Sunday, December 3, 2017

I want to be clear here: I know my presence, my posting here is intermittent, but it's come to an end.
If you know where my other blog is, catch me there. If not, fuck you.

~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~

Maybe all anyone ever wants is a fresh start; a new beginning, a clean slate, a blank canvas.
Maybe we all just wake up every day on the wrong side of dreams and fantasies.
Maybe the impending sense of peril is just the ticking of the giant clock of dust and bones unwinding.
So, we spend time in reverie as we wash the granular taste of time out of our mouths with a solution of ethanol or of coffee and bitterness and dreams.
Maybe that dark cynicism and mistrust is what always darkens the visions we had/have for ourselves.
Maybe I should just stop speaking for everyone else.


So,  I am going to take all these vague notions, every last one of these half-clear ideas, and I'm going to move on to something clearer, something simpler. I'm going to try to say what I mean. Start crashing into that clarion horizon with a new vision. Somewhere peaceful. Not fully fulfilled, but definitely peaceful.

So what I mean to say is...

I've spent a lot of time hiding behind words, trying to express some latent emotions and feelings of mine without every conveying anything concrete. I'm going to leave these posts here as a distant reminder of that, but I long for something else.

The last two years of my life have left a lot to be desired, and I don't count that as a bad thing.
I feel like a lot of things have been stolen from me from so many thieves.
And I don't want to have them replaced.
I don't want my wants to be fulfilled, not all of them.

I heard some one say once that satisfaction is truly the death of desire.
Desire is one of the qualities I like best about myself.
Desire makes for really delicious art.
May I never find satisfaction.

And to those of you that have never known loneliness, and distance, and isolation . . .
I wish you a broken heart, and I hope to find you somewhere on the mend.

I'm off to follow these roads, so many roads that never end, except at cliffs and water and the notion of some rocky valley deep below.

So long, my friends.
Hope to see some of you soon.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

sincerity.

[maybe there was some honesty there,
maybe there glimmered a hint of hope somewhere
in the shadows of the willow where
words are not,
but
where feelings are made.]

i dream to you your own love,
and i breathe in you for your lungs,
i want to lay on hands and heal you
but i bleed myself.

i trust in dust for promises,
tasting the salt of tears and
the oceans
passed between us lovers,
and i want to steer the ship for you,
but i'm lost myself.

i dare to dare for you, to leap
filling up with the faith of feathered wings,
aloft under the sun,
and i want to fly for you,
but i've fallen myself.

i want to want for you,
to sell myself to sincerity,
but you're married to that pain,
and i want to heal you,
but i bleed myself.

i bleed,
i bleed myself.




Sunday, September 10, 2017

30th parallel.

Let me not forget, as so many do - my inner revisionist, a bold little functionary with nothing to do;
But frantically applaud, elated and giddy from the
spinning,
spinning,
spinning,
nauseating paralysis,
in place.

It's not that i lack courage, or i need his approval, it's just that i keep deveining;
whittling my arms and my skills, not trying to imagine what's ahead - my ruined and crippled fate.
Inertia is my only province.
I look at my hands and my feet, the only direction I can look, when gazing at the horizon is a tragic parody.
The skin and the bones are all I see, and they seem the next to go.

The laureate, he stands in his own shadow, not mine, darkened by all the standing,
standing
standing
standing.
impassionate paralysis,
and I wait while he gathers his effects.

Out here, it's an extraordinary ruse, playing passenger to the laureate and his enduring legacy;
he plays his game of cats and mice and wolves, and I have the wool to keep me warm and sightless.

I wait as he waits,
The sun was supposed to come up.
It was supposed to rise,
looking toward the coast
down the 30th parallel,
shining
shining
shining
west.
But it didn't.

Saturday, August 19, 2017

sway.



I watch night after night as the labor crews move in,
Shuffling and shuttling in scaffolds and planks.
They toil by torchlight, the orange tongues of fire
Throwing orange rays against tree boughs
And the bricks of the poor man's tenements,
Giving way to ghastly tendrils of oily smoke.

They slide between one another, hand over elbow,
Head under arm, never speaking, only exchanging
glances and moving around in a solemn dance to some
Distant, silent calypso.
And they labor on, sinews pushing along their fervent ardor,
Until the first violet light of day breaks,
And they are gone.

When the fire of the sun breaks from behind the distant plane,
When the flatness of everything is overcome, bathed
In the fire of day, the men are nowhere to be found -
Chicken bones and tankards,
Tools left to dry in the sun,
No one
only the ghosts of men,
And the skeleton of a shack,
Perhaps.
Four posts, a floor, and a door,
But not where it ought to be.

The wooden skeleton, the frame
Stands proud in the day, stern and
Lonely, until twilight settles in again,
the columns casting long and sharp shadows.
And the men are in again,
their labors quiet in the cool night.

A gutter cat sneaks, thief-like into my view.
He snakes between my feet and rubs his black ribs,
His black cheeks against my legs, eyeing me
For a moment,
Before slinking away, the fire reflecting from
Green orbs before turning his head,
and he is gone;
locked into some preternatural courtship
with solitude and
the night.

Seven nights, and the men are gone,
But there is no roof, no walls,
Only a sturdy oaken beam where a roof
may lay its head.
The shrubs and the grass have been cut,
back, back, back away from the shack.

