Our silhouette is imperfect
and I ask your forgiveness
for how it represents
the beautiful mess
How do I ask you questions?
Your eyes are like a porcelain
doll, your skin like
I betrayed you.
Dream of gray days
wondering through the
fog rolling on the hills
Our life can be broken.
Dispelled merely by
an honest smile.
But it will never come.
“I feel disgusted. With everything. Do you ever feel that way?”
“Most of the time. And mostly with myself.”
“How do you live with it? What do you do?”
“I write a lot. On napkins I pick up at restaurants.”
“I have taken to drink.”
“That does not help, you know.”
“Does writing on napkins?”
“No. But at least it is a little less vocal.”
“Oh, I am plenty vocal when drinking.”.” Continue reading
I don’t know what I am doing here,
or even where here is for that matter.
There is a hole in the floor that is silver
and reflective and shimmering
like mercury. Yet I know I could pass through
it, if I wanted, it only being a thin
membrane of no substance, and I would
travel somewhere else. Where that is
I cannot say. Someplace different I
suppose. Maybe the sun is green there and
the oceans frozen, the people live in brick
houses that line the coasts and stare
at waves that never crash. But I like it
here. It smells of fresh cinnamon buns
God Turned the Street Light Red
“We are all self-absorbed people,
living in the ego of mankind,
called to do its bidding
so our own destiny might flower,”
you told me as we walked downtown
and the movie theater just let out
a host of ragged people
awestruck and forlorn
having just witnessed a science fiction film
where man’s final calling
was the brutal colonization
and subjection of foreign worlds
on the outskirts of the universe.
I told you that you read too much Dante.
Though I would not know Dante from Virgil
There, underneath the dining room table,
she calls out his name,
silently so no one can hear
the sound of her voice
delicate and breaking
soft and fragrant like the petals
on the peonies she grows.
Within her breast she feels him
and she dances and twists within herself
a ghost of hot breath
on her vacant skin.
The rug scratches her arms
her legs bend and she kicks the table
knocking the empty plate
to the ground
to the brown carpet full of regret
disappearing in the woven fabric.
Honesty is the companion of selfishness
a championed virtue
brightly dressed in regal gown
a hollow soul
dark and consuming
and she in mournful absolution
makes conscious her disdain
when, in breaths no more forceful
than a child’s leap
through a sprinkler
watering the naked garden,
she calls out
I don’t see the frost in the glade
gather porous over our skin
and the long stalks of the dead grass
brown and red and weeping.
Slow now the storm seeps over the sky
filled with church bells playing loosely from the gray village
through the fence posts and barbed wire
low long arching clouds letting slip the snow.
The river’s tide ebbs slowly
our footsteps buried in the summer wildflowers
that will not bloom again
night rings the sun
light the moon reflects in vain.
Janius Jim is a big man. Rocky Mountain big with sandy beach hair and a crooked tooth smile that warms your heart. An ex-fighter, a wrestler of no renown, turned insurance broker who had to have cataract surgery at fifty. The surgery didn’t seem to work as five years after he was still having trouble seeing. Jim and I were sitting outside the office building we both work at, different companies though, drinking coffee in the morning where a few birds chirped and searched for food underneath nearby empty tables. In front of us a few ducks swam in a pond with a fountain shooting water up about ten feet to fall in a engineered calm and reassuring splashing sound. Tall bushes and lean trees were sparingly planted around the pond. There was a wound up umbrella at our table of a deep red color that reminded me of apples in winter.
“Whoo ah!” Jim breathed just after taking a sip. He had the habit of smelling the cup each time he takes one, sniffing and wincing his eyes. I though it had something to do with his bad eyesight. Maybe to get a better look at what was coming up to his face. But I was not sure. I never asked him. “Feels like a warm one today.”
And then there was Byron Street. When me, Roolie, Katie, and Dex were outside The Bad Wolf and Crazy Eddie (the band) was playing heavy metal blues. Traffic moved by, bright blue red purple cars shining under the street lights. The music poured out of the door and along the ground and bounced off the small yellow orange rocks encased in concrete on the garbage can, shimmering and stinking. Dex blew his smoke straight up in the air. Trying to look cool. He liked Katie back then.
“You are my pocket friend,” Katie said to Roolie, almost yelling at him though they were no more than three feet apart.
“Ah. My itchy toe rash. You sweet.” Roolie tried to see what was going on inside The Bad Wolf, swaying like a boxer to get a better look.
We are creatures
men and women
cities and factories
nation and allegiance
lust and longing
music and dance
holy holy holy
ever and anon
wholly to cover
brave and boisterous
of no significance.
I wrestled with the moon last night
when he came into my living room
his light, dim and spontaneous,
splashing silver streaks on my wall
and fine leather couch.
His filthy fingers
were placed in an unloving embrace
about my neck.
I tried to gouge his eyes,
but he just laughed like a cat,
licked his teeth,
and sang a soliloquy in French
that I did not understand
a word of.
With overwhelming strength
he bore down on me
and asked me my name.
of rotten mango.