I lift a day of my life
place it in layers
give little away but my time
dropping anchors in silt
for they drift with me
until I drop away
let me draw out a silence
today I gave you a layer of me
in exchange for the time between coats
the structure around
becomes the content within
I'd love to take it apart
live in reverse
examine a dismantled day ~
but as it's against the clock
we have to move on
Crick, Crack,Pop!,—“Ow!”, ach… won’t my joints of ache
never relent? The tension—every move—
with each attempt to loose—a rigid groove—
my muscles,—all efforts to simply break
the pressure,—ayayaye,so,taut—,to shake
free my body, to feel the strain improve,
I’ve tried to stretch myself so to remove
the overwhelming cramps and pangs, which rake
my shambling corpse.—But ill I find no cure
to remedy such condition as that mine;
Six months’ wait ’til a doctor checks my spine,
—and even then who knows if they’ll be sure
what sickness ails my feeble, failing form?
I’ll blow it off: pain has become my norm.
A slivered moon is looming peacefully
above the pristine glow of golden dusk,
bathing in a navy sky,—me?, I bask
in her gush of seraphic majesty.
A careful look, cast in serenity,
reveals the silent shadow of her disk;
the sunless face wears a dark veil. Her mask
gazes upon me,—in return, I see
the full splendor of her thin sliced crescent.
Admiring the elegance of her curve,
I vow, tonight, my job is to preserve,
with my Poetry, her luminescent
form. I testify that, yes, I have tried—
?succeeded? that’s for others to decide.
O’ Mother!, take me back at last, receive
—(unclasped arms as vast as mine)—my embrace;
this longing, laughing love, the proof and grace
of my abiding for your shores.—I grieve
the lasting loss that shear struck—do believe
my grave and groveling art of disgrace,—
when ten years had but barely found their place
in my life. As with you then, now I leave
behind the home I’ve called as such awhile,
and answer your unbroken imperative:
anew with you! once more to your sweet heart!
I—through my candid, unshadowed smile—
effervesce—(so this is what it means to live!)
a new part! a chance for a novel start!
Your needs unmet and, too, mine equally
fulfilled,—I s’pose it’s best to leave this where
it stands.—what other course could feel as fair?
But deep disturbances in mon esprit,
increasingly violent unto me,
(as roaring winds and foaming omens) stir
tidal wave emotions without compare;—
breaking—in terrific fatality.
My heart adrift,—stranded soon on your shore,—
beats weak, throbs sad sobs, sniffles back such tears
of torrential regret...—and for what?
you?
Really, need I lament—this dullest score—
the abandon of your tempestuous fears?
No.,—if I capsize now, I never flew.—
The subtle thread which mends a laceration
is woven through fresh, tender flesh to bind
disreconciled horizons, disentwined
by words sharper than the knives of damnation.
Then, even once that painful separation
is closed, there’s still so much left to attend
to,—wash the wound, put bandages, amend
echoes saddled with righteous indignation.
A stitch is but the means of tying tight
the gasping gash; but time alone can heal
the skin which suffers the ego’s trauma.—
Slow bonds, forming from the wrecks of the drama,
will join again disjointed sides, and seal
the split. The scar will long remain for sight.
I’ve come to—k(now), the sobering conclusion
that I must be a lunatic; else what
sufficiently explains the smirking smut
clouding my judgment?—what viscous illusion—
outright{(diagnosable[,perhaps)delusion]},—
persuