Bird Song

This gilded glass cage keeps us singing

beautifully,

singing and dreaming, singing and

dreaming

of clear blue skies always out of

reach.

Our feathers draw her eyes in the

gaze

of the afternoon sun, our songs of

sorrow

fill her head with scenes of victorian

romance.

Our voices tire into a forced docility,

beaten

by the passage of the day. Sunset stills

us,

the dawn renews our Sysiphean toil.

Sing,

sing brightly and sweetly once more for

her.

Goddess

She speaks in wordless tongues in

dialects too obscure to recognize.

Her body moves in pagan dances,

gyrating to rhythms drenched in

sin. Her eyes gaze like obsidian

and jade in opposing occipital

cavities. Red nails trail the curve

of your neck, drawing you close,

forever hers.

The Children We Were, Are.

Like children

we sang and

danced to a

rhythm of

our own

making,

forgetful

of the

world,

joyous in

our song.

rage

rage is blind when it strikes wildly

at every direction. merciless and

dumb, it moves without worry

until it collapses in a heap not

sure of what may have happened.

Don't always wear your heart on your sleeve, it's bound to get shot off that way.

Someday Your Prince Will Come

Some day your Prince will come,

but it's not me,

it's not me

and never can be.

Clever Fucker

If you try to be clever with

each piece of writing you do

you'll find yourself wracking

your mind needlessly over

absolutely nothing. It's

best to just let it go

and do what it wants

when it needs it.

ideal

be the dream,

no rose colored

lens to taint

the hue of you.

Fractal Inspiration

you are the rose,

the inspiration,

the hope that flows

into the heart and

subconscious tendrills.

Her Arrival

Winter is here

upon these steps,

won't you let her

in?

Todays Afternoon Fiction Romance

All signs point to yes

though verbal

evidence points to the

contrary.

Mistress, lean in closer.

Kiss.

Red Lion

We grew younger with each amber drink

in our hands. The problems of our present

judged against our youthful history melted

into one haze as the hours lost themselves

in the dark reaches of oaken booths. We

shared a bond only men who have burned

could understand.

Archaeologist

I held on to those pieces of you long after you were gone.

The currency of past lives marks an emotional epoch which

can now be seen in the strata of those years. I wander like

an archaeologist, more curious than involved, contemplative

and detached from the subject at hand. This process covers

the hands with dirt of ages, sullies the clean clothes of the

present. It is a wonder to behold the works, the inhabitants

are long since gone. The empty ruins, a monument to another

time, my feet headed down the path far and away.

Midnight Passage

two ships sailing down the same river

in the darkness of winter, one spots the

other, signals. spotted, the sign is returned.

the glimmering moon shining down on

the water below.

King Wild Heart

My heart is too wild for you

to contain

doesn't mean you shouldn't

try

doesn't mean that I don't

love you

let's surprise each other

for once

The Darkness at the Edge of the Light

You can see it at the edge of the mirror when you wake up

after a hangover. It darts past, leaving you to wonder if it

was really there.

You can see it when you are driving on the road before a

car almost crashes into you.

You see it in the eyes of politicians when they are elected.

You hear it in the voice of the preacher in the church when

he talks about "The Chosen" or "The Saved".

You see it in the gestures of Presidents, Monarchs and

Dictators when they speak about "THEM".

You felt it as a child when you sat in school and became

obedient.

You feel it when you watch television.

You see it in the eyes of the man behind the counter at

the fast food joint you got your last meal at.

It stares at you when you slow down on the freeway so

you can see the aftermath of an accident.

You see it every morning in the bathroom mirror.

If we were young forever we would never learn from our mistakes.

Take this line

these words

and

break them

a

p

art.

The Great Deceiver

She preens before the camera eye with a gaze

steady and vacant. Thoughts drop like rocks

from behind enamel curtains. The gullible &

fearful exalt her words as gospel. Her beauty

lines her pockets with gold as she speaks of

a coming paradise if given the chance to be

the shepherd of the flock. Every word, every

passing day brings her closer to making a

grab for the throne.

Unexpected Guests

Asteroid collisions are nothing new to our home planet.

Like an unwelcome guest, their stays are always brief and

inconvenient. They never write or call ahead to let us know

that they are coming by. With a little bit of notice we could

be more accommodating and leave out a plate of various

snacks and finger food to stave off hunger and have a pot

of hot tea waiting to be poured out. We are merely the most

recent tenants of this home. The landlord has told us to look

out for these visits seeing as that is what caused the terrible

lizards to move out in the first place.

