A Sense of Direction – A Poem

I told him where to meet us.
Third floor.
Northeast corner.
By the stairwell and kitchenette,
and just outside the Clean
Conference Room.

I don’t know.
No,
I can’t say where he is.

He reads Vonnegut
so I assumed he had a
sense of direction.

 

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As the Toast Arrives – A Poem

A blossom
and a mourning
under branches stretching dark
across a white sky.

And then the running
with waves frantic thrashing ceaseless
over crystalline stone
and you in a rosemary malaise.

It may be a matter of time. It may be a matter
of intent.

There is a bitter taste to my drink.

There is a bitterness to the dance
of the masked gods.

A jest.

A violence which surges in
abandon to the melody
sung by a whispering ghost.

I am a part of that violence
and think back over our history and find it suitable.
We could never find comfort in
preconceptions.
You agree
as the toast arrives.

Leaves shift color from green to brown
and collapse at our feet.
A fog settles over the ocean.

 

Apples Under Gold – A Poem

There was something of a genius
about him
a hard wall eclipse
a spring I could not recollect.

Jaded and stoned he buys bouquets
equips an abbey
fermented berry flavors swirl
fragrant the cool air.

Militias draw the lines
but I never
count on them.

Let’s drink along the unmasking
collect the parlor man
a morose fool.

How he could outpace
a windstorm with single notes afloat
a steel string guitar
fruitfully sad.

You’re apples under gold
all bright and serious
and straying.

A bitter sun closes the day.

 

Lion’s Wake – A Poem

Lion’s wake.
We hear the old saw blade at rest.

I watch with nervous apprehension
the sun shine through the fog;
The morning hills rolling green under
the hazy weight of an
early light.

The pull of earth’s gravity
makes is hard for me to breathe.

I want to make a phone call
but lost any reason to do so,

so I end up doing the dishes.

Finches sing.
They dart in and out of nests
built into the rotting
remains
of the shed’s wood panels
and frame.
Its roof collapsing slowly.
Unhindered.

Juxtapose the broken glass
and the wire fence.
How they both still keep us
fastened and
Trapped.

It was three years ago
today.
Three years.
And where are we?

What are we?

An exposed shadow in a
closed circuit.

 

Oracle of Regret – A Poem

Old railcars on an unused line
stand forgotten. Decay.
All rust.
And overgrown weeds.

I regret this fortune.

It was never our intention that night
but then the wild moon
and the orange dress
and the curve of the river.
There was the devil at the store front
window splattered in blood who
raffled bondage.

“It’s just a skip stone step ladies
and gentlemen. Just a skip stone
step. Here you go.
Here you
go”

Holding hands we laughed
at our dark reflections. The smell
of liquorice bringing a hell
unlike anything
we expected.

“Samuel, Samuel, why do you talk about the rail cars?”
She moved with a pretentious walk which
I venerate
still.

Rust settles into my bones
and weeds claw at my lungs.

The air was hot and humid
and with how her hips
shaped that dress…
ah,
never mind. Along the tree
lined thoroughfare, the cries
were drowned out
by music from a nearby
carousel.

Her breath was so close
and the river so
timid.

Rail cars stand neglected.
I am the fortunate oracle of regret.

We were complicit in a mutual
denial. Her lips on me.
“Why the railcars, dear Samuel?”
My hand on her thigh
just a skip stone
step.

The water pooled and swirled. A vision
of stars was muted.

Private Asylum – A Poem

There are never any images in my mind.
Only words.
Or more specifically the shadows of words.
You don’t understand.
I am not a living soul.
Or a living man.
Just a ruined afterthought.

We step outside and into
our private asylum.
A strangling maze strips
us and closes
in
all about.

It’s raining.
I pull up an umbrella and under it
we listen to the water fall.
The puddles freeze.

You recall how one time on a drive as a child the sunlight
came through the windshield
of your father’s truck
bathing the cabin in a sickly whiteness
and highlighting the deep cracks and crevices
on the skin of his left hand
which gripped the steering wheel in a lazy confidence,
slightly off center,

to the right.
“There was this customonial boundary
that I became aware of, then,” you tell me. “A limitation
imposed in all of us by design.”

I become frightened by this
realization
and would shut my eyes
but fear losing you if I should.

“And how this barrier is real.
How it roots an eternal
consciousness
and separates our perception.
It’s a garden that exists in the paradise
of a scorched earth.
There is a beauty in how
ridiculously
desperate it is.”