting hidden stream,

a tattered flag that winds redeem,

a fallow field of sweat and tears,

a bridge that holds a child’s fears,

a tree that ends a broken fence,

a tangled bush bristling past tense,

a moving van that sighs a bit;

reluctantly, he walks to it...

never to return.

 

 

The Words

 

Words cannot define the feeling—

love, or trust, appeal, or reeling.

Friends does not serve justice fair;

mad and crazy likewise err.

Truth is not head over heels,

nor any thought such speech reveals.

Beautiful would not suffice,

nor priceless, breath-taking or nice.

Mere words, indeed, with limits set,

may not encompass you, my pet;

mere words, in fact, despite your gleaning,

never touch a smile’s meaning.

 

 

So Refined

 

Like the newest advancement

in fine robotic engineering,

polished sheer and meticulously smooth,

emerges the femininity of crafted

and exacting labor, designed with me in mind.

Surges of power throughout scientific perfection

aim their concentrated efforts

at the rough gel that is me.

I am plasticine mass, awaiting the pulverization

of tiny arms and a thousand pistons.

She is the astonishing beauty of machinery

made for no other reason than the melting down and

molding of my toxic mixture of ingredients

only scientists can pronounce.

She opens her metal jaws and lunges at my gut;

I spill onto the conveyer belt

and stain her unspoiled gears.

 

Then I am packaged and sold,

as another clump bleeds through her seals.

 

 

You Can’t Change It

 

The future is laid out,

in unexpected twists

from the dagger of fate;

and I have given up hope

—yes, threaded the

needle of a noose

with my neck of rope.

Is it humorous to you

up there, God of hoax?

Do you think these are

astonishingly funny jokes?

Ah then, you may

indeed be right

to burden with

such tragic plight!

 

 

Considering It

 

Frightened on the other end

sits cowering this loss at your words,

unable to answer but that I’m scared;

terrified at how easy it would be

to dig trenches in the surface of forearms,

frightened at how little coaxing it would take.

You sit in shattered glass and pools of blood

on the far side of town,

past families having dinner,

and tennis players,

and college-aged girls walking great big dogs,

and security guards reading comic books,

taking advantage of broken vending machines,

poets sitting romantically under trees,

or lying stoned and near dead in their garages.

You mention such and I have no answers,

no possible hope to offer

to convincingly resolve anything

of the muddle of depravity and depression,

or bat away any of the fears so quick to surface.

Instead I think of how romantic it would be

to end it all in one slash with the same razor

you now hold in your hand.

Gruesome, yes, but romantic.

 

 

Dawn

 

Dawn.

The dawn of a new day;

in dew cover and sprinkler spray.

I awake in a thorn bush,

to mourning’s needle pricks,

and stricken by sticks and

brush from the thicket.

Age-old sun reaches earth;

I turn dark and cancerous under its curse.

 

Eve.

Evening lifts covers over her nipples;

slips between sheets against slight ripples.

I sink deep beneath cotton

clouds of down fluff,

drink sweet dreams off the

rim of her nightshirt cuff.

Burnt out stars fall across her face,

I trace them down the lace of her pillowcase.

 

 

Lucifer, My Love

 

My dear, dear Lucifer, you clever devil!

It is perfectly terrible how you work!

You have examined me;

you know me, old friend,

better perhaps than I know myself.

How wonderfully deceitful you are,

sinister spirit of evil,

wicked angel of death!

 

My love, could I ever leave such treachery?

Is not your torment my delight?

Is it not you who gives root

to my morbid fantasies?

Gladly I drink from your cup of destruction;

in happy delirium I sip of your life’s blood.

I please myself with today’s stew of immorality,

giving no thought to consequence.

 

 

Oh God

 

Oh God, will you yet deliver me?

God, will you call me forth

from the furnace?

Oh, tell me it isn’t too late,

tell me this isn’t my fate,

tell me there is

something I can do

to justify my actions,

to atone my sins.

Oh God, look at

this quarry of tears,

listen to this

series of screams;

where is the forgive-

ness you promised?

Oh God, no!

No, God! Oh,

this can’t be the end!

Tell me this isn’t the end!

 

 

Someone To Grow Old With

 

No one knows why they want what they want,

no one knows why they’re never happy with what they’ve got.

Everyone simply compromises,

never fully realizing none of it matters;

 

            in eighty years we’ll all be dead,

            burned by all the fires we fed.

 

I want to age.

I want to lean back in my rocker,

teeth in a cup to the side.

I want to sip the lemonade my dear will make,

play cards, look at the shapes in the skies, then

look at the memories in my best friend’s eyes.

She can make me smoke my pipe outside.

We’ll have nothing to do but pass the time.

Then peacefully, we’ll die,

I and my someone

to grow old with.

 

 

Daddy

 

Daddy’s a good man,

tries hard, does the best he can,

would sell his blood to get me through school;

and I... I am intentionally cruel.

I spit in his face,

stick him through the heart,

then systematically tear his ego apart.

He would give me the world at his own expense,

and I would charge him rent for living here.

 

 

Life’s Altering Course

 

A continental drift pushes us further and further;

while skin tans, bats attack sleeping cattle.

As waves lap your beach residence, incisors

lap uncertain blood from me—from me.

And nobody’s around to wake them.

And nobody’s around to shake them,

and I’m tossed around by life’s altering course.

 

The world gets larger and monstrous daily;

idiot voices get louder and more annoying.

Tragic miles separate us from memories;

they drag us off—drag me off.

And no one cares enough to stop them.

And no one cares enough to drop them,

and I’m tossed around by life’s altering course.

 

Sometimes we get drunk off life’s potency,

sometimes it’s all we have to sober us up,

sometimes we forget who assigns us our portion,

who fills our cup.

We’re fed to sharks,

the world is dark,

time exits forever this

nebulous existence.

 

Then someone cracks a grin

and the overcast dissolves.

 

 

Pepper

 

Circumstance another...

Atlas with his pain is not

supporting all the weight,

his effort not in vain.

The sun absorbs his energies,

night allows no rest;

chalk one up for discontentment

and kicks to the chest.

 

You know something?

It’s a pepper life,

so wear plaid slacks

and dance on picnic tables with me.

‘Cause life gets boring for the ordinary,

so kick off your shoes and sing out of tune.

 

            “Ooooooh, that outfit!”

 

I’m such an upper,

I’m such a downer;

I can’t think about that right now.

Do you see?

It takes every effort to appear happy.

That’s what keeps toy stores in business.

That’s why we grow peppers in our gardens, eh?

 

 

The Most Despicable Human On Earth

 

I hate myself.

I have no worth.

I am the most despicable

human on earth.

“Oh, no...” you say,

while I’m killing you

with my thoughts.

 

 

To Simply Be

 

I want to lie back on the floor of a boat,

just the two of us

on a calm night,

stare at the stars

and

BE.

No words;

I don’t need you too close to my heartbeat.

I just want you there by my side

to

be.

 

 

Verse From The Third Confraternity:

The Prime Sociopathic Era

 

 

Plague

 

Frost in the summer of falling rains

            —a plague,

the pitter patter of insignificant little lives,

one by one snuffing it.

 

 

I Don’t Want This

 

And now I admit what I fought so hard,

finally submit to what feelings I guard.

I, in your absence, did reflect

on adoration and respect.

Fresh lips form words a first to say;

I love you more each passing day.

But now are fears alive and true;

please don’t say you love me too.

Tell me you will break my heart,

tell me you can learn the art,

think up every lame excuse

to promise unrestrained abuse.

 

I don’t want this,

this I so tried to prevent;

neither can I handle this,

so tell me every ounce is spent.

 

And now I wish you hadn’t pulled me close;

you dance so jubilant, I stand so morose.

What you wanted all along,

is all I’ve long been running from.

You encourage words I hate to say;

I love you deeper every day.

Now every apprehension weighs

like stacks of bricks that crush and cave,

and every insecurity

slams fully where the peace should be.

And you and I should not see through

the plans intent would have us do.

 

I don’t want this,

this I so hoped to avoid;

neither can I handle this,

so tell me I will be destroyed.

 

 

Confusing Me

 

Broken at the thought of who I am,

broken at the slaughter of the Lamb,

spoken that it all was prearranged,

token prayers and acts already staged,

hint at intimations predetermined,

servants, kings, and worms—born vermin,

blister at the thought of callused knees,

sister to kaleidoscope of pleas,

tapestry of threaded weaves of gold,

tragedies and fairy tales so bold,

sit in dictatorial poise,

throw jesters at the feet of broken toys,

and leave us in the stupor, undisclosed,

of the simple testimonials you chose.

 

You should have given us the choice,

you could have driven in a voice;

instead you planned it well advanced,

and we were not given the chance.

My only thoughts are questions,

my feelings naught but doubt

at how you turn us all against you,

then predestine the account,

and then expect our gratitude

for saving just those chosen few;

you could have saved us all,

I guess you simply didn’t want to.

It leaves me skeptical and confused.

 

 

If I Write

 

I write comic relief; jovial

society and good cheer abound.

I write boredom, forcibly; you lose

your mind with insignificance.

I write criticism, angrily; you rashly

lash out at some poor family member.

I write peaceful treatise, treaties; you

reflect with a slow pulse, in some Jacuzzi.

I write guilt, explicated; you contemplate

methods of suicide and murder.

I write a psalm; balm the God-given

cracks in your lips with talk

of forgiveness.

 

 

Slipping

 

Slipping;

nothing I can do.

Falling through the stratosphere,

out of control, with no hold.

It is beyond me, eludes me;

all I have are questions

and a battered ego.

My pillow, a stumbling block,

a bitter ax raised above my neck,

getting heavier, heavier,

about to fall;

and I’m chained down,

helpless, gagged, waiting,

nothing I can do,

a bystander with no say, running,

chasing after some elusive cause

I’ve never seen, chasing me,

riding me in circles,

slipping, screaming,

no hope.

 

 

I Hate You,  Part I

 

I see you in the distance,

seducing your flock;

I meet you in an alleyway

and bloody you with rocks.

No one else sees through you,

they think you’re a god;

but gods’ lungs don’t puncture

when bludgeoned with

lightning rods. Ha-haa!

Your speak is exceptional,

you think you’re so together;

but I’ve a poker with your name,

and your head will be severed.

 

Hey there buddy, you old fuddy duddy,

you look so nutty with those strings attached,

my hero, my jeer—oh, equivalent to zero,

my personal Nero to play in the streets with,

bag, braggart, washed up hag,

go ahead, stagger through your pitiful life,

scab, you vagabond, harvest of flab,

permit me to stab you when your back is turned,

loathsome creep, white trash, cretin,

I’ll never weep for your pointless existence,

hated scratch, with your nicotine patch,

may they snatch life from your grubby frame,

little spit, scared witless, full blown idiot,

I’d love to split your melon of a head!

 

What mistake did God make of you?

You seem such a waste.

You make me sick to my stomach,

intoxicating distaste.

You’re the dagger in my eye,

the thorn in my side;

how can you live with yourself,

you and your pride? Ho-hooo!

You worship yourself,

think you’re the center of attention;

I scoff at the jargon carved in

curses on your coffin.

 

Hey sleaze, hey deep freeze, get on your knees,

you terminal disease anxious to infect,

lowly worm, vermin, contagious germ,

you can squirm uncomfortably, but never hide,

pond scum, doldrums, drown in the hum-drum,

lazy bum of a stumbling wretch,

dirty rat, dissatisfied, obnoxious brat,

I tip my hat to your conspirators,

prude, unusual, brain screwed,

you change my mood to a violent rage,

rabid dog, impossible, bloody hog,

I hope they flog you in the streets,

spineless snake, impostor, fake,

I want to break your skinny little neck!

 

 

Li’l Bit

 

Bright colored flower stands

out from caring patch.

Blossomed leaves brush

pollen on fingers.

Scented sweetly with

the healing power of charm,

fragrant breath in slight wind.

 

Bit like a rose.