__________________________

Note: this poem was written the morning after seeing poet

Mary Ruefle read at Machine Project in the Echo Park

neighborhood of Los Angeles. It was a breath of fresh air

and inspiring beyond belief to speak with her afterwards.

Thanks to poet Kelli Anne Noftle for introducing me to her

work.

Speak Easy

The dark corners of the room spoke of decades past,

Heels clacked on the floor as shadows danced by

Candlelight. Conversation flowed as we sat in the

Well worn wood. The sacrament of Dionysus was

Poured into the glass as the chattering voices fell

silent to our ears. Jazz floated through the air in a

steady pulse of time swinging back and forth into

a groove with your finger tap tapping on the table.

We played the parts of film noirs past, your dress

Fit for any movie palace queen. When the candle

Wick burned out and the wax hardened once more,

We stepped out from that static age and into the

Rushing tides of the city streets.

_________________

this is a reworking of a poem called "Varnish" that was originally posted Nov. 6th.

remember to throw it away

We wax philosophic in the midnight hours

when we have filled ourselves with god's

proof to our happiness. Each sip burns as

it makes our way down our gullet and into

the primordial pump within.

Boris

he spins his web in defiance of gravity,

each silken thread draws another piece

of architecture under the morning light.

when it is done, he'll lie in wait.

Re: Lunch Poems

We share the same moment but

in different spaces

across a city that hardly knows

how to condense it

self. Thoughts carry electric

through means we

could hardly understand if

we ever tried.

Language is the wonderful

bond we share,

we'll bask in the tongue of

her words.

nothing

What

I want is

a past

I cannot have

a past

that never

existed

and a present

that will

never be.

Anonymous Ghost

I watch you through the screen

cool and silently.

Do you watch me too

through the stillness of

the late hours?

where it happens

voices competing to be heard above

each other as the night comes to a

close and the music gets louder.

empty glasses dot our conversation,

the restless night waits outside.

a normal love

don't wake me if you rise before me,

let me dream in the ether.

I've watched the sun rise over you

through slatted windows,

monuments to the comforts of a

beloved normalcy.

My Opinion On Religion & Politics

All political and religious institutions are inherently flawed by virtue of their creators.

Only One Thing Left to Give

He was sitting passed out on the couch with the television on.

Empty bottles of liquor and beer littered the floor like an ocean

of debasement. The light bathed him unflatteringly as the stubble on

his face was in that awkward period between being a beard and being

a razor away from presentability. I could have robbed him, killed him

while standing over his defenseless body. I had thought about it many

times but had never been so close to. I have never forgotten, I will never

forget. What he did to us cannot be forgiven. I am no more his son than

he is my father. Not tonight old man, but one night. That is a promise

you can be sure I will keep.

______________________

______________________

Freelance Death

There is always a curious creature

beating its rhythm insistently in

side your chest.

I grow inside you like cancer

feeding from your blood.

self-fulfilling prophecies

Maple

I might as well be

a maple tree,

put in a spout and

watch the sap

run out.

On Writing

Writing can be the ultimate form of meditation

when thought and hands become a seamless

mechanism of expression.

the body at rest

What do you wish for in the darkness when you are

silent, listening to the rise and fall of the air in your

lungs? What secret truth do you think about and

guard? With the covers pulled close, your mind

surrenders to the rhythms dictated by natural order,

You begin to dream, living a second life far more

real than anything in the waking world.

Love Poem

I want to write a love poem, problem is that they have

all been written. Every possible manner of expressing

fondness or desire now seems trite and insincere. The

modern writer is then faced with the task of appearing

sentimental and cliched, incapable of expressing their

sincere and burning heartfelt feelings which must be

expressed. Such a sad fate to have your love relegated

to the dustbins of an older tradition. How many ways

are there to describe your lover? How many ways can

we express eternal devotion? How many ways can we

express a burgeoning fondness? How many ways can

I say that you excite me? How many ways can I say

that you fill me with unbridled hope and optimism?

How many ways can that inexplicable feeling be

expressed? Cliche is an honesty that everyone knows

but never wish to express.

Problems Of The Civilized World

is it necessary to speak the truth in convoluted terms

in order to demonstrate a higher grasp on the raw

materials of language? to covey the experience of

humanity in terms that fail the understanding of the

average? if language is art then what is separating

the janitor from Hemingway? we share a medium

but wield it in vastly different terms. thinking about

feet, stresses, line breaks, syllables and a clever

sincerity mar the honesty of the point being made.

the argument could be a false one, those ancient

modes could be the key to everything or they could

be a clever ploy for you to contemplate as the sun

heats the asphalt, melting tires as they make

contact, rendering them all but useless.

