Monday, December 8, 2014

Requiem for Pluto

there were nights when we
were smashed off Pluto
and tipped our brims to
lights stretched across our skins

we were not to spill
and were not to hold
what was passing through

the age and blood
and lights and piss
were sweat and tears
and endlessness

and there drenched
in perspiration we danced
on Pluto's orb

it was a land of
which scholars told to
toast and boast in
the night divine

but faded now is
such gratitude for duty
paid and played at the edge

seems our kisses and touches
and many time collisions
disappeared into the dark
and faded from solar view

Sunday, December 7, 2014

The boy from Sasnak

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be forward is backward
and what's meant to be up
is altogether upside down

and round is square
where sharp is soft, the softest
folks with bluntest pokes

yet of these members
where scarce the timbers
was a boy, a young man in fact
who was born not shattered
but instead all intact

he knew the why
of the sky turning dark
and to light again

he knew the who
behind the tricks that
blinded both beast and men

he knew the how
in dreaming dreams to
make the future then

and for the time his
own life shall cease, alas
he knew the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be gone still lingers there
and what's meant to be still
is nowhere to be found

and the round that's square
blends together with the air
on a blank endless plain

yet though one there moves
but hasn't moved at all
the boy has seen beyond his
nose and further yet, beyond
where the wind blows

he knows the why
for giant skies to loom
over those below

he knows the who
discontent with rain,
or drought, or even snow

he knows how
to make his dreams
exist without an end

and for the time his
own heart shall break, alas
he knows the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be close is very far away
and what's meant to be miles
will always instead surround

and the round, albeit square
is here and there and anywhere
but nowhere and everywhere

yet distinct are its members
living where scarce are the timbers
and the boy, who has left them all
and has answered the wind
and its endless call

he forgets the why
of the blue sky that burns
from October to December

he forgets the who
of once he knew and
wishes he could remember

he forgets the how
a dream can grow far
beyond where he's been

and for the time his
own voice shall hush, alas
he forgets the when

Sunday, November 16, 2014

We were bees

In slumber rest the glossy wings are still
when tiny buzzing yields to winter's cruel chill
and fills with dreams of feasts of flowers
while sleeping and slipping away the frozen hours

The revels of dewy petaled morning glories
stream through the golden striped pollen stories
to tip and sip of the sticky pistil chalice
while humbly abiding in the silky floral palace

The warmth of these, the faded golden days
preserve the dormant hope under thick icy glaze
when the sun slowly thaws and melts away from these
it is simple to recall the time spent when we were bees

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Jargon jaunting: part Chopin

chopping Chopin flip flops
dropping, fry pan, sizzle... pops
beat one, two, three
sing doe, rae... it's me

thus see the dry
musty sea of rye
o'er plains where rains
more drains e'er stains
in delta laps poison relapse
the glades fallen on blades

slather of slithering
boorish come withering
swallowing gator smiles
hollowing later miles
of time dis-time
miming  the climb
priming the crime

wearing rare ring
daring, dare... ding
the ting, this thing

here and now,
crying sow,
in that habitat
cat needs rat
tit for tat combat

fry pan sizzles... pop
Chopin drizzles... stop

Sunday, October 12, 2014


she has shown her face
in early shallow mirrors
those crisp layered shells
to shatter under a nudge

she has loathed the youth
in vibrant tones and changed
their skins to ashen crones
and raven plumes and sordid
putrid greens of dying dreams

she has clawed at reaching
hands and torn the turning
sun with its inflamed forest

she has stolen the beating
hearts of the stagnant pools
and plunged them far below
into her dragoon graves

she has her knaves who
break the brittle and hollow
pits to leave the shells in
sightless soundless soulless
hells but whistle her tune

she has her names she
drains from veins the vamp,
the hag, the killer of Pan

she has her time that
blackens days into glorious
nights and hearkens those
back to hearths and frights

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Flowers in your hair

shattered the life that was
and fell and flowed
into hands that now
itch of corn and reek
of late marigold essence

the life that fell into
halls only rabbits frequent
for royalty and pilgrim
sails in whirling puffs
for sips of divinity

the life that flowed
through those halls
as slithering hunger
to beget a shiny coat
to forget the shedded
skin left in shadows

the life in body wake
fell asleep the toad
in buried October mud
and married the little
gained from trolley tones
and Amherst rendezvous

the life not known
but once was home
now harbors beyond
the bay with first breath
in May little more to say

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Twining days

in twining days
that slow with heavy fruit
the impatient nights
are sought by local gods

whose croaks are remnants
of former nocturnal glories
and cry now for what few
crumbs of creeping things
and dragonfly wings will
keep them in an icy sleep

in twining days
that shed what both
earth and light married
in the angels' lair

whose feathers drift aloft
in battling breezes among
and through the gnarled
halls of ancient lullabies,
through the arms that once
cradled, swaying us to sleep

in twining days
that crown the trees with
hues of Aurora's glory
bleeding from the eve

whose blackened cloaks
of indigo webbing and
cobalt silks ripple across
the midnight high, to catch
the Sandman's dust that
gleams above a child's sleep

in these twining days
that coil around trailing flame
and whisper out a name
to the chill upon the wind

whose deed is death in
a freezing breath that raps
upon the Autumn's door
and laces dreams of the
dormant seeds deep within
their terrestrial sleep

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Neither now nor later

what will I know
when hopes are sold
of soldiers bold
to brothers, choke
on their polluted joke

and what was home
a country known
now country owned
by boundless greed
and twisted seed

the wind, it ran
now whistles through
heavy charcoal hue
pours down the pain
that weeps from rain

the earth, it slept
now growls with spit
sick chemical vomit
black blood reborn
churns in ocean storm

what was the home
where dreams were sown
and soaked to bone
the goals to feed
unknown paths to lead

what have I known
when my tales are told
and the sun is cold
when clears the smoke
from this sleep I woke

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Cold creep

the cold is an audacious cad
making leaves blush from his advances

the cold's impatience marbles
the lingering September warmth
adulterating it with rushing vigor
that lacks in endless August days

the growing evenings glow
with fire revelries of patrons
needing more than one or two skins

the cold lures roots from
their soiled cellars and
fruits from their lofty perches

it spurs spinning of silks
by sickle shaped moonlight
until eight legs aren't enough anymore

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Fleeting flight

a trade of toenails and head of hair
for dusty wings in the autumn air

and in the warmth of morning sun
an open blossom to lay my tongue

for salmon hued beacons of hope
carry troves of pollen laced dope

the rope from which to hang myself
in pooling oceans of nectar wealth

and gladly give my bag of bones
to swim among these vivid tones

perfecting headstands in the flowers
and to sip away the afternoon hours

what it is to be bee or moth
to hide in silky petal cloth

a life of whim in moon of cancer
dining amidst orange yellow anther

out to seek pistil lip kisses
flowing from sweet fountain head wishes

for this do take my human soul
and trade it all, paid in full

don me now my weightless wings
take my place among fleeting kings

for then when water stands as glass
my glorious flight will come to pass