Jun
30
Midas
I sit, saturday morning, staring into a bowl of cereal,
watching milk inevitably win the battle over crunch.
Idly my spoon helps one side, then the other;
neither likely to be eaten: every mouthful
turns to bitter ash once it passes my lips.
Gold or ash or any other substance, the
curse remains the same.
You have cursed me, you honey-tongued sorceress,
for my greed and daring. For the crime
of tasting your lips - sweet like ambrosia.
For the crime of touching your hand,
my grasp only finds empty air.
Sweet witch, I beg you, release me-
free me that I may transgress again.
Jun
24
Nocturne and Aubade
It is the time of delicate mystery.
The pale glow of distant streetlamps
suggests night-blooming flowers
not-so-distant I cannot smell the jasmine.
A candle burns before me, inconstant,
at the mercy of the breeze;
brighter, perhaps, than the horned moon,
though no match for its enigmatic beauty.
Unseen waves pound at my hearing
and I imagine myself carried away,
held by naiads and mermaids,
captive to an unseen siren.
Long before the sun brings stark illumination
I will return to this empty room and
wait for morning to reveal the spaces
unfilled since she left, and unfillable.
Jun
11
Jun
8
Imbalance
What a fine line it is
between depression
and sadness
like the tipping point
between falling on your ass
and kissing the sea-swept rocks.
Jun
7
Carry On
I have flown through ephemeral oceans
The farthest shore measured not in distance
But in height
I rode on updrafts
And thermals
Toward your radiance
I danced on a stage that could not be seen
I sang to an accompaniment of angels
Powerful strokes propelled me toward everlasting glory
And I fell
Like a Miltonian Lucifer
I was cast from the gates of paradise
Held fast by a serpent
Choices all reduced to sadness
Or anger
No matter how hot the fires
I shivered in the absence of your warmth
But I am not content to reign
I rise on the waxen wings of a phoenix
I leap from these basalt banalities
It is not long
You encompass
You swollen star
You subtle purveyor of treachery
I am again turned from you
Tumble to the sea-foam
One drop among many
The waters close over my head
These currents offer their own comfort
Isolation
Jun
7
Beside the Eulogy
We all bear black flowers.
A valuation of the self is always the hardest.
External actions all have dollar amounts.
There is no exchange rate for love.
Contrary to popular belief, you do take it with you
And we have all been made poorer.
We all bear black flowers.
The summer wind blows: hot, worsening the sweat
Inherent in black blazers and high-collared dresses,
Doing nothing to ease the chill in our hearts.
We all bear black flowers.
We rain them down upon you
Before the dirt
And they fall like heavy raindrops, like hail-
Each one sounding a peal of thunder.
Above, our tears rain
Adding to the skies’ rain
Adding to the rain of petals.
Grief mingles and floods
And will leave a stain on our shoes.
We all bear black flowers.
The final word of the prayer introduces silence.
Silence shrouding you in the bosom of the earth.
We, preparing for our own journey,
Ask for a benediction.
Jun
5
Inspired by the History of Communication
The Oceans Have Come Between Us
We have parted with the eonic finality of tectonic plates.
A slow, grinding departure leveling cities on all sides.
We two lumbering giants of history have stepped
in divergent directions and
Like boats without anchors, like continents,
we drift. Like stars in an ever-expanding
universe we spiral off into a cold death and
As if Marconi had never invented there is
no shore-to-shore communication and
As I stand on the farthest edge of an
ever-growing bridge, I never see a matching
tendril. Do we build on non-intersecting axes?
Do we drift too quickly for our efforts to meet?
Are my efforts insufficient and solitary?
As I exhaust my natural resources will
unthought-of ages find the remains of a bridge:
one end stark in incompletion, the other
vanishing beneath the foaming waves to some
ruined and forgotten land and nothing else?
Jun
3
To a woman
You are a fruit, freshly picked. A peach,
perhaps: your skin smooth, soft; your flesh
firm and curved. Though lost in the feel of
you, I am aware of the sweet juices yet to taste.
You are the tree I sit beneath. The leaves and
branches swirl like the wheat-gold canopy of your hair.
Behind me, the bark is contoured not as a tree I have
just met, but as a body slept beside for years.
You are the earth below me, constant
and supportive and extending beyond my vision.
You are the sun, and your light, reflecting and
dividing reveals and colors my world.
And if you are all those things, are you
also the oxygen I breathe? Are you
also, perhaps, my very body? The blood
pumping, the hands and mouth I touch you with?
It was only by your departure, love, I could
answer my questions. The fruit was still sweet,
the tree less comforting than I had though. The
earth and the sun and the oxygen all remained.
It may be that you were my heart. In
its place I found a small mass of pumping viscera.
Or it may be that you were a glamour and
now I exist without illusions.
Jun
2
i am not a poet
in the same way that i am not a swimmer
i have no stroke or kick
i do not cut and sever the water creating
my own path but
a child pushing through brambles flailing
and splashing with thorns stinging my side
and salt and chlorine stinging my eyes
and i hope my progress is more than just apparent
in the same way that i am not a sailor
i do not venture far from shore
secure in charts and sextets of location and direction
but as a galley slave, chained
acting and envisioning a repetitive and endless task
without goal or direction toward
only direction from the lash
or as i like to call it, inspiration
in the same way that i am not the ocean
simultaneously linking and dividing
path and barrier, substance and container
i am not rich, teaming with internal multitudes
but only one voice, whimpering
Jun
2
willful ignorance
it wouldn’t
do
to contemplate the
delicate irony
of wanting a thing
you already
have
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