 

Harpsichord backdrop penetrates cloud.

She drifts through purity to smile down on me.

Adorned in white, wondrous fancy flight,

golden glint, shimmering halo.

 

Bit like an angel.

 

Blue flowing streams where we walk together.

She, the love of my pink cradle doll.

Entranced by the hum of rocking chair hymns,

to picnic on weirs by water’s edge.

 

Bit like a dream.

 

Enthusiasm brushes strokes over canvas.

Gift shapes packaged frailty.

Brilliant manipulation of eyes and space,

work of immediacy and timelessness.

 

Bit like a portrait.

Bit like a lovesick,

feverish romantic.

 

 

Storybook Color

 

Out of turn,

loud and stern

screams in my ears;

just      shut      up!

 

Hum gently, swing down,

no sound, steal away,

lazy day. Lightly. Easy now.

Close your eyes. Breathe.

Imagine a scene, still serene:

river and sun, storybook colored.

 

Hocus-pocus; litter free streets.

Ice cream summers, star gazing eves,

red brick and grass green,

bicycle years, best of friends,

time, space, cloud.

 

Eyes open, but still closed.

 

 

Trying

 

You know I fail, I stumble and fall,

I trip over my own feet, and bite the dust.

I’m still buying, I take what I want,

I go by my own will, and flow my pain.

 

You know I ail, I rumble and maul,

I slip over my own sleet, and fight the gust.

I’m still lying, I fake what I flaunt,

I know by my own fill, and throw my strain.

 

You know I wail, I grumble and bawl,

I flip over my own beat, and right the lust.

I’m still spying, I shake what I taunt,

I stow by my own mill, and glow inane.

 

You know I rail, I bumble and stall,

I rip over my own meat, and blight the trust.

I’m still crying, I rake what I daunt,

I row by my own till, and grow humane.

 

You know I trail, I fumble and call,

I tip over my own seat, and cite the just.

I’m still trying, I wake what I haunt,

I slow by my own kill, and go insane.

 

 

The Real Idiot

 

Would the real idiot please step forward?

 

“Ahhh, yes... that would be me.”

 

 

Barbecue

 

Burn.

Burn, baby, burn.

Everything you stand for—burn!

Wave good-bye and fan the flames;

I’ve finally had enough of your games.

Your ash is mine,

so burn, baby, burn!

 

 

Shudder

 

Please don’t look at me;

I’m not quite what I’m striving to be.

 

Christ... I shudder at the thought,

the image of everything I’m not.

 

 

The King & The Wretch

 

Far above all the kingdoms

in a golden world,

far above any blanket of cloud,

on a mountain peak of white snow,

the mansion of my King

looks out over his creation.

From high atop the building,

on a balcony so grand,

my master breathes deep,

and takes in the view.

For hours he watches his people

as they go about their business.

 

In the evening, a faint cry arises,

and His Majesty is troubled.

He descends, following the voice

from his castle, down into the city.

He roams the streets,

led by this familiar voice,

led by this pitiful cry, for hours.

His clothes wrinkle and tear,

assaulted by dogs and barbed wire,

his back and forehead in time bearing

the marks of rusted boards and thorn bushes.

He scours intently through the vilest suburb,

through the subways and alleys,

the train tracks and junk yards,

the cry all the while nearing,

approaching, yet weakening.

 

Then the crate, and inside—the man of the cry.

This loathsome politician, this tax-collecting,

foul-mouthed, ill-mannered wretch,

fetal and helpless inside a crate.

We would laugh... but no.

 

Nails dig into the flesh of the King’s hands,

drip like tears from the prying tools of forgiveness;

the wretch for the first time appreciates air.

 

And the King dies of infection just days later.

 

 

Until I Drown

 

Pass the cruel chill,

make me shiver slightly,

hollow words bound ever so tightly.

A far off dark lies inside my soul;

this time I stole a complimentary flavor of death,

it’s freezing breath pulls me to the ground,

surrounding me with unfamiliar sounds,

words that cannot communicate—they only

radiate through the thin air that enfolds,

echo through, leave me hollowed out, empty,

wanting to scream, but having no voice,

wanting to move, but given no choice.

As on nights as long forgotten as a child’s

terrors, some relentless force sinks down,

stares tauntingly at my misfortune.

My frozen eyes take in the fear ahead,

drift across an endless marble floor

to one large door, where stands no wall,

but a giant dance hall with only mental

boundaries holding me to the cold plane.

I lie still, with muscles that neither

respond nor relax, but rather

tense up with each newfound apparition.

My situation remains consistently unstable,

unable to act, incapable of thought,

only existing futilely as the sphere of

overwhelming evil expands,

stretches farther its hands.

The bleak void consumes my being,

drains my life’s blood;

emotions flood until I drown.

 

 

Present Past

 

This time, this time tomorrow,

will be just another yesterday.

This moment, another moment from now,

will be yet another sad memory.

 

 

Gypsy Wind

 

And the gypsy wind,

with camel hair and hiking boots,

draws us to wander

a while in the desert.

And my ticket to the big time,

the make of my mind,

was that same flicker

that pushed me over the brink.

 

I’ll never settle here.

 

 

Clandestiny

 

Shut the doors tight,

keep them out;

none of their business anyhow.

No one needs to know

how you’re affected by the night.

 

Seal the windows,

hold them off;

you’ve a right to your privacy.

No one has to see

what’s hidden in the closed case.

 

Lower blinds,

block views;

all that is up to you.

What’s done in secrecy

is not meant for public affairs.

 

You can’t avoid your solemn failures;

they creep up and bind you to mortality

forever, forever.

 

Draw the curtains,

shut yourself in;

don’t bring others into your sin.

How could they ever know

your uncertain morals?

 

Double-check the deadbolt,

make sure it’s safe;

you suffer unbearable weights.

You see no trouble,

save the impending sting.

 

Kill the lights,

tuck away in some corner;

drink deep of carnal well.

Weakness bleeds like

an anemic prick’s bit lip.

 

You can’t avoid your solemn failures;

they creep up and bind you to mortality

forever, forever.

 

 

Spiders Of The Twilight Sky

 

With blinds tied up,

past bars glides horsefly;

to be so free,

so unafraid,

to dodge the spiders of the twilight sky.

Shadow covered prevalence,

stripped of any confidence,

at the mercy of the winds,

and the moon,

and the sun;

the spiders crawl,

or hang in wait at face’s height,

spinners and multiples of legs

dangling, ready to speed

across nervous limbs and mats of hair,

into the private crags of the human body,

soon quadriplegic in fields.

 

 

My Captive Smile

 

Seeing you now in a different light,

hair so black and face so white,

my spark of eyes would soon ignite

the burst of flames to burn tonight.

The grin creeps in, and stretches miles

across the face to catch your wiles;

wonder, met with grace and style,

urges my captive smile.

 

 

Even If

 

Even if we’d less in common

—which we don’t,

even if you’d lower standards

—which you won’t,

even if your beauty failed

—which it couldn’t,

even were my heart impaled

—which it shouldn’t,

even were you talentless

—which you’re not,

even marred by imperfection

—deception wrought,

 

you still would outshine the brightest star

just for being who you are.

 

 

The Perfect Girl

 

If I were looking for the perfect girl,

a treasure chest of gem and pearl,

I know what a prize she would certainly be;

she’d have to trust God unconditionally,

she’d have to be pure as an angel above,

her heart would be full of compassion and love,

she’d be sweet, adorable, kind, sincere,

enthusiastic, honest, special, and dear;

the core of her being would be easy to trace

by the innocent look on her beautiful face;

there’d be no limit to what she could do;

she’d have to someone exactly like you.

 

 

Sometimes

 

This tongue wants to lash

until you can no longer stand,

mark your skin with the anger I carry.

This hand begs to strike, with force and intent,

the weak and fragile design of God’s whisper.

This journal chronicles thoughts foul enough

to lock me away, throw me into a hole

with no food or water, until I collapse.

Sometimes I wonder where such hate began,

or if it will subside before I give in

to such leanings.

 

 

Your Features

 

So many times

I’ve noticed from across the way

someone leaving an apartment

with your features:

your marble eyes,

your blonde streaks tucked behind your ear,

your plump lips of subtle pink,

even the curve of your neck,

or the thin bridge of your delicate nose;

I wanted to run up from behind,

cut them loose from their housing,

keep them in boxes in my closet,

safe until I might put them back

where they belong.

 

 

There’s Always Me

 

When you’d like to go out at night,

when everyone you know is just a parasite,

and when you stare across the water all alone,

wishing there was someone there

who’d want you for their own,

go down your list of who are possibilities,

and keep in mind that at the end

there’s always me.

 

 

Tree Line

 

In the evenings,

when I watch the darkening sky,

and shape the clouds that silently drift by,

my eyes sometimes find the moonlit tree line,

and I imagine your house on the other side.

I nearly decide to pick up the phone;

sometimes I’d rather hear a voice

than be alone.

 

 

Despair

 

I slouch down in my chair,

silently lost in despair.

I sink down to the floor,

wonder what I’m here for.

 

I’m just a poet, a lonely

soul screaming for attention.

I’m just a singer, crying

out to release the tension.

I’m just a writer, creating

worlds where I can hide.

I’m just an artist, keeping

my feelings inside.

 

 

Hope

 

Take away the hope,

leave me weakened and exposed,

take away the friendship

and the healing it imposed,

take away your kindness,

you leave me hurt and bare,

take away the pride

and there’s nothing there.

 

 

Verse From The Fourth Confraternity:

The Late Sociopathic Era

 

 

Sardines

 

Trapped in a tin can, screaming for air,

biting the fins of the hated nineteen,

tightly woven together by

a string of circumstances,

encompassed by the raw

stench of breath—I hate it here!

Won’t you tear off the lid

and drop us back in the fish bowl

where we belong?

 

 

An Evening At The Underwood

 

Upper level, 312-K-6,

man in button-up plaid,

silent, rowdy, brooding mix,

uninterested young lad,

hallway, just a crowd outside,

names melted to a single mass,

colored dots on rugged canvas,

earth, pearl, and brass,

epitome of redneck screams obscenity,

ephemeral noise unremembered,

child in oversized shirt feels sick,

stomps to Queen cause tremors,

“Would you like to fish in the last?”

a simple question misunderstood,

a little this and a little that...

an evening at the Underwood.

 

 

Some People Need To Be Sad

 

Look around at jesters’ faces,

grinning ear to ear,

listen to their cracking voices,

and tell me what you hear;

 

so many servants, and too many kings,

and not enough worms under earthly regimes,

and autobiographies new every day,

and grandpas and babies just slipping away,

and pride and delusion, confusion, dismay,

and pools of emotion in waves through the drain,

and smiles and frowns,

and shrieking and screams,

and blessings and promises,

heartbreak and dreams;

 

I look at the ground through streams,

while you’re incurably glad...

some people need to be happy,

some people need to be sad.

 

 

The Have-Nots’ Delusion

 

One day I’ll have a big house too,

a stone mansion grander than any you’ve seen;

a heavy iron gate with my initials engraved

will greet you, or slam on your prissy face.

I’ll have a long blacktop drive

rimmed with evergreens.

I’ll have a parlor, a dining room,

eight or so guest rooms,

a ballroom, a game room, a bar,

and a room with no purpose at all,

            to sit empty year round.

I’ll have a library with real books,

classics by Emerson, Cummings, Frost, and Poe.

And I’ll keep a gallery in the west wing,

to be opened only during the spring;

and a garden in the courtyard, with flowers

            too elegant to touch.

And the wait staff will rarely see me,

as I shall frequent the shops of China

in search of rare antiques, and statues,

and fixtures for the grand fountain.

And on my death, the entire estate

will go to some small boy in town

whose parents cannot afford him

a small bowl of ice cream.

 

 

Weep

 

Amy, plainly you can see

we just weren’t meant to be

talking underneath a tree,

or walking by the lonely sea.

 

Clearly hear me say goodbye,

utter muttered lullabies;

we live under different skies,

hopeless dreams of you and I.

