Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Skyscraping (Dreams in Flight III)

It is cold up here, in the heights
increasing as I rise and move out
over the countryside, away from
the city.  Farmland quilting the
country, forests padding the ground,
flying, flying, flying ever west
toward Osiris and Anubis and Thoth
flying toward the sun, to catch it
and keep it in pocket before it dies...

I awake, but the feeling of flight
leaves me only when the light fades
to dusk again.  I try to summon this
dream again, but another one comes
instead; kisses, caressing flesh, eyes
and pale skin and warmth...

But to fly is denied tonight. Grounded,
they say.

I'll make due with pleasure of flesh

I'll make due with earthly dreams
but I'll awake wishing only to
see the buildings of man recede
until they are dust on dust on dirt
and bedrock and dreams, far bellow.

The works of men are a pedastel
for me to leap from, and to dream.


Monday, February 8, 2016

The Stalker

Her love was never there;
it was always a noose.

Her feelings weren't real;
clothing for dark motive.

Her self-hate never died;
she shared it with strangers.

Her laughter was not great;
it hid her base essence.

Her eyes could not see you;
they saw only her gain.

Her hand never touched yours;
it clutched selfish for love.

Her poison couldn't kill;
it paralyzed your soul.


Sunday, February 7, 2016

Luna, I Call To You

Stars exist beyond our reach
yet they touch us all the same
without strain or sweat.

Their conundrum remains such:
silent, visible but so remote.

Your heart knows of this secret,
my heart feels it out, too -
both ache and convulse with it.

Dogs bay at the moon all night;
it only feeds a chorused lament.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

You Are Not Mine And I'm Not Mad

You are too free to be owned,
you keep telling me,
pushing as though unsure
you actually own it.

You are not mine
and I won't ever find
another smile just alike,
no matter how far I drive tonight
in the cold and the tears and snow
or how many eyes stare
deep into my soul
because that facet you saw
was just for you.

You are not mine and I'm not mad
and you are too free to be owned.

You are not mine and I'm not mad
and no one is forever alone.


Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Isocrates Was Not An App

Instead, he resolutely disagrees
that lovely perfidious Alcibiades
was the student of well-worded
and wordless master, dear Socrates.

Knowledge of divine ta erotike
and lesser human motive play
roles in a grand schemer's dreams;
good Socrates didn't mold this clay.

On death's appointed evening
Agathon's Symposium in the past
charges mounted and words sting
corruption, the blight of human being.

For love of lovers, Platonic it seems
Alcibiades knew less than what he'd been;
to blame a good man loved and betrayed
old Socrates' fate: The Hemlock Dream.


Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Born To Seek Our Own Light


Clear skies smeared with stars
bearing none of the marks
of fate,
no strands tying tired souls
to road, or track, or gait...

Mother earth abides us all
by day and night
while we wait
for fine points of quiet light
to dim and fade so late

In the cold air of new dawn
burning low and drawn tight
we state our case
and make good our fight
against the stars we chased.


Thursday, January 28, 2016

Too Drunk to Fake

If I were your beer,
you knocked me over
and I spillt all over
your white blouse
and pleated skirt
and your stained seat
and the unswept floor
with all the stepped-on
dreams of drunks
now dead
or sobered.

The bartender, a lady
of round shoulders
and narrow convictions
has just cut you off
but she says smile,
you're welcome back
again tomorrow.

She'll buy you the first

You can spill me again,
and I'll be fine with that.


Sunday, January 24, 2016

Traffic Lights

Red-rust truck rumbled to the red stoplight
smoking engine stalled, keys cranked
firing up the motor again
with a gray puff and
lonesome thunder.

The exhaust stuttered
and sang to me
a theme:

Edge of evening glow -
we can't verily know 
who will still lie 
next to us when
red lights relent,
turning spring 
once again


Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Clint Eastwood

If Clint Eastwood were to
show up in this poem you
would know it by now,
and so would your nosing
neighbors and their barking
little punk dogs,
and a posse of lawmen
thirsty for blood and
horny for gold.

The world-wide monitor
hermits would hail this
breach like an ancient
ritual three-fold death.

Even this poem would get
on its horse and ride west
in self-counseling silence,
a poem that could have been
something - a poem that by
all accounts was feeling lucky.

It's smoking a hand-rolled
cigar, waiting for two more
poems to keep it company

before it winds its way to a
scorching valley in hell.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Haunting House

Nobody told me
this house was full of ghosts.

Nobody told me 
it burned ten times down
to ash and blackened posts.

Nobody told me
of the old bile and blood,
of walls with incense permeating
from ancient rituals long ago,
anxious notes, crying letters unsent,
buried under hard basement footings,
and the evidence hiding in the ducts,
how some things won't stop bleeding
through the floors or the ceilings
and wafting through the vents
lulling us to sleep
and acceptance
of our slow choking deaths.

Nobody told me
this house was full of ghosts

Nobody told me,
I had to live it to know.