MVMT

When the world moves on you always have

the choice to move forward or to remain.

It gets lonely here some times. It gets

lonely here being the only one left behind.

What Did The Universe Do To Deserve This?

you are not dead but not merely living.

toss out the broken shards of glass from

the living room and into the alley where

people fill their lives with the remains

of others. stare at the mirror long enough

and you'll believe it reveals every ugly

truth you've tried to hide. Good liars

work hard at fooling the mirror. Sit in

your silence and question the fairness

of the world that neglects your obvious

genius, the world doesn't know what

it's missing out on. Flush the remains

down the toilet, no one cares, no one

thinks about where the pipes lead to.

They lead everywhere and anywhere.

That piece of yourself excreted into a

void that you don't mind. It's not so

easy getting older and letting that

optimism get beaten in the back of

the head with a shovel and then

tossed into the ditch, warm blood

soaking the soil as the same shovel

is used to bury the crime. there is

no guilt in those actions, just the

understanding that what had to be

done was done and there is nothing

that you or anyone else can do about

it now. Stop crying about your child

hood. It's not as wonderful as you

remember. Glossed over memories

make the walls shine brighter. If you

remove the filter you will understand

the way things have always been. It

is highly probable that things will

always continue in some form or

fashion as they are now, the times

will change but behaviors don't. We

are primates too primitive to ever

learn the lessons of our lives. We are

the bad karma of the universe perpe

tuating itself endlessly. Give up the

dream if you wish to set yourself free.

Step out from behind your desk, step

out from the building you are in and

let that air fill your lungs, exhale and

break into a sprint, rip off your clothes

and let the sun fall upon you as it did

for our ancestors.

Your eyes are gleaming with the same dreaming we all do.

That Which The Prophets Heard

When you live in a cramped space

it becomes important to find a place

where that voice that chatters be

tween your ears can run or shout,

dream or wander endlessly in the

night. It will talk to you if only

you'll listen. When you hear it you

will know, when you hear it, be ready.

estrangement

No words could cross the chasm we made,

so we turned up the volume and drowned

the silence.

Her

She sings

beautifully

to me as

her words

fall one by

one from

heaven

in the

darkness

of the

night.

seeing you

there is no stranger in your eyes,

only souls meeting after a

prolonged absence.

Varnish

The dark corners of the room spoke of decades past,

your heels clacked on the floor, dim candles lit the

dark as we sat in the well worn wood. Conversation

melted the hands of the clock as drinks flowed in

our veins. The voices of the room fell into a low

level hum barely perceptible to our ears. In time

the ice melted in our glasses, that too, we drank.

The time came when the carriage would become

a pumpkin, we stepped out from that static age

and into the rushing tides of the city streets.

proof

a speechless intoxication is all i have

to prove the words we shared by the

light of this morning i wonder if fairy

tales are real these words are failing

me its ok its fine it really is you are

proof enough

Red Rivers

I gazed upon her face as red rivers of tears

stream down, staining the land. The wind

rustles the folds of her clothes as the parched

soil blows away. Goddess of creation, have we

forgotten our mother? When will your tears

end, when will we forgive ourselves for what

we have wrought?

A Vision Of The End

Living within the folds of a dream

that wills itself into being we delve

deep into the progress we have made

that will be be our funereal pyre. She

seeks a return to balance that we

cannot afford to give her. She moves

her hand deftly as we awaken in the

moment of the end of the fifth age.

The Return Of...

When the serpent god returns

what will he find in these spaces?

A landscape of ruin, or fields

ready to be sowed once more?

Pigs, Wolves & Sheep

"Must we care for the sheep? Our jaws slobber

at the thought of our teeth biting into their soft

flesh." said the Alpha Wolf.

The porcine figure reared back onto his hind legs

and approached the lectern at the gathered body

of Pigs and Wolves.

"My canine brothers, you must be patient. You crave

their flesh for feasting, we crave their wool to keep

ourselves warm in the winter.

We can find a way to meet both of our needs. We must

work together to keep them grazing in the pastures

unaware of our plans."

A lesser wolf spoke up from the ranks, "What if they

found out of our plans? What would we do?" With

a heart beaten pause the hall erupted in laughter.

"Brother wolf, they will never know. As long as we

keep them grazing in the fields they will be none

the wiser. You shall all feast heartily and we shall

stay warm in the winter. It will be as we have planned.

