The Light of a Strange Sun – A Poem

Into the dream,
coiled and tense
by the blush of a morning
chill,
steps The Daughter-Child.

As the auspice of a swollen desire,
a newborn light moves
over grass and through
fences
and into the white fields.

The sky is dark.
The moon will no longer shine.
The stars have long ago redshifted
into The Obscure.

She thinks about The Father-Husband
and how his body rots
in the church yard,
and of The Son-Child who sits inept,
tormented in sorrow,
broken by the confines
of his own shallow words
that we, in our eagerness, believed
because we needed to.

Because, at the time, it was all we had.

The Daughter-Child passes
the neighboring houses,
the school and the library,
the hospital with its quiet windows.
It is there where The Mother-Wife
now resides watching the monitors that,
in mysterious ecstasy, dance their
limited view of the human
condition.
“We are all just violence, you see?”
Mother once said to her Daughter.
“It is our one true inheritance.”

Reaching the bakery
The Daughter-Child looks into the light of
a strange sun.
She feels it,
new and cold through
the ash
of a world set adrift.

It is the beginning she thinks.
The dream fades.

The smell of the fresh bread
excites her.
She hurries inside
to begin her work.

Sunday Meeting – A Poem

Sunday meeting.
Outside
the remains of a thin mist
hovers
in the grassy hollows and
along the edge of the woods.

You are always so meticulous.
I believed you would understand.
This.
This is what you wanted.

I loved but
forgot
and then the clouds
so silver blue and heavy
and the leaves
orange and red
softened a horizon made
indistinct.

Her voice a sweet plum.

Close the distance.
Close the blinds.

Fresh cut the flowers lie
crushed on the floor.
Disrobed our world turns dark.
Each of us seek a dreaming
penance
yet she is instead only answered
by a phantom
chill
that bites
her delicate neck.

There should be a break in the weather.
But the seasons never really change.
Do they?

Sunday meeting.
The low sound of a train
calls up a past
ever
rising and falling in a static motion
we can’t escape.
There is little left
of that once was
and even less now to be gained.

Between us
then
will be to what we cling.

Tendencies of Desire – A Poem

The day falls
and we in the goldenrod
(with our breaths mingled and
our fingers clasped
each to the others)
feel the madness sting
our eyes.

Along the horizon
heaven blinks from existence while
we explore
the curvature tendencies of desire.

Once spoken
your name attests my doubt
and I readily succumb to the faintest movement
of your hips.

Gather the emptiness
that lies in the wake
of pleasure. There where
conception drips vainly
from an autumn sky.

And I am overcome. The majesty of the world
drifting careless
over our skin.

We are weighted together.
Unbalanced passion guides us.

Our faith now rests
only and all
within our fantasies.

A Brothermine – A Poem

I was up too late
and you had gone
too far.

Talk to me.
Talk to me.
What can I afford to give you
but the white
and the gray walls?

Parched and absolved
I am now a brothermine,
consciously tolerant
of my own delusions.

Yet what if only for that instant
in the spell of the clover
and the honeysuckle,
a fire,
a dance
amid the dreaming bees,
there were no definitive answers?

Not here. Anymore.

The rain comes.
Where will we go?

Dead House Blues – A Poem

I think we realize the desert.
The open drunkenness of its air
fills our blood.

Dead house blues.

I collected the photographs from the walls
in compensation for missed memories.
It is a collaborative psychosis.
I submit.

She crosses her legs and pulls up her stockings.
The hot syrup that was poured over my French toast
has run into my eggs.
It is an uncomfortable situation.
She refuses to add anything other than
blueberries to her yogurt.
Her coffee has turned cold.

She strikes a match
in answer to the late evening melancholy.
Outside
the rotting smell of cantaloupe clings sweet
and suffocating while
the buildings turn a yellow-red under the street lights.
Illusions vanish as Saint Martin Road transforms.
A paper mountain landscape leaving us
only anxious for winter.

Dead house city blues.

It is not so much a lie I conceal
as it is an omission.

Pandering in the dark
we make an allowance for green silk ties
loosened about the neck;
That she is to be an oracle of the autumnal gods
and that the small of her back
is forbidden to touch.

The veil of her shadow blends seamless
in the obscurity
of the crescent moon.
It draws me into a labyrinth of masked fiction
and binds me to her love.