 

Miss me, kiss me in your sleep,

go on back to counting sheep;

the hill we face is much too steep,

I sit at the foot and weep.

 

 

Expire

 

You should be locked up, or even worse.

I’d love to chain you down,

and never quench your thirst.

You should be shot to hell in a firing line,

filled full of a thousand holes,

and they should crack your spine.

You should be beaten raw, ripped into shreds;

they ought to hold you under water

until you’re dead.

You should be weighed down,

choked by a millstone, stoned by an angry mob;

you should be overthrown.

You should be burned at the stake,

consumed with fire; your remains

should be fed to a pack of wolves.

You should expire.

 

 

Judgment Falls

 

Heathen, pagan, zealot, freak,

dealer, healer, hooker, sneak,

black heart, no heart, deeper shade,

liar, actor, masquerade,

dirt, filth, corrupt leader,

pervert, lowlife, bottom-feeder,

shiftless, spineless, lazy, cheat,

defect, reject, bum, deadbeat,

misfit, dipstick, sucker, prick,

big head, pig-head, blockhead, slick,

witch, wizard, fiend, cut-throat,

outlaw, downfall, black sheep, goat,

empty, spiteful, cold, unfeeling,

downright uptight, unappealing,

lover, loser, blasphemer,

heretic, pornographer, all...

 

I throw my sharp accusations at your neck,

slit and gash the recipient of Jesus’ love,

condemn myself to become everything I hate.

 

 

Everyone But Me

 

They* say there’s an exception to every rule;

without exception, life is cruel.

You say not to worry about tomorrow;

but look at you, you never felt the sorrow.

Everywhere I look, it’s all I see...

there’s someone for everyone but me.

 

* Don’t ask me who “they” are.  I don’t know.

 

 

The Withering Grass

 

I am in the library watching people

pretend to study. From where I sit,

I can see out the window—it is

a warm Florida day.  Silhouettes pass through

the illuminated pane before me like two-

dimensional cardboard cutouts being carted off to a

storage shed by a lonely, unappreciated janitor.

Outside in the courtyard, the grass silently and slowly withers

into yet a dimmer shade of brown.

Given the chance, I am certain I could

revive the grass, for I know that all it needs

is to be the blanket underneath a picnic basket;

I know how the grass longs to feel

my bare feet upon its back.

And I would happily oblige the trees,

lie down in their otherwise wasted shade,

but alas, I am trapped here and rendered helpless

by the unseen hands that dictate my every step;

and alas, I can do nothing.

 

 

Girl,  Parts I & II

 

I

Not more than ten feet away sits a girl

with perfect eyes, a girl who shows up here

at this same time every day, and that happens

to be the very same time I show up;

she sits at one table and reads,

I sit at another and write poetry.

As I search the room looking for inspiration,

our glances meet and we both look quickly away.

I look at her more often than she does at me,

because I have nothing else to do,

and because I’m always hoping

I’ll fall into some heated romance.

But she has a boyfriend already—

I heard her say it yesterday

to a guy in cheap, black leather;

they’ve been dating for almost three years.

Not more than two minutes ago

the girl looked at me and smiled.

I know, though, that she was really

laughing at the smiling boy who just passed,

because I was laughing at him too.

She smiled again as another boy

snuck around rows of books to peer out

mockingly at the old woman trying to find him.

The girl’s concentration was happily broken.

She began emptying the contents of her purse;

the makeup made it to her unlacking face

and a handful of old candy wrappers

got thrown out. Then suddenly

she stood and left the room, leaving me

alone once more to finish my sentence.

 

II

Not more than a week passed since I wrote that.

I still show up here at this same time,

sit at this same table, and write in this same book.

And the girl also still shows

shortly after I settle myself, and takes her place

among the familiar objects of my observations,

and occupies herself with her work.

I still watch as she hides a sandwich and fruit

under the table, because no food is allowed

in the library.

She hasn’t looked up for quite some time,

as though our eyes never met.

We are like two strangers who

pass each other every morning on the subway,

too lost in anticipation of a day’s activities

to notice.

 

 

Would You Someday?

 

If I wanted to hold you,

to only be near,

if I wanted to hear you,

your voice in my ear,

if I wanted to see you,

would you want me to stay?

If I asked you to meet with me,

would you, someday?

If I wanted to whisper it,

what would you do?

If I wanted to know you,

would you want it too?

If I wanted to touch you,

what would you say?

If I asked you to be with me,

would you, someday?

 

 

Yes Dear You

 

You marvelous girl,

you beautiful thing,

you sweet and adorable

fit for a king,

you princess of fancy,

you vision of light,

you angel of heaven,

you wonderful sight,

you innocent treasure,

you young, tender heart,

you priceless masterpiece,

you work of art;

who on this earth can make

dreams yet come true?

Only the best of them;

yes dear, you.

 

 

Dreams & Wishes

 

In dreams and in arms,

I succumb to your charms;

in love and in hope,

I enjoy the full scope.

 

If wishes came true,

I would surely have you;

if wishes were free,

you would surely want me.

 

 

I Hate You,  Part II

 

I stare at you mockingly, with critical eyes,

reiterating my disdain; you’re all I despise.

With hatred and loathing, and violent intent,

I plan the destruction of the worm I resent.

Hee hee! Freak, phony sideshow illusion,

suffering from the grandeur of delusions.

 

Disgusting pig, self-important bigwig,

I’ll dig your grave and kick you in,

demented fool, grim faced with drool,

how cruel of God to make you so,

tub of lard, marred, and face scarred,

you should be barred from the human race,

repulsive bore, all I abhor,

how I deplore what you represent,

distasteful slob, hideous blob,

weep and sob at the hand of fate,

revolting slug, slosh through your beer mug,

you drugged up thug on your last leg,

perve, swine, your horrendous whine,

your crooked spine would so easily break.

 

How can you stand it, the wreck you’ve become?

No class outcast, get back to your slum,

uncivilized misfit, you tragic mistake,

you case for abortion, you miserable flake.

Heh heh! You’re so pathetic.

I wish you’d never been born at all,

you sad excuse for humanity;

you make my skin crawl.

 

Distorted blimp, cowering wimp,

may they skimp when it comes to grace,

repellent slime, sickening grime,

it’s high time I beat you down,

unwanted tramp, blood-sucking vamp,

I could stamp you out like a dwindling flame,

twisted cur, you racial slur,

you immature and nauseating wench,

bloated cow, mud-covered sow,

I don’t know how you can think you’re loved,

self-centered goat, I’ll cut your throat,

smear your coat with animal blood,

infectious rash, you heap of trash,

I’d like to slash your stuck out chest!

 

 

I’m Learning

 

Case in point, very well taken;

your abuses left me hollow and shaken.

I’m learning your lessons too well

to see any point anymore.

 

I’m learning how to bury my feelings.

I’m learning how to harden my heart.

You’re teaching me that no one ever stays

long enough to love.

You’re teaching me how not to care.

I’m seeing in you your willingness to leave me.

I’m seeing how I have nothing to offer.

I’m learning that I’m no one,

and I’m giving up.

 

 

Bury Me

 

When my miserable years

on this earth finally end,

when I’m through with the

anguish and torment they send,

when these trials at last

drive me into the grave,

when my eyelids are glued

and I’m finally saved;

I have no final words

for you, nothing to leave,

I have no glimpse of insight,

no thoughts I perceived.

I have only one wish,

that to represent hurt,

I want you there to

personally kick in the dirt;

when the hypocrites gather

to pay disrespect,

I want you to remind them

of who they reject.

 

 

Creature

 

Through slits in my eyes

I see the mud beneath my feet.

I kick the plastic mask across a one-way street.

I clutch with unfeeling hands

the only truth I know;

my fluids ooze out wounded flesh

and slowly soak into the earth below.

 

 

Leaves Of A Dream

 

10:30.

About the time you like to walk.

The moon tonight is bright,

it’s romantic light dances off

the plastic leaves of a dream.

The dark serene hugs me with its lonely arms,

encompasses me with charm;

everything is so calm.

I breathe deep the delicate cool of a slight wind,

and wish that you were here with me,

wish that you were nearer me.

 

 

When Sweetness In My Vision Stands

 

Warming light from a Sunday sky,

enchanted glimmer of a spirit nigh,

daydream whispers, secret words,

thoughts unspoken, words unheard;

 

when sweetness in my vision stands,

outstretches welcome, opened hands,

I shy and close my eyes in bliss;

what rapt appraisal, sweetness this!

 

 

Look At Yourself

 

Grating on my nerves—

shut up... just shut up!

You keep bashing, slashing

unworthy acquaintances,

you knock everyone higher than you;

you’re so transparent and insecure,

unsure of who you are,

that you put down others.

But what gives you the right?

What can ignorance allow you to see?

 

Just look at yourself, you wretch.

Just look at yourself and cry.

 

 

Unhealthy

 

If I met you on a street corner,

if I followed you down a dark alley,

if I saw you in the road,

            caught you alone,

I’d write your fame in the obituaries.

 

I see myself strangling you.

I see you hanging from the fire escape.

I see me with a blunt object,

and you with a terrified look.

 

I imagine your funeral day.

I imagine dancing on your grave.

I imagine indulging my hate,

            and being put away.

 

 

May I Dream?

 

Unattainable star, just beyond my reach,

may I pretend for one moment you’re mine?

Picture our hearts and our lives intertwined?

May I imagine how sweet it would be, if as

much as I cared for you, you cared for me?

Please, may I dream that I still have a chance?

Fall to the spell of your wonderful trance?

Unattainable star, say yes.

 

 

Sleep ‘Til Sunday

 

Home again—

sad as I knew;

how I always feel

when not with you.

Thinking back on

what has passed;

I knew it was

too good to last.

Shut my eyes—

all week, it seems;

you know you’re al-

ways in my dreams.

Time with you

is too abrupt;

I’ll sleep ‘til Sunday

wakes me up.

 

 

Mannerisms

 

The way you lean against your

reinforced pedestal so you won’t topple over,

the way you dress like a salad bar,

barely squeezing into an altered tablecloth,

the way your undefined chins dribble over

into indistinguishable shapes,

the way you pause for breath during

every asthmatic whine,

the way you ramble on in your

babbling, monotonous yawn,

the way your butterfly rimmed,

bottle-thick glasses vanish into your

beehive perm...

 

I hate the thought of you.

I hate the mention of your name.

 

 

Closer

 

Today the world cracked open

and I fell in.

Today something new began.

Today we were this much closer

to wherever we were going.

Today someone laughed.

Today someone beat the walls.

Today I lashed out at the uncompromising

drain relentlessly berating us with its

funnel for happiness.

And this is only Tuesday.

 

 

Little Things

 

Watch me; I’ll be lonely.

I won’t talk unless spoken to.

I’ll stay away from the “in” groups.

I’ll walk in circles, pretending to go somewhere.

I’ll stand at the window and stare.

I’ll close my eyes so you think I’m asleep.

I’ll stay just out of reach.

I’ll look like I’ve a lot to do.

I’ll avoid ever speaking to you.

I’ll write to someone I used to know.

I’ll hide myself where no one goes.

I’ll be lonely; watch me.

I know all the tricks.

 

 

Sad

 

(No, I’m too sad even to write.)

 

 

Exhausted,  Part I

 

creativity

purpose

meaning

aspiration

desire

will

 

...it’s all gone.

 

all gone

 

 

Life Outside

 

See cars.

See cars go by under cloud white sky.

See shining cars bright in sunlight.

See wind on trees—on browning leaves,

but not feel.

 

See but not walk on fresh grass or hot pavement.

Not run or sing or jump.

Not touch.

Not taste.

Not hear.

 

 

Just Because I Can

 

I want to go to a store,

Home Depot or K-Mart,

somewhere I don’t really like,

or have any reason to go,

just to be there,

just because I can.

 

 

Depression Sets

 

Ryan isn’t getting up anymore.

Ryan is staying in bed.