A day comes when the church bells strike,
Not the tolls of the hour,
Not a warning,
But a sullen, harrowing toll, and the
men and their wives, the town, they
shuffle in, shuttling in children,
setting linens in the crisp, cut grass.

They slide between one another,
hand over fist over head over ..
and a man in a velvet mask leads
another man in a sackcloth hood, trembling
to a short loop in a braided fiber rope,
coiling it around his neck like
a serpent.

And the fire in the skies before the sunset
Is the fire in the eyes of the crowd and the cat,
Reflected.
And the man is read his rites,
Never speaking a word, the clergy, the barrister,
the Sheriff all shuffle around him, the oaken
boards creaking beneath their soles.

And the man is hanged as the floor gives way,
giving way to a snap, the unremarkable report
of a branch or board, exhausted, breaking.
And his toes sway gently, three feet from firmament,
never knowing another love,
All of it dying with him, unrequited.

The air is cold and still for a moment,
before all the held breaths are exhaled,
floating out to the clouds.

And as the sun sinks behind the flatness
At the edge of the world,
the people gather themselves, gather the men,
the women, the children, shuffling out,
shuttling out,
and they are gone.




Friday, August 4, 2017

the fall.


i watched a butterfly fly away
today in the falling rain.
i watched it dodge and drift
between the drops,
the feathered edges of its wings
kissing the curves on globes
of drowning liquid.

time slowed, and the butterfly
pushed and beat its wings
against a wind pushed out
under a bruised, greying sky
clouds engorged with water
from the earth, and
veined with pulses of lightning.

i watched a butterfly die today
in the falling rain,
when it decided to alight,
and a single drop of drowning rain
struck
and for one glowing moment,
a brilliant blast of golden dust
as its wings were taken down
to skeleton.

it had landed, the butterfly
on the last leaf clinging to a tree

waiting for the fall



Sunday, July 30, 2017

slicker weather.

[We grab an audience at the water wall,
and the rock shimmers in the velvet morning,
but the water's off.
We found our moment, our chance to say we
found our place in everything, or:
We found exactly where we need to feed in
to get in line, and:
we found an opportunity to exit the drama
before we sell it.
A stone passed over a fist.
We are haunted by the resonance,
the ripples in the retaining pond]


slicker weather

do you want to dance
while we are waiting for things to get good again?
we should get moving.

so many days it was supposed to rain and didn't,
well maybe for a minute.

come on rain,
here i sit at the end of this night,
typing and dialing,
and dialing in;
trying to reach some one at the end
of a long distance line.
and there's
absolutely no one else around
to point a finger, to shake a stick.

last night, i woke close enough
to you to smell, even though
we were homes apart.
maybe in separate rooms,
we had hit separate bottoms.

how bout that dance?
i'll be outside if you want to talk about it
it's getting a little loud in here,
with the sun ready to burst
all these fractal prisms across our floor.

come on rain,
just when i thought i had this pattern sorted out
the sun comes up
come on rain,
and bits of the truth have worn off
and are brittle in the light.

come on rain.

how bout that dance?





Friday, July 7, 2017

iconoclasts.

> good.
i thought you'd never ask. <

[guided by starlight
true, you know your insides
better than i do
but i will follow you
beyond the nebulous stars and their dust
beyond the galaxies
until beyond the veil we are thrust]

I peer through the stained glass prism,
The leaded glass a metallic constellation,
A silvery-gray atlas, a road map to all the points
Of faith and worship I've never visited,
But have had visited upon me.
And I ask the face of any god to
tell me which side I'm on.

They speak all the names in tongues,
They suffer through a tetragramaton,
and any other four-letter words;
And they cast the spell of a prayer
as they turn their jewels,
as they cinch their holy string of laws
around soft hands with useless fingers,
pointed outward at every angle;
as they clutch their holy beads of grief,
not yet seeing that we are all but lost.

So I join the farce,
And I call out a prayer,
I pose an inquiry.
I cast lots -
Roll the bones and ask just please
Tell me which side I'm on.

And we arrive together, some god and I
At the mouth,
the
Mouth of madness;
At the brink of some unspeakable pain,
Or this endless joy they all describe,
They all subscribe to : the heavens.
Heaven, a better place, a place where we are
Approaching constant listlessness.

It's a place
between love and hate,
an emotionless home, a warm stone hearth,
a land eternal without strife
Or hate; a place where love is so universal
We are left to feel nothing - where we are
encouraged to shed these mortal husks and
we let loose
Of our vanity, We can become something
Of eternal love.

and think of all our eternities:

Death is eternal,
life is eternal.

We don't which to let go of first.
what to worship,
what god to call upon when we are stricken
With this unbearable anxiety of living,
coupled with a crippling fear of death,

so which goes
eternal life
eternal death

and which do we grieve?

We all know we are competent,
fluent in the many languages of grief;
so I invite all my loyal sycophants,
In all my houses of worship,
All of my faithful adherents, who, bless you
Think that there's still a way to save us,
to grieve with me the loss of our god,
the death of all our gods,
and to revel in this nothingness,
as blood.

My blood,

An offer to you;

To take this life of sin,
and keep it.

To taste the slightest sin,
and o, what a taste.

Because what good are we?
What kind of family?
If we don't bleed
If we don't grieve
If we don't choose to live
If we don't eat
if we don't
sink
swim
die
together?