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.
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.

Olivia in Brown – A Poem

Olivia in brown
subjugated dreams.

A revolution
benign and unimpeded
courses through
the river park.
She can feel it
in her toes. Nails brushed pink.
Sandaled feet.

As the reconciling crescendo
from a soundless past
Olivia fuses
each vibration as they ripple
and orchestrates them into a
brightly glowing vortex.

Her back is to the statue
of a little boy
whose downcast eyes
conceal his judgment.

Olivia’s two daughters
kneel near shallow pools.
Remnants of a summer rain.
The girls’ hushed voices are
briefly reflected
in the water
before becoming lost
among the passing clouds.

Near the bridge
and in the building
under the clock tower
the ambition of a man
was found wandering blind
in the twisted corridors.

A light wind comes
and with it the fragrance
of poppies.
The girls rise
and run. Their hair is blown. Strands
tangle in a strawberry madness.

in brown