Life is too hard,

            too complex.

Ryan can’t stand anymore;

the sun hurts his eyes,

the air makes him choke.

Ryan is tired.

Ryan is sad.

He can’t remember happiness.

He can’t remember

            how he’s supposed to act.

 

 

Verse From The Fifth Confraternity:

The Intimate Period

 

 

Blindsight

 

Eyes fail.

I could not see wheat fields.

The sun was too bright,

there were only rings.

I could no longer count blessings unseen.

I had to hear for the first time.

Stop.

Focus.

Reconsider my perception.

Do without.

Overcompensate.

Be thankful.

Adjust.

Adapt.

Find new ways of taking in beauty.

Find another outlet of expression.

See what I haven’t yet seen.

Learn that

eyes never fail.

 

 

Desirée

 

Lunch was a talk with Desirée, or a stare,

walking was with intention, anywhere,

sitting was a curb, a parking lot, a hall,

standing was together on a wall.

 

Lunch is a letter to no one, or sleep,

walking is keeping out of reach,

sitting is the library, now the hall,

standing is alone, with no one at all.

 

 

Philippians 4:8 (Reprise)

 

You.

Most beautiful girl I know,

framed in kiss marks on my wall,

            last I see at night,

            first I see with light;

memorized every shape—

every pose, every smile.

 

Sacred.

A page mark in God’s holy word,

all things worthy of praise,

            all things lovely and pure,

            all things of good report;

you who I cherish and adore.

 

 

Perfection

 

Love...

my absolute gem,

                        you’re the reason I wake,

                        you’re the source of my strength;

            the more I learn,

            the more I want to know;

you adorable prize,

you are perfection in my eyes.

 

 

When

 

When I walk at night,

and imagine you at my side,

when I kiss your picture for the hundredth time,

whenever I need someone to hold,

when I think of you, more precious than gold,

I long for the day, and I don’t want to wait,

I wonder if living alone is my fate.

 

When will I rightfully look in your face?

When will you willingly take my embrace?

When may I finally announce to the earth

that you are my love, and in you is my worth.

 

 

All I Want

 

Suntime shine—

morning... noon tide,

care to wake to the

smell of pancakes,

            French toast or

            cheese omelets.

Coffee on the

            bright flowers rim the

brick patio.

Time portal wavers under canoe rows,

hammock hangs slow, and heat...

            nowhere,

            nothing,

all is everything.

 

 

Reminiscent Fudge

 

Life around five

is pure chocolate,

ice cream cake,

cookies,

brownies,

fudge,

hot cocoa with

marshmallow sludge;

boiling water on

the hot stove,

while outside silently

fills with snow.

 

 

I’m Not Bored

 

I don’t want to do anything.

I want to do nothing.

I want to sit here,

            stare,

and not have anyone come up and say,

            “You look bored...”

                        when I’m not bored.

 

 

How I So Much Love

 

How I so much love to hear your voice,

how rapt when you said “yes”,

how I so adore angelic face,

how eagerly impressed,

how I treasure so such company,

how outshone any star,

how so I love to know you’re mine,

how grateful that you are.

 

 

Who Am I?

 

Who am I to deserve

scraps of your time?

How is my concern connected

to the reality of your actuality?

Who am I that any sacrifice

should carry over on my behalf?

How can I compete with this feast

of perverse images at your lips?

 

 

Spit & Drizzle

 

There enters now into the picture

a measure of sadness this heart

could never have imagined.

 

When I wrote this, there were tears outside;

when I thought of us, there was rain in my eyes.

No one could say how deeply the wounds run;

everything I feel is on the inside.

I’d dig with callused fingers into the cavity

where my heart supposedly resides

to show you it still beats,

walk over scalding coals and broken

glass to show that I still feel pain.

How I long in this desperation

to give you the world on a stick,

sizzling over spit to sweating perfection.

But the sacrifice of fattened sow,

looking so much like my own face,

skewered on your rougher points,

becomes upon recognition more

unbearable than you will ever know,

as you tuck your cloth napkin

neatly into your shirt collar

and prepare to clamp your jaws,

dripping me down your

freshly kissed chin.

 

 

Ask Anyone

 

You never believed a word I said,

never saw the colors I bled;

but ask anyone who even remotely knew,

and they’ll say I always considered you.

 

Ask the girl whose opinion I sought

to make sure my poetry could melt your heart.

Ask the girl who came across the picture

in my Bible I’d marked Philippians with.

Ask all the nights’ companions I turned down

why they sulked away empty handed.

Ask the guys who thought I was gay because

I wouldn’t “check out the tits on that one!”

Ask the family and close friends who saw me

kiss your picture at the day’s end.

Ask yourself, or ask me; you were the only

light these blind eyes adjusted to.

 

 

One Tear

 

One line down my cheek,

one drop holding all the unlived dreams,

one burning stream of sadness

and its over.

 

With one tear smeared on my face,

our past and all my ties to you are erased.

With one phone call and one prepared speech,

you push me forever out of your reach.

 

 

Comatose

 

Telephone unplugged,

blinds down,

silhouettes melt

in the dark heat of sound,

face burning

with a glazed expression,

sulking slowly back

into familiar depression,

 

kick me—I won’t turn over,

stick me—I won’t respond,

 

cover my head,

my eyes won’t blink,

pronounce me dead,

in dirt I sink.

 

 

M’lud

 

Trumpets,

purple, scarlet, red,

canopy,  silk sheets,

king-sized bed,

throne room, arsenal,

guards outside,

high horse,

praises,

ego, pride,

“If I may speak...”

No, you may not;

ha ha ha,

peon little big shot!

 

 

Asymmetrical

 

Oh no! Oh no...

I looked in the mirror; what a joke!

God’s grand sense of humor stacked me here,

a stagger of blocks and haggard sphere;

must’ve run out of polished parts,

threw together gears and an artificial heart.

 

Hi, I’m a loon, a big ol’ buffoon,

fragmented pieces of a hot air balloon.

I’m a waste of a person, a scapegoat, a lie;

I’m no one to talk to, I’m marshmallow pie.

 

My eyes, my nose, my self-image froze;

the mold, old and broken, is not what I chose.

 

My features all so theatrical;

look at me, I’m asymmetrical!

 

 

Rotten To The Core

 

Tunnel—

I tunnel down

into the warm dirt

and search for you.

I feel the hard wood casket

and laugh because you think

you can keep me out.

 

I’ll wait...

forever if that’s what it takes;

I’ll wait until the wood turns

to a moist meeting ground.

I’ll dig myself a comfortable little hole,

and wait here until the end of time.

 

 

Gamer

 

If only I knew what to say, I would say it;

if only the game were familiar, I’d play it.

 

 

Shall I Not?

 

Shall I not continue,

in wonder and fascination,

to praise such immortal beauty?

Shall no longer your divine image

be the focus of my adoring eyes?

Shall I never again promise

eternal sincerity and devotion?

Shall every honest intent

be evermore denied?

 

 

On Edge

 

Judging from the thoughts in my head,

spinning around in a whirl-

wind of mixed emotion,

I know how easily I could be lured away

by some fairy tale of a split second tangent.

 

 

Would I?

 

Never quite sure,

            if you came down the stairs,

            sat with me,

            laid down beside me,

            touched me,

what I would do;

knowing you so well,

knowing what you’re capable of

only makes it worse,

 

knowing you want me like I want you,

knowing you’re close enough to feel,

knowing I could get away with anything

only makes it worse.

 

If I could stare into your face right now,

if I could hold you,

would I have the strength to pull away,

or would I disregard my principles,

and hope God covered his eyes?

 

 

Exhausted,  Part II

 

What poetic renderings come when

inspiration slips through floorboards?

What remains of the artist when

romance becomes an exact science?

Today I sat in the lodge of a motel room

and introduced myself to someone,

but was too involved in the process of steps

to remember, or for that matter hear,

what her or her friends’ names were.

Earlier, I’d twice hugged Christina

after the three of us made a cemetery

from week old snow, and Angel

stood there wearing too much makeup,

looking slightly jealous.

I wanted to say something,

grab her as I would have a year ago,

but this winter we are both older,

and not the only two on earth.

And learning a thing like that

takes a lot out of a person.

 

 

Angel’s Eyes

 

In the marble convex of your eyes,

I can see only my reflection;

I wonder if indeed there is any of you left,

the windows to your soul so often shattered,

so that now I see only the empty frame.

You read back words I can’t remember writing,

and cry over things I would never do.

You have so many worlds, and in so many

of them—tossed around, your aching heart,

stretched out, stomped on, torn apart, you are.           

Wednesday, my Angel falls

from her immortal place among the stars,

as the granite islands spinning from orbit

lose their place, smash into each other

in mass confusion, at dizzying pace.

You cannot save the smaller ones, dear,

but must latch on for life to the sure surface

of God, who alone can restore the picture

lost amid the inner clutter of rooms

behind slammed doors.

 

 

I’m Sorry, You Have A Pretty Smile

 

I would never introduce myself,

would I remain unknown,

I would never speak,

would I remain unheard;

 

not to bother you,

not to be misunderstood...

I’m sorry, you have a pretty smile.

 

I would never stare,

were it to make you uncomfortable,

I would never patronize or humor you,

would it cause you to despise me;

 

not to bother you,

not to frighten you away...

I’m sorry, you have a pretty smile.

 

 

Fragrance

 

You smell so sweet, you

smell a rose, a dozen more;

such sweet perfume, a-

roma I would suffer for.

You smile so wide, you

smile enchanting as a laugh;

so picture perfect, grace-

ful image photographed.

You walk so shy, you

walk adorable, abashed,

so beautiful; how quite

adorably you clash.

You speak so sweet, you

whisper colors undefined;

you gently breathe the

simple wonders of your mind.

 

 

How To Meet The Model Equestrian

 

How could I picture a world such as yours?

How could I imagine what light it endures?

How could I know, from the look on your face,

what a wondrous dream,

such a marvelous place?

 

Were I a stallion, perhaps

you would give me your time,

a thoroughbred, staring

would not be a crime;

I’d run when you kicked me,

I’d halt on command,

I’d whine for the sugar

cubes melting in hand.

 

Or were I a camera, you’d smile unafraid;

you’d look at me, maybe, were I in the trade.

I’d love to be daily, familiar, routine;

I’d change my vocation to race in your scene.

 

 

Murmur

 

Darkened world of expectation,

shall I once more fly? Shall skeletal wings

unfold from beneath my ribs, that I may

once again summon her fearful majesty?

Will the monitor of my dead eyes

again array me with such splendor,

that I may resume our bargaining,

sweeten the crowd with offerings of silver?

Will I soon return to such unlawful defiance

on threads of faded brown and gray?

Will the unholy banquet of spirits be

once more delightfully honored by

cunning and deceptive words of flattery?

Shall the chants and murmurs ever be recounted?

 

 

Affection

 

The pen I write with is two years old,

from a church I no longer go to,

the Sunday I met Christi for the first time.

 

I’m often asked about the pictures on my wall.

“Just some people I used to know,”

I answer, without looking.

 

 

Virgin

 

Soft young maiden sweet,

beautiful young virgin, petite,

frail, fair, delicate miss,

gentle, graceful, wondrous gift,

perfection embodied,

immortality reached;

conceptions are shattered,

and standards are breached.

 

 

If You’re Going To

 

I forgive color. I forgive race.

I can’t forgive the look on your face.

 

If you’re going to kill, kill the killer.

If you’re going to be violent, be fair.

If you’re going to rape, rape the rapist;

focus your psychotic stare.

 

I’d violate the criminals,

I’d murder only who deserves;

for wicked men, obscene,

I’d bring back the guillotine,

with the motto,

“To Protect And To Serve.”

 

 

Adorable

 

Snuggled in a soft blue knit,

bewildered look in a fire lit,

drawn together, rather swept aside

—in humble innocence abide;

revelation of the infinitely sweet,

sacred patch of earth under feet,

is dreamed of in nightly serene,

the adorable queen of unseen peace.