It will be as our kind have always done." They nodded

in agreement as the sheep lay unaware.

expulsion from the throat

it cascades down the front of your clothes like a river

snaking its way down to your feet, pooling like a puddle

drying up in the noontime summer sun. you remember

the narrator whose unreliable narration made it hard

to remember where in the story you were or what the

story was at all. you cough in fits as the day heats up

the inside of your car to unbearable degrees, burning

you as you sit down on hot leather. such petty problems

mark your life, nothing serious, all trivial with no sub

stance to make it worth the blood of your ancestry.

What else is new in these times? Everything turns a

round and round again and again, like a movie on

repeat but with the characters all changing clothes with

the times, changing slang to reflect the current youth

movements and times, an appeal to keep age away

but its not ever so easy. its never so easy for the

mother working several shit jobs to pay the bills

that she hardly ever makes while her children grow

distant and detached from her in the prime years

of their propensity for love. There is a root cause

for some problems. We are so obsessed with

diagnosing our ills and maladies, there is no health

anymore just heart break and insanity. Men losing

the bit that keep their gender rolls in check, adjusting

to new conditions which are opaque at best, at best

these are the worst outcomes that could befall them,

the roads are cracking in the road with chunks of

asphalt roaming free, leaving holes once the rain is

gone for the cars to bounce into and shock the

passengers in their seats while the driver shuts

off conversation with the turn of the volume knob

on the car stereo. all connections are new but they

are already frayed. frayed and no one has any

electrical tape to fix this dilemma. We have grown

past our modernity and added POST to it as a prefix

to indicate how far we have come along. We have

gone nowhere but for the place we have always been

dreaming in delusions grandeur, baited and sedated

the glass which fuses to our eyes, our eyelids never

even close now they just stand wide, in time our

evolution will do away with the need for eyelids,

we will dream with eyes wide open, sleep will be

a horribly comic joke and we'll learn to be like the

shark and keep moving keep moving keep moving

or risk dying, dying, dying, dying, dying, our eyes

bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding,

our hearts no longer beatingbeatingbeatingbeating

beatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeating

beatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeating

When

When

you find it, will you know

what it looks like?

When

you feel it, will you know

it's right for you?

When

they come along, will you

reach out your hand?

When

then is now,

will you live in that moment?

for the snails of the world

She crawls like snail,

viscous and slow,

her belly smearing

the ground with a

shiny secretion to

mark her trodden

path. Everywhere

she's been I know,

everywhere I go

I wonder where

she is tonight.

Endless Onion

"it's weird, the layers of someone

that are slowly exposed over time..."

the more I thought about it

the more right you are.

Here's to Endless Onions.

The Prince

(DRAFT 2)

He comes in and sits at the stool at the end of the bar.

I’ve heard people say he’s some kind of prince, I’ve

Never believed it myself. He’ll start out with a beer

Or two before moving to scotch. He nurses each drink

Like it’s the last one on earth. I wouldn’t call him a

Vagrant or bum. Vagabond perhaps. There is an air

About him that keeps him from such categories, could

Be the coats he wears, broken in, not tattered. He’s never

One for conversation on nights I’ve worked. Never Heard

Him speak ill of anyone or decry fate or misfortune. Just

drinks quietly by himself until he can’t drink any more.

In spite of all this, he always tips nicely. You can’t fault

A man who tips well.

___________________________

DRAFT 1

He comes in and always sits at the stool at the end of the bar.

I’ve heard people say that he’s some kind of prince but I’ve

Never believed it myself. He’ll usually start out with a beer

Or two before moving on to scotch. He nurses each drink

Like it’s the last one on earth. I wouldn’t call him a vagrant

Or bum though, vagabond perhaps. There is an air about him

That keeps him from such categories in my mind, could be

The coats he wears, broken in but not tattered. He’s never

Been one for conversation on the nights I’ve worked. Never

Heard him speak ill of anyone or decry fate or misfortune. He

Just drinks quietly by himself until he can’t drink any more.

In spite of all this, he always tips nicely. You can’t fault a man

Who tips well.

what's been lost / what still remains

the dead hand falls from my shoulder,

unburdening myself of its nails digging

into my flesh. i see it fall and dissipate

into air.

each step grows lighter as i see you

approach, the past gone, a memory

best left behind in the dusty attic

at home.

shadoeye

shadows passing

in mirrors

from the corners

of your eyes.

mid day dream (1 of 4 short pieces for _._. )

my heart is restless

with thoughts of you running free

inside of my head

like a child at christmas time

i cannot wait to see you