The Straits

Like a trick of the darkness
the colorless void is given life
word by word, by crafting hands
a seductive breath into each line

You hope the right keys be stroked
in time to the rhythm and rumble
of everything around you
that you so dearly love;

The hottest blood flows
from the pen of one who knows
love within the dimly lit borders
of this motorized city at the straits
the colors bled are all and none
but recognize you as their own
by the warm true light
bleeding through the darkness

Yep, It's me. Had to update you with a pic. Check it, I'm a hippie hockey player wannabe poet guy.

It's a busy time of year and I have a lot on my plate. I'll talk more about it all as plans become more concrete. It involves moving across the country, and finding work since I miss eating quite a bit. Damn Maslow and his silly hierarchy.

Even this poem was pulled from the dusty archives. Sure, I refreshed it and all, but really it's old and I am pensive about showing my old stuff. I would rather create new, I'm sure you understand.

Hope to be getting back to you all soon.

Peace out.

Damnatio Memoriae

To me:
you are the night
drawing me to the light
my finest lovelorn epigraph

stitched from left to right

To you:
I am the tear
shed for the fear of fear
and now a love borne cenotaph

of lust; my broken spear

Hey hey, I'm alive.

I've been very sick--fever, shivers, coughing and all the other loveliness associated with illness. At first, I thought I had contracted Captain Trips, but I guess it was only the flu...

So basically, I have been living on top of a pile of pillows under 3 blankets in my living room floor, and between bouts of unconsciousness, I've been watching Harry Potter (all of the movies to date), Pulp Fiction, Troy, and Star Wars, thinking about various ways that epic stories can be told (Pulp Fiction is sorta epic, c'mon... Samuel L. Jackson is incomparable in the role of Jules Winnfield).

As for the poem (fiction, so no worries, m'kay?), I was reading up a bit about various forms, a convention that I normally eschew. This one is my attempt at crafting a poem in a form called Cinquian, though it deviates on the final lines from the structure. Cinquian is supposed to be 5 lines, starting with 2 syllables, then 4, then 6, then 8 then ending in 2, but I found the rhythm to be less than satisfactory, in my humble philistine opinion. And since I needed to convey an idea, I doubled the form. So you have this: a double cinquain with a twist.

Hope it flies... And yes, you probably know well that I usually avoid rhymers, but this one was jumping to get out that way from when I first rattled the gate. Had to do it. Same thing with all the links--sometimes, I'm just crazy like that.

Plaintive Sigh

the window's still open
late November night

listening for the most
sublime of all words

ever to let breathe
or be given breath to

lying in anticipation
under breath in the attic

and when that word is given

all will be golden--
one more burnished sunset
on San Marina lagoon,
one more coin for the voice
at the end of the line

so just give the word
but listen for the echo,
an arc royale choir
with the breath of stars

just one more syllable
for this wordless poet

one last word
and I'll listen quietly

as the breeze slinks in late
with cold November
through the open window

listening
for one more echo
in the night