 

 

Ornament

 

My love, how misplaced you are,

how almost lost you seem,

out of your element, worn by the rain,

tainted by pollution and erosion stained.

 

She pulls back orange strands

over the green that suits her.

Pallid skin, tight,

smoothes over its perfect frame,

augmented with silver ornaments.

Ah, but she is beheld more complex!

The sophistication of fantasy colors

with thrice brightened tints;

white flows her decorative gown,

adorned in gold with

amulets and medallions.

 

 

I Imagine

 

You sit almost close,

almost close enough to touch.

You speak nearly sweet,

nearly sweet enough to believe.

 

The words you said,

I could have sworn they were sincere;

the glimmer in your captivating eyes,

I was sure held my reflection.

And I had so often thought it,

so entertained the idea,

that I was nearly convinced.

 

It would be so nice to touch you,

and not have you shudder,

so wonderful to cover you

            in warm comfort;

I would weave adoration into

the spider web knit,

and worship you for all time.

 

 

Prose Embodiment

 

I could never entertain the thought

without it driving me insane,

I could never render service

with understated clichés,

I could never near communicate

by babbling so absurd,

and nowhere near do justice

with my most descriptive word,

and never be the less consumed

by prose you so imply,

I never could explain someone

so perfect in my eyes.

 

 

Exquisite

 

Were it in my power to sway your emotions,

I would surely be holding you.

Were I sincere to my purest intentions,

I would be utterly consumed.

No sooner would said wishes be granted

than my devotion pledged.

No less would turmoil

be on my heart alleged.

This pain, this treacherous anonymity,

to search your eyes and be unmoved.

To sense bewildered admiration,

and be not confused.

Truly, I would suffer

a thousand fates more hideous,

swallow blades more polished and sharp,

than to have lived unaware of such beauty,

being never so deeply touched.

 

 

Vaguely

 

You ask if I remember you?

I recall someone...

            a bit younger,

            a bit softer,

            maybe more innocent,

            more open...

And you?

You seem vaguely familiar,

but it’s so hard to remember;

everything was so simple,

            so clear.

Now even the memories have gotten

too complicated to be worthwhile.

 

The saddest part is how I still sit so far away,

                                    back in my corner,

                                    still alone;

                                    admiring you,

                                    how you’ve grown.

 

You ask if I remember you.

Only because that ancient photograph

is so worn by my fingertips,

only because of how often

I repeated your name to myself.

 

You ask if I remember you?

No... I’m not sure I do.

 

 

Dear

 

“Dear...”

is as much as I got out

before the phone rang.

 

 

Verse From The Sixth Confraternity:

The Dissolution

 

 

On Searching For Her (That First Moment)

 

Sweetly she relaxes,

leans into my warmth

and breathes.

Slowly my head drops,

lips on her forehead,

we sleep.

 

Upon sight of her I closed my eyes,

            too unreal to be wonderful,

            too wonderful to be real;

in jeans and flannel she stood,

the epitome of every boy’s dreams.

I smiled in recognition,

and fear of what my gestures might betray.

What years may make of this moment,

who can say?

 

 

On First Employment

 

...and the discovery of cold.

 

“Have a good day.”

I don’t even realize my command.

“Have a good day,” and kick another

toward the polite exit sign.

You walk in with an outfit from 1973,

and I take an instant disliking to you

because I’m taken mid-sentence

from any imagination

to wait.

 

 

Sister Spirit

 

I haven’t cried enough until

your father’s been drowned,

until I cover you in peaceful serene;

I haven’t cried enough until you learn to swim,

until my tears dilute your streams.

 

 

The Opening Of Gates

 

How permanent and cutting a loss,

this sickening realization that my weeping

pales to light your unforgivable

separation from this life.

Would my suffering call you back,

I might welcome this floodgate.

But as it is, no restoration, no peace,

and certainly no understanding

ever breach this finality.

 

 

Inanimate

 

Cluttered fields on home movie reels

reveal feelings long buried

pertaining to people long gone

—run off and married.

Rain taps against the unopened pane of window

beneath curtains where images of now dead

six year olds' faces blur, uncertain.

A carriage out on the street percussions by,

its politely undisturbing non-urgency

emerges only slightly against the backdrop

of architecture no longer mulled over,

even as its edges form the very streets

we remember years later

when we remember such things.

 

To stop and watch a while away,

you’d see yourself up close,

slip into a reflex mirror, broken

bits of glass and masquerade.

 

 

Insensitive King

 

I lost that plastic ring you gave,

that silly ring,

that stupid thing.

I’ve been elected the Insensitive King.

 

 

The Night I Drove You Home

 

Who spoke first, I’m not exactly sure.

Who answered, I know even less.

But the conflict? Saul at his

conversion could have seen that.

Such weight fails anymore to even be ironic,

how I read into your thoughts my own words,

how your ivory is my sweetest

emotion on salt moistened skin.

I watch you walk away, us both

wishing you would turn back.

Sorrow is this ridiculous confidence

that ties us together. Yet, elsewhere

has been entrusted to me a king’s inheritance,

where my commitment lies in tact;

with all virtue and Christian ethic

I acknowledge my vows. And with the

same steadfast responsibility I discern more

and deeper need in you than you realize.

I know you expect the face to that

familiar voice to behave in a certain way.

Balance, however, is a learned trait.

I would be a fool to haphazardly

disregard caution at your expense.

Are you able to understand, I wonder,

what veil I am for a fundamental,

foundational dissatisfaction?

You believe our lips together should restore

your virgin passions. You maintain

that a tight enough hold may never break.

But what a fabulous distraction!

Appealing, undeniably, but

nonetheless a symptom this early on.

I am not exactly paternal, am I?

No intensity of affection is a sufficient

substitute for your history of lack.

You hear in me what is inborn for

the spiritual woman to connect with.

I hold in you all that is dear, but it is not enough

to unearth a world of pent up feelings

too wonderful to ever see the

polluted air of daytime mar it.

 

 

Child

 

Frail, discarded garment of a child,

I see the two of who you feel,

ready to be a woman,

a grown, ageless recipient and lover,

ready to quiver under hand,

to react to fingers and open kiss.

I think of your breasts,

of your arms, and palms,

and belly, and of your knees;

under a protective and jealous watch,

you near for a hug, and I nearly

take advantage of the woman

you feel yourself ready to be.

 

 

Inept

 

Society’s immunity had

rendered him inept,

humor finds occasion now

to comic why he wept; the

picturesque and unimpressed

invest and patronize

fraternities and nouveau

riche, in turn and in reply.

Unannounced and mispro-

nounced, unwelcome sign of rot,

lowlife form of world-worn,

disgusting, vile have-not,

dissociation, condemnation,

explanation warrant,

servant quarter, porter clad

ingrate, distasteful, foreign,

plotting, bought, obtrusive

lot of number adding property,

deficit of etiquette, disposal

prospect, properly,

imposition, disposition,

recognition starved,

corner hidden, insult ridden,

chipped, and scarred, and carved,

freakish flaw of nature law,

misplaced, cracked case of leather,

smothered grub, bi-layered mud,

uncovered corpse in weather,

degradation violated ration of disaster,

spackled, smacked, black

imitation, rack of flaking plaster,

long forgotten spot of mutton,

sputtering subhuman,

oozing goo of brutal, glucose-

caked victim of ruin;

society’s disclaimer maimed

this miserable wretch, this soul,

he looked around and shot his

brains out, hoping to console.

 

 

Statues

 

Statuesque stone marble chiseled,

overgrowth of moss and vine,

half a sentimental scribble,

half an hour and seven lines;

Venus in her oyster casing,

naked in the mouth of paint,

pressed against the lips of longing,

warm across a fallen saint;

mild and soft, metallic silver,

flower bed in pavement cracks,

draperies from granite pillars,

pulp of youth encased in wax;

she, the sculpted mass perfection,

she, the brazen idol sheen,

goddess heroine erection,

monumental legacy.

 

 

Tribute To Eli Whitney (Alive On A Respirator Next To Edison)

 

My, how my very real sorrow

comes to life by the cold, pale

comparison of looming laser lights.

And my, how your polished,

post-production gives a shine

to industrial distractions—

mass mediassembly lines.

My, how Microsoft and Claris-

Works may soon replace

that religious, ancient

ceremony pitting face to face.

And my, how the grass is always

greener through a screen,

where nothing may be felt,

but nearly any of it seen.

Oh my, dear me, Miami is

a click and blip away, and

transactions once with currency

now scan for instant pay.

And my God, how very

possible to all but disappear

amid the processors and memory

chips, and pages insincere.

My, that useless information

taking room from campfire songs

is the shape of our mistakes,

and every purity we wronged.

And my final submission is

these tubes and wires cut

into my skin, to keep me living

in this engineered rut.

My, my muscles quit responding,

yet these now electric eyes

follow cords from arms to sockets,

to machines of every kind.

 

 

Cornered

 

Huddled, my security blanket,

rat-tailed sharp enough to slice.

Corner treed raccoon, wolverine;

concede to cage, gnaw, escape,

bleed a trail from garbage cans to forest,

soothed by eternally cool February springs.

 

 

Silently Brooding

 

Silently brooding, this character you created,

silently brewing, this alter ego redefining you;

 

blood steams from espresso machines,

thick with crème,

fat burnt over the wand's finger,

clatter and scraping of dishes on the floor,

into plastic tubs,

tipping uneven with lemon water;

the waitress picks up

another gentleman’s scribbled number,

folds the bill into her pouch,

glances back to the corner,

sparks momentarily

through ambiance and copper coils of hair,

then turns a thin frame in tight jeans

with a slight spin on the heel.

 

 

The Death Of Self

 

Tucked between a parasite

and dogs who’ve long since lost their bite,

there wither winter wonderlands,

that melt and slip away like sand.

Through verbal bouts of desperate lows,

that swallow several thousand snows,

and gargoyle shrieks, and conscience bows

to vivid streaks in livid howls,

and searing rays divest and steep

in nearing days impressed to weep,

and mourn the loss of losses gained,

and given to effects of strain,

emitting heights of depth itself,

and caving in the death of self.

 

I am destitute and lovely.

I am absolutely nothing.

 

 

Saunter & Sauce

 

I’m waiting for you to

saunter back into full view.

The suns implore you, they

urge you, diverge a course or two.

I’m hating fortune for tuning

out the verses I learned to love.

I’m craving more, soon, I’m

saving for the last my turtledove.

I’m growing blind inside,

divining who I love from who I hate;

not every tantalizing fixture

can survive so long a wait.

 

 

Candy Kane Factory

 

Think of me, you adorable absent.

 

Evening makes a fine cover for

what lies behind lies.

Tonight, yes, I would admit how terribly

hateful I am of your nonchalance.

I anger you in hope of some

impending breakthrough.

Still, honestly, you refine me like wheat

in the millstones of understatement.

How unimpressed you remain,

you very cruel ever-present.

And indeed, how material.

 

 

Gravity

 

Gravity has so much more

pull today than usual;              

 

I’m experiencing something

of an unnerving weight.          

And this lack of restraint

I acquaint myself with            

turns out to be something

I rather enjoy.                         

 

I could be so dark....                                       

 

 

Rue

 

Run, sweet thing, while you can,

‘cause if I look at you again

I’ll probably take a hammer to your head.

Run, adorable thing, before I catch you,

‘cause if I sense a slight attraction

I’ll probably eat you,

then beat you and mistreat you.

I know I’m a prick, sometimes

I loathe myself for it,

but at the moment

I don’t particularly care.

So come over to my place for a quick rue;

I’ll stuff you in an airtight bag in the attic

with earth.

 

 

Obedient Expedience

 

I’ve been suffering lately from the

effects of the absence of your breath.

These thoughts you usher in greatly

impress a stench as cold as death.

Through an awkward several

moments of devoted admiration,

consecration edges onward and on,

blue skyward ever opens

to remote configurations,

hesitation hedges unfurled beyonds,

until unprecedented pestilence

descends on what is happenstance;

recant, and stand a deviant...

obedient expedience.

 

 

Absolute Zero

 

I am the unenviable recipient in the heart

of the sharp point of your icicle breath;

the friction of my fiction causes you to melt,

and every drop simmers in my depth.

Now I am pent up in confinement

to bottle the excess, resigned to self-designed

kinds of armament, lacking that caress.

I am everything less than nothing,

and from that knowledge have I been running.

And to dust, soon, I will return;

I know this, yet with still so much to learn.

 

 

Senility

 

I wonder at what age you begin to forget

all of those very important truths

your adolescence knew

(the ones you swore you would never forget).

I wonder when knowing a thing

stops equaling relevance.

I wonder at what point in a life a person

has to stop caring in order to love.

And I wonder when you lose your sense of

style to irony and humor, and how I could

have passed that age without noticing.

And I wonder if there is an age

I have yet to reach when thoughts like these

will no longer occupy my time.

 

 

George, From Carrie, X-mas 1902

 

Houses with no attic, no eves,

should be torn down, and the wreckage

used for bonfires on family farms.

 

Dust covers the second page, left after the first

and the cover torn out over the years,

a yellowish reserved for only handwritten notes

by fingers now down to the bone in coffins,

who knows where; names now only

a passing wave in the spring cleaning days of

some sentimental great-granddaughter.

 

Stopping at the roadside on a rural dirt road,

parking under a great maple tree

(you don’t see many of in the city),

an old woman sits in a wicker chair

with lemonade and finger sandwiches,

sits at the end of a row of old books by poets

whose names we only vaguely recognize,

written in a language more of antiquity

than transcendence,

yet still on this soon dead woman’s table,

still with inscriptions by fingers

now down to the bone in coffins.

 

 

They Were Only Words

 

Those things I said,

they were impassioned

moments, or dull ones;

they represented you and me

and everything in between

(which is truly everything).

But they were mere pictures

of places I’d only heard about;

I didn’t mean half of them.

But the silence, you know,

would have said so much

more than I wanted to say.

 

 

Displacement

 

I finally found out

who all those poems were about;

 

it’s me.

 

 

Watching Myself Die

 

Watching myself die, I’ve decided,

is not the sort of thing I won’t try;

designing my own slow decline, my

demise, is really an unfair stereotype.

“Look,” you say, “at the way you’ve fallen

prey to a blatant array of outright lies.”

“Hey,” I half play with your shame and dis-

may, “a pack a day and a latté and I’m fine.”

 

On the far wall of our stellar cellar apartment,

through what is by now a thick mix of incense and cigarette smoke,

I choke a bit, and notice the bone thin silhouette I project onto the

pipes and spaces between the strings of Christmas lights,

and I ignite another candlewick, and yet one

final cancer stick, and sit in the midst of the sickness I read with,

and picture myself in with who I drink and break bread with,

and I think of you, and of what you would think if you thought of it;

I imagine you’d be disillusioned by a lot of it.

I suspect that after a second to reflect,

you’d regret that I settled for less than expected;

and I would reassure you, saying,

“It really isn’t as bad as all that.”

(Then pat myself on the back

for your heart attack.)

 

 

A Healthy Fear

 

What if I’m the antichrist?

God, what then?

 

 

Three Complete Strangers

 

You, to me, are an incomplete stranger.

I, to you, honestly, am stranger

in any degree than your sure friends.

I stop along the sidewalk

to talk to a harsh demeanor,

softer and cleaner on the inside

than the leather casing suggests,

and less than a few yards away,

you harden and scar, frightfully disengage,

and turn about to face the other way,

and step quickly and with full intention,

and scurry away in a flurry of introspection.

And with extraordinary effort,

the leper I converse with

forces with grace a faint trace of a vague smile,

which in time becomes more familiar

and welcome to me than a thousand

of your footsteps.

 

 

I Know Not Why I Weep

 

I know not why I weep as though

comedy were ceremoniously presented,

as though I had lost, perhaps, relative and friend.

I grasp not the solemnity with which I labor,

with which my eyes fall open to what is familiar,

            to what I would years ago have cast off,

to what now, perhaps, is glazed with

dust and age that were possibilities.

I am worn on the edges you once fell against,

soft where used to be armor.

I lack the rigidity once immediately perceived.

I am finally sensitive to

the temperature of your palm,

the slight hesitance in your voice,

            the apprehension.

I know that time is a very serious,

very heavy thing.

I know this.

Still, I know

not why I weep.

 

 

Blue

 

I have said already all there is to say,

and had I not, well, it’s been claimed at any rate,

but I sit in the blue hue of a room with no view,

and I want to betray that I miss you,

            and I miss you,

            and I miss you,

and still, and once again,

            I miss you.

And that in itself is reason enough to pen,

so I stain the page with my blood of blue ink.

 

 

So

 

Have I become so old, so fast?

Don’t just stand there laughing;

 

answer me.

 

 

Plea-Bargaining With God

 

I’m having difficulty breathing,

unsuccessful sleeping;

and more difficult than all else

is trying not to think of you.

I am downcast, I cast down my eyes,

I try to bargain with God, but he’s a harsh one.

“If she calls, I’ll have my answer very clear.”

 

The phone rings, and I was right

thinking I would be wrong.

 

 

Elsewhere

 

Entirely elsewhere,

where I am;

not here, not now,

not with you, and unhappy.

 

Erase me, dear sir,

from your memory,

along with everything I ever could have done.

I go blind staring into a blue light.

 

 

Job

 

Brother Job, fellow abomination,

I know what it is. I know what it is

to scrape at flaking, bloated skin.

You cringe, knowing that no amount of poetry,

no practiced words, no disclaimer

is sufficient to soothe the unpleasant ooze

of loathing and self-disgust.

I recite,

 

“I have something terribly urgent to say;

I wish you all to remain ten feet away.”

 

so you won’t see what mirrors mock,

and you won’t have the opportunity

to overlook my flaws.

I am a poignant work, a line you wish to adopt;

you hug the idea, befriend a page which

responds only thankfully to being turned.

But I—I am morbid.

I shrink away from your kindness

and your extended hand.

I am impossible to a degree

you can’t even begin to comprehend.

I am alienated, not because there are those

who would shun me, but because there are those

who would certainly not; it is them that I fear.

Is it not easier to be immediately dismissed,

to be rejected, and to reply,

“Then all else be damned!”?

Is it not easier—less rewarding perhaps,

but easier nonetheless—to refuse charity

than it is to be daily torn open for those

who would love me in spite of

the horrible beast that I am?

 

I am morbid.

And tonight I will not let you love me.

Morning, then, come quickly;

I am not who you think.

 

Shiver

 

I shiver the way I did on those

all-night fishing trips when I was six,

with Granddad’s friend—

Mr. Wright, I think his name was.

Oh, he’s long gone now; most of them are.

I pretend I’m in a canoe,

or a pontoon boat, very cold.

And it isn’t the fish so much

as it is the smell of the ocean,

and being out in the mist and open air

while most children are asleep,

dreaming they are out in the mist and open air.

I shiver through my mother’s sweatshirt,

tighten its hood over my face,

look out into a backdrop of watercolor scenery,

and pastel rocks, and an oil tree line,

and I rock, or the boat rocks,

gently up and serenely down,

and stars, and an overcast, and a fade of a sky,

and our light reflecting on the nearest tree,

forget everything but this peace in this moment

            —this moment.

This peace in this moment

I remember as there is no ocean before me,

many years later, in a parking lot,

sitting on my brother’s car.

 

 

Our Babel

 

I’ve forgotten how the grass feels,

what little is left, walking barefoot

on moist or wet.

I’ve forgotten how moody the sky can be,

how it sometimes decides to fall over

the buildings we made.

Our buildings—

countless Towers of Babel,

in the form of corporations,

elaborate, clean churches, or museums,

and everyone wanting their own,

and some licking their lips over several,

and a few with courtyards to claim

ownership of some nature,

to try and get back the feeling of the grass

we dug up and paved over.

 

 

As A Child

 

I wanted to be an actor.

Oh well, eh?

 

 

Good Friday

 

The phones are silent.

Relaxed people in solemn thought

pad their footsteps, knowing that tomorrow

there is no work—a worship service, perhaps,

early and unimportant—no rush, no usual,

no mandatory fifteen. We have all eaten,

we have already had our coffee,

and sit still and un-alive, leaning back into a wall,

afraid to make any sudden movement,

afraid to be seen,

because I know of the herd instinct,

and of how our society is manic depressive,

and unpredictably pulsing,

and I know of how the wrong word or

single harsh sound can ruin a poem’s mood

the way an abstract shriek can

ruin a summer afternoon.

I capture the moment through plastic foliage,

and wait to be disrupted by someone

who has no appreciation for the occasional lull.

 

 

Observance

 

Every good Catholic remembers you

for exactly three hours,

while the sky is black

and the veil is torn,

and we agree that,

“This was certainly a man of God.”

 

Then we go back to being Christians.

 

 

The Man On The Tractor

 

The man on the tractor

took off his hat

and stopped his mowing

when the procession drove by.

 

 

Poet-Re:

 

Poetry says no more than,

“I agree,”

as we nod and shake our heads.

 

(And place words where they don’t belong.)

 

 

Match

 

Matching outfits may as well say,

“I’m with stupid.”

And it’s sickly romantic.

 

 

Skippy

 

Grandmother, dear saint, I miss you,

and the too strong perfume,

and the vents in your living room,

and those days consisting of only iced tea

and books to read, a beehive in a tree

and a back trail to a grocery,

and rocks and litter and driftwood

and seaweed and a low tide,

and theories about our moon and gravity.

Grandmother, dear, godly woman,

I struggle to obtain the same grace

by which you lived. I slow my step

and rest my voice (breathe audibly),

I smile with the corners of my eyes

at too many humorous truths to share,

save for an expression, heard only years later.

And Granddad, kindly old man,

how many letters did you write in a lifetime?

And how many were lost,

and how many more saved?

 

 

Speak With Aged

 

Speak with aged;

not rigid, nor stern demeanor find,

but youth—yes youth,

acquired of many lifetimes.

And in speech, pause;

pause and hearken unfamiliar age,

which in time does replenish,

does always remain.

Hear not with impatience,

but with respectful association,

for all indeed contribute

to one single conversation,

begun centuries, yes, even millenniums ago,

between one and another, and yet a third,

with both authority and device

to involve all who have passed,

and all who have yet to arrive.

And we who are now in the eleventh hour

do well to thoughtfully consider

our contribution.

Speak then with aged,

as they have with aged spoken;

ingest wisdom of years.

Be not endeared too soon to resolution,

but to the hope that

communication itself may endure,

regardless of topic or tangent or interest.

For truly, the content of those simple

initial words was certain, but is now unsure.

 

 

A Poem A Day Keeps The Money Away

 

Artist is a polite term for terminally useless.

Polite is an artist’s term for insincere.

Insincere, I fear, is a corporation's

mandate to be considerate,

because corporations hand out

manuals on “How To Be Polite”.

So an artist working for a corporation is

sincerely insincere. And poor.

 

So now I’ve become the guy who writes down every thought, and hopes that someday he’ll make a living simply by thinking, and never even concluding anything.  Now that I go back and read what it is I’ve been writing, I would have to say... you’re right, there really is no point.  But I wrote it and you didn’t, and I thought it and you didn’t, and maybe that’s why you read at all, because you know you’re wrong about things and you’re hoping I’m not.  Or maybe you know you’re right about things and you’re hoping I’ll agree.  Either way, you would have to say... I’m right, there really is no point.  But isn’t that the whole point?

 

 

Perfectly Timed Tears

 

Just as the door shuts,

a tremor flashes uncontrollably over

the features of an insensitive face,

timing itself just right, so as

not to make the wearer vulnerable.

 

This is what you wanted,

but you’ll not have

the satisfaction of seeing it.

 

 

Suddenly Ill

 

I caught just then a flash of your hair

—as I remember it, anyhow,

            very long, very full,

            and charcoal black with curls.

I’m afraid my heart still speeds

faster than you were ever able to appreciate.

I’m afraid the thought of you

carries as much poison in this hour

as when you unsheathed your fangs

and sunk into the pulp of my stomach.

Yours is a mark I cover with layers,

but the occasional lash of a certain wind can

sometimes whip through the threads of my coat;

and tonight I remember that

I am your eternal subject.

 

 

Healed

 

I can finally say I’m glad

it all happened this way;

I’d honestly rather go on missing you

than have you here.

It’s better that I hate you for leaving

than it is hating you for knowing

you should have left.

This uncertainty I finally welcome,

with the understanding that it allows for

a thousand possible endings.

 

 

Godman

 

Hello, I’ll be your judge this evening;

God is a busy man,

and can’t handle all your hearts by himself.

So I—I am his appointed helper,

and if I see something I don’t like...

well, you’ll be the first to know.

 

Hello, I’m God tonight.

Well, to you, anyhow,

because I’m the only one you’ve met

who still goes by his name;

what I say will be his words,

what I do will be his rule.

So for heaven’s sake, fit into

the mold of my opinions,

because I am judge to you,

and I am God to you.

And you know how hung

God is on image.

 

 

Two Blinks From Glitter Eyes

 

I’m afraid I’m not able to save you,

simply due to how intensely I want to.

I’m afraid I’m ashamed and quite sorry to say,

I am not your savior. I am not your hero.

I am not your everything, and you are not mine.

 

You sit, like the child you truly are,

in the safety, trust, and company

of a mid-afternoon shopping cart,

or you lean in as we corner one more

amazing sky, or you choose the most

random time to hug me; for all of two blinks

life is a Norman Rockwell painting.

 

This morning, for once, I was not displeased

to open into a greeting of sun and company.

Even the worry in your voice made me happy,

simply because it was in your voice. I can now

say with full certainty, the greatest thing I know

is to awaken to a face I love.

 

 

Java’s Palace, Sometime At Night,  Parts I & II

 

I

Another stream of words begins—

swims in from the coffee house;

every college poem begins at a coffee house.

And I, like every self-proclaimed poet,

latté in hand, am in a coffee house,

having lots of coffee

—coffee, coffee, coffee,

            and too many shots of espresso,

            and having it all flavored

with raspberry syrup,

and writing, because I hear that’s

what you’re expected to do.

(Unless you’re actually in college,

in which case you have to be

overly influenced by Keats.)

 

II

I am in a coffee house. Again.

[Refer back to Part I.]

 

 

Verse From The Seventh Confraternity:

The Broken Era

 

 

Summer Love

 

She:     (New England.)

He:      (Sun drenched.)

She:     (Vacation.)

He:      (Gut-wrenched.)

He:      (Pathetic.)

She:     (At peace.)

She:     (The beauty.)

He:      (The beast.)

 

 

Another Obscure Analogy For Two Evils

 

I am in hammock over pit.

I am in spider web.

You circle in;

my hand is getting wet.

I hang in rain forest

over piranha infested waters;

you are tarantula,

size of my head.

Wait ‘til I decide how to die.

Wait until I choose,

suffocate or be sawed through.

I hang, dangle between trees,

in web under acrid acid arachnid

above—vicious breed.

 

Don’t cut the last thread.

Don’t keep the fish fed.

Don’t turn the sand red.

I am not yet dead—

not just yet.

 

 

Six & Twenty

 

Now age is increasingly apparent.

A six year old asks where my Power Rangers are,

and I explain that my last collections were

the first run of Transformers,

and GI Joe before they all went on steroids.

I show him a figurine of Yoda, the Jedi Master,

and his face becomes a question mark.

“Let’s play a game,” he jumbles,

as I sit at my desk like a grandfather,

and lack the energy to oblige.

In two hours our time is up;

he trades me in for

a stick and a swing set.

 

 

The Death Of Me Is Weak Speak

 

I tangent. I fracture. I break. I elaborate,

and negate and maintain, uphold and refrain.

I flip, bow out, zone, confound, amuse myself.

I ponder and pound, compel, dispel,

dismiss, compound and expel, and am never

any closer to closing in, exposing truth.

I confuse, brood, tease and muse, and feud.

I mood, swing, soothe, sting, and feed,

and seethe, and breed, and mean things.

I blister. I splinter. I swelter and swell,

and I am sick and not well, and I sell,

and spell, am felled, and endorse hell.

I am black, lax, attacked, and easily distracted,

impacted, exacted, extracted, vaccinated,

shudder, stutter, mutter, clutter, flutter,

whirl bouts, utter under shutters, blunder

asunder, thunder, lunge for sun structure.

“Think less of me; the death of me is weakness,”

speaks a peaking freak, and leaks a neat

unpleasantry, a peasantry of ignominy.

Finally, his meat ceases beating incessantly;

from theater seats, greets completion of destiny.

“Yes, think less of me, witness the death of me,”

I cry. And the death somehow never ends.

 

 

The Regulars

 

Name them anything

—it makes no difference.

From over red felt and carpet

glances familiarity and no more.

Television dialogues make for inoffensive,

unobtrusive chat plans for the following show.

(Drugs change hands, unnoticed.)

Toward the single digit hours

more furniture arrives

to take its place beneath the people.

At the bar, a long haired Jackie

Chan type orders another double.

Then after surface, three-year-old,

longing recollections

(coinciding with a few Dunhills),

we resolve to acts never carried out.

I revert to my old, habitual self

and miss a horrid old friend.

“Dark Side...” hovers over light smoke

from the dirty centerpiece of table.

A dyke hangs off my young sister

and it is excused.

We run down a list of pop hits

and well advertised drinks.

The dyke says I look like

“the rat bastard a--hole” that

ripped her heart out,

and asks if I’m writing a poem.

“No, I’m not.” The book closes.

 

 

Talking At Once,  Parts I, II, & III

 

I

Silent, still poise now for over an hour and a half,

the cerebral recluse offers no contribution

but simple life; that living no more,

but no less significant than King Solomon,

whose prose we have since meant to recapture,

and since found ourselves all to be failures.

We cannot rewrite philosophy, have it original.

We cannot conceive of a theology, have it new.

So knowing this, that pointless embodiment,

admired and intriguing, holds his silent poise

along the rail, against a wall, and fully participates

in the suggestion of abstract concepts

that we all at heart and deeply are.

 

II

Crumpled into corner with paper, face

resembling a third of the photographs inside,

a man—any nameless, important man

—scans provocative, tragic headlines for

more of what happened the day before

(and, in fact, every day before that).

He sits listening unknowingly to the jazz

of simple, sometimes easy, often restless men.

 

III

On fifteen for coffee

or the taste of gas-station nicotine,

he pens sections on the

write-able segments of both arms,

telling of how unhappy his days have become,

yet basking in the notion of worthwhile material.

He would surrender it for consistency,

but as he cannot, the helplessness of the situation

brings a sort of pleasure—a twisted,

incomprehensible and inexplicable bout of grins,

sadistic and caring, as repulsive and horrible

as they are appealing.

His minutes have all but vanished;

he watches himself up from the table

and through the isles.

 

 

Inferno

 

The blend mixes poorly this morning

with the leftover taste of toothpaste,

or filters from the night before.

I lean against a full dessert case

and continue to waste away.

(Inevitably as I write, a line will form

from the street out my bay window.)

A speeding, shawl-caped

religious woman calls me “Quentin”,

whose work I personally loathe.

Traditional Celtic sounds are cut into

by impulsive, hypnotic driven pop.

 

THUNDERCLAP!

 

The day is changed to an intense classic.

The valkyries could conceivably

storm with murderous intent.

Dreary is the cover we cower from

under falsely lit rooftop canopies.

It could be late eve, if not yet the A.M.,

everyone out, helpless to control

God’s laughter, his subtle smirk that he is awake.

We contain ourselves in manmade cells

and consider weather a great inconvenience

to our disinterested focus of routine.

Exactly sixteen mile markers away,

a life is finding halt. The cessation leads

to processions, and impressions on youth

to throw the course she so readily

and mortally submits to.

 

THUNDERTAP. WATERFALL.

 

Steady streams drown music

and consume our human triumphs of

            “Redwood: Population 21,000”.

Barely laid superstores cave into a fade.

Nervous people duck into coffee cups

(a few huddling with the building).

 

Thunderpat. Relative silence

for a moment. It has passed.

We adjust our ties or belts

(or attitudes, as may apply).

Midday lunch break takes.

I get a bad latté and realize

it’s not the day for coffee.

A flight is scheduled to arrive

an hour before off-time. Shift

change; someone waits, reading.

 

Today I give notice. Next month at this time

I’ll be somewhere in the northern continent

where there are no banks or clanking cranks,

or similar noises. Next month I’ll write

and not go past my scheduled hour.

 

But the clouds dissipate and hush and sulk off

to laugh elsewhere.  They are not defeated,

but they retreat out of a sadistic kindness.

 

 

Ode To Cheapskates

 

Ode to the cheapskates,

periodontal diseased, heavyset,

impoverished, blabbermouths,

drawn in flocks by the bold faced print

in newspaper ads, saying,

            “HALF OFF ENTIRE SELECTION!"

Rickety old sketches, double-chinned

and matching change purses,

dangling from the loose skin,

elbows too short and stubby

to pick up anything not smothered

in gravy and stuffing, at the smorgasbord

where the cooks take their cigarette breaks

whenever you waddle up to their line.

Coupon-clipping, exact-change gathering prudes,

steeped too long in imitation perfume and suede,

haggling over prices as if it were a flea market

or auction, houses cluttered with

everything but family or friends;

I tip my hat to you, you with the knack

to make hands tremble with hatred,

to make even managers willing to lose their jobs

for the sheer pleasure of unleashing on you

the full realization that everywhere you go,

someone wants to tear out your throat.

 

 

Frightening Toys

 

At exactly four o’clock, a start,

a startling jolt and sudden rush of terror;

flashlight grab and shadows cast

over menacing fur and foreboding marble eyes.

Pour a drink and think far too thick

of sickly, burdensome, halfhearted toil.

Add one bug light and mist drifts over

fresh dew—more, it seems, like perspiration

than anything new.

Shadow-boxing until black and bruised,

beside a bunk similar somehow to camp,

years ago, when after false testimonies,

ever another nightmare

would contort into distortions,

and I paced the wolf spider peppered wood,

clutching at the terrible pangs in my ear.

And here, years later, still another similar unease

affects by infection insomnia plagued me.

I feel vividly the unnatural crook of my spine,

and am made ferociously aware of my

beauty rest slipping by.

Come morning, I will have

forgotten the sensation,

but the misery? Ah, that remains!

And fear? Yes, yes, the same!

 

 

On The Psychology Of Nature

 

I discussed my problems with the leaves,

rustling as they do,

which alone seemed to understand.

 

 

Poetry Machine

 

I set down any words

to have written,

then to sleep.

 

To hear your own cells interact,

to watch your own heart swish blood,

to esteem the machinery of humankind

is to wish interaction to cease,

and the hum to be silenced.

 

 

Wake Up & Be Awful

 

A wicked, vicious, horribly cruel dream.

Very, very other world peace,

interrupted by phone ring.

Line whispers, “We cut back hours...

you don’t have to work at all today.”

And as I, school-boyish at snow day, bend to

turn off Mr. “Wake-Up-and-Be-Awful” Alarm,

 

my eyes open, and I have not moved,

and the phone has not wrung,

and the alarm will laugh and yell in

three minutes.

 

 

Another Moment Passes

 

So here we arrive on coil spring and linen,

having become too tired and too responsible

to pen reminiscence to old partners.

 

“I miss you, Angel.”

But with no effort.

 

 

Bulk In Block Letters

 

BULK IN BLOCK LETTERS

is somewhat indicative of how I no longer feel,

is somehow appropriate for the moment—

cold, formatted, lifeless and

            strictly essential,

            stripped down, bare,

            merely tolerable, and

            unintense.

Black and bold faced typeset

characters effectively communicate

uninspiring words to mechanical cubicles,

            encircled by blips, rings,

            electronic chimes,

            and the hour-old final cup of coffee

            lingering near the copy machine.

I would fax you these words in memo form

to prove how practical I’ve become,

but you haven’t logged on in days,

and last I heard the whole system crashed.

So I pass my mandatory hour lunch

sharpening No. 2 pencils to drown out

the damned inoffensive soft rock classics.

(I mean, come on, is Rod

Stewart really today’s music?)

People say this is the real world—

which, though terribly cliché, is a little bit true,

though I prefer the term “corporate”.

 

[“Corporate” being used interchangeably

in office poetry with “unromantic”.]

 

 

Now, Here

 

I passed up writing about you, you

who sit with headphones, unimpressed

with how age has betrayed me.

Ten years ago I could have blinked

and you’d have melted.

But this is ten years later,

and I only shave once a week,

and I no longer have the energy to write

poems for every pretty girl I see.

 

 

Sudden Winter

 

Suddenly winter

spread thick blankets across

William Penn's skyline,

extended its bed down the coast even to Florida,

the absolute surrender of the continent to cold.

Suddenly we envision a vast, expansive touch

by a pure white, woolen clad street,

and remember death and remember time,

and comment nervously about

relatives arriving late,

and give little notice to our own bad skin,

and how wintered we've become.

In the morning, in the newspaper,

by the fire with a box of tissues,

and at night, in the dark

by the crackle with a flask of wine,

we are reminded of nature

and what that means,

that it is unstoppable,

and that our locks can

freeze us in or freeze us out,

and we can die French-kissing

a keyhole, with bad skin.

So pour a cup and light one up,

what difference when sudden winter beds?

 

 

How Very, Very Far Away

(In Loving Memory of Jonathan Murphy)

 

I had a way of loving you,

a way of being cousin, and you

still our little Piglet,

a way that would have

murdered me had I seen you more.

I loved you with an enthusiasm

the other kids never quite got—

the first to greet and always

the last teddy bear hug goodbye.

The younger ones say that you are asleep,

or in Heaven, and they do not cry

because they are too young to know

how far away that is,

how very, very far away that is.

You now in a constellation of places,

the tragic shooting star of albums

and home movies we still cannot watch,

everything you touched still in your arms—

your clinging, open arms—remaining at rest,

inspiring a sacred reverence to stay undisturbed,

just how you left it, just where you left us.

How very, very far away that is.

 

Finally one of us broke down

and silenced a room with your laughter,

and every line in every verse became past tense,

as we offered you as best we could

to that final balloon ride that took you

beyond the needles and masks,

to where we now often feel

how very, very far away that is.

 

 

Edict

 

Pharaoh gave the edict,

fully intending to drive you

from my slave arms,

bulging with a mummified,

thus a drained pallor,

with hope to take with him to eternity

a quick life’s acquisitions.

But the morn’ immediately risen next

cut off the great one’s bloated noggin,

by utilization of the paramount

of a disjointed mob, the work

of surmounting years of unfair toil,

and by afternoon we met—you and I—

in the west corridor, where treasures

shone like a showering of God’s grace,

and we made love like rabbits

on the painted lid of Pharaoh’s casing,

while the blood poured out his heels.

 

 

Irritation

 

I’ve settled into the most dismal place on earth.

My socially inept roommate calls it “home”,

at which I lie in a stupor on two chairs

pressed together, tuning out every show

I didn’t want to watch, and simply gesture,

“Whatever,” as he takes my last beer

(which I will find tomorrow morning by

my empty pack of cigarettes, two inches

left warm in the bottle).

He picks up his guitar and turns Talking Heads

songs into bad Neil Young remakes,

then lumbers, hunched over, to the next room

to e-mail his typical girlfriend from another state.

The place is decorated with photographs

on matted poster board of girls in town

there’s no chance in hell he’ll ever meet,

and his bunched up socks and open

bags of Doritos going stale....

Someday he'll read this and get incensed.

Well then don't drink my beer.

 

 

Midday, 8th & Broadway, Late Autumn

 

Building sides stand spine straight,

looking down over their noses

at petitioned parking lot space—

envisioned, litter collecting concrete pillars,

where men with mock collars and high heeled,

top heavy women fill their pockets and

shopping bags with the advertised specials

neatly displayed upon entrance.

Coin shaded clouds weave around

jet engine exhaust trails,

but we are too busy to care

as we wrap ourselves up

in scarves and accessories, or call in sick

as we were out late the night before.

An attaché thrusts itself out revolving doors

and down a stairwell, carrying some

flat pressed businessman—a banker perhaps,

good with numbers—some poor, finely groomed

wretch who hasn’t seen the sky

since flying a kite that summer back in ‘78,

who’s never watched his fingers

turn blue from cold.

He looks at me and pities me; I look at him

and my eyes sink with compassion,

saddened that he has never seen

the jewelry lining clouds,

that he is bound to looking out

from the eyes of building sides,

down over his nose to where the security guard

puffs his cigarette and asks me to move on.

 

 

Downtown Franklin, Afternoon

 

There is off Main Street a very small coffee shop

where I used to work when owned by

an Italian couple.

I have been sitting here with my empty cup

for an hour, or ten years (who can say which?),

against the silhouette of ninety-one

freestanding chairs,

all of which I counted on a whim,

and the textured native art sinks into

the brick walls closing in

and a simple piano piece

waltzing off the side corner.

There have been no customers since my first cup

shot its taste into crème, now dry on the glass.

There is one unworn man back and forth

off screen who calls me by name

every half hour or so, out of kindness

or boredom or obligation

or genuine professionalism.

I have many fond recollections of this

absurd little tuck away,

nights of sweat or anger

or good natured sarcasm,

stuffed into the door frame in the alleyway

when I could no longer contain the thoughts

of Jonathan’s last word to me,

when a small procession of flagged cars

passed headlights on through the town,

and my black rimmed hat clutched over my heart.

This is where that singer and I made our way

back to in Autumn, picking out pumpkin for seeds,

where smoke swirled around after hours

and the best jazz musicians in town

bellowed out laughter after shows.

This is no longer that kind of place,

but this is where all of that happened.

I may be the only one who remembers,

because it seems it meant more to me at the time

because of how real everything felt.

My only certainty now is that

those things no longer happen.

Perhaps they never did, but up in the old

Victorian attic of my mind they are the only things

I can look back on with any fondness.

 

Now an old couple has come in

and sits down to a meal,

and I am irritated because

they don’t belong here.

So my afternoon is over.

It is time for me to leave.

 

Letters Never Sent

 

I set down my pen

midway into a sentence,

midway into a paragraph,

midway into a letter

in response to a college girl

who used to be in love with me,

and who I used to love more

than the heart in my chest.

My heart is weak now,

nothing more than emotionless muscle,

struggling against gravity and age

to not cease mid-beat,

and cause some far off college girl

to grieve over unfinished letters

she only then reads.

 

 

The Printed Word

 

Something about the printed word

allows squirrels to pad down leaves,

allows a fresh mist of rain to pad down

a small community, cover it with

infinite combinations of green and brown.

It allows the sky to hover in deep,

bluish grays along the steady horizon

of capillaries of tiny tree branches,

as a cool calm settles over without wind.

The buildings themselves are empty,

only an extension of God’s good, dark earth.

Drops fall to my pant leg and a rushing

line of birds tweep and chirp at steady intervals,

while a chorus of leaves helicopter downward.

It is mid-afternoon on a day when the sun is only

a suggestion over an open theater of

life and nature. The city itself is only

three miles west by a single road,

and far off I hear the cars with no voices,

waiting with snarling engines at stop lights

to speed over to their next stop.

I’ll breathe one of my infrequent smiles,

sit quietly on my second story perch with

a cup of soup in hand, and listen

to the approaching thunderstorm.

I look down momentarily at

the silence of the printed word, then

close the journal to resume breathing.

 

 

Imagining Her

 

You know you’ve grown old

when you no longer uncover

at one in the morning,

down two oversized cups of coffee,

and write until your eyes

seal themselves with tears.

A moment ago I looked out

the window with no panes,

over the yard and across the street

to where I yesterday found out

a young girl lives,

and I imagined her there in that

framed absence of light,

stripped down to a paper-thin

undershirt with no bra,

and only a small patch of silk

covering the slight hair

just south of her belly.

I thought of the subtle

outcrops of her breasts,

untouched, sighing with longing

not a hundred yards away.

I pressed down against my bed

as I imagined her human fingers,

and how her head must

throw back at the touch of

pink lips opening across her neck.

Then I breathed too heavy

and the candle gave up its light,

and I was left alone in the cold darkness,

imagining her imagining me.

 

 

In Black & White

 

The P.O.W.s marched from around noon

in a procession down Broadway,

amid green metallic monsters,

and green canteens and heavy rifles,

carrying flags and grandchildren,

all the too-young-to-understand-the-impact

store workers pressed face and hands to the glass

at where are usually only cars and the sky

and the ground, and the air itself seen

as colorless as a silent film,

or a slow motion, silver screen epic.

I glance outward toward the Masonic looking,

coin faced men for about thirty seconds

before deciding I would rather not cry right now.

(Yesterday I cried during a carpet commercial.)

 

 

Dishes

 

There is a moment

when someone tells you they were raped,

and the silence captures the full

meaning of the act,

as you realize you have found the limits

of where human compassion can reach.

You cannot go in any further, then looking out

say, “Well at least he didn’t get in here.”

You cannot use your arm

as any kind of safety net.

Your lips can not reach beyond the

used carcass to touch where the pain

has lodged itself.

You can only nod silently,

and smoke your cigarette,

maybe tear a little if you’re that sort of person.

And then you say good-bye as she

picks up her bags and turns to the door.

Then maybe you wash the dishes.

 

 

Crullers

 

It turns out the customer is not always right.

In fact, the customer something goes wrong for

usually turns out to be the most vile breed of

subhuman, reprehensible and inept.

Usually something goes wrong because they’re

too incredibly stupid to ask for the right thing.

“Why couldn’t you have told me

this would go wrong before?”

“Because it’s a fun game for me to see your

bloated, bad skin and ugly face again

two weeks later, so you can complain

and slither off to a manager in outrage,

and I can laugh when you’re gone.”

It isn’t as though I’m here ten hours a day,

six days a week, doing these exact things

for different people. You must be right,

you on your way back from Krispy Kreme,

where you complained about

the glazing on the crullers...

after five years of this, I must not know

what I’m doing.

 

 

One More Thing

 

I used to be sad because

there was an impending happiness

just outside my reach,

because I saw something attainable,

and was simply too impatient to wait.

Now sadness itself

is all I hope to attain,

because I reached that point long ago

that should have been the end-all

to this unwavering hand over my eyes,

and I found out

            that one thing

            is only

one more thing.

I never quite ran out of things to say,

I simply lost the will to say them,

seeing no reason for any of it.

 

 

Give Me New Eyes

 

Uproot you then, with full consideration,

the tiny vessels branching over my optics,

spread across the backs every jolt, every sigh,

every tear duct and sign of vitality.

Plant in the undiscriminating dirt

the sallow complexion of my face’s

tight, drum-like covering,

and peel something like shackles down from

just above the grimacing suggestion of a skull.

Give me new eyes, and I will no longer

clamp them shut, screaming obscenities

at all who pass by, that the pain of

sensitive retinas is too much to stand,

and that I’ll dash the onlookers to

shambles of ruin if one more sunburst

beams out its searing finger from behind a cloud.

Give me eyes which understand closure and

darkness and subtlety and radiance, all at once.

And I will simply close them

and breathe easily.

 

 

Vinegar

 

The one thing I got

from that year we spent together,

all those nights I’ve forgotten,

is that now

I sometimes get the potato chips

with vinegar.

 

 

© 2001 by Ryan Christian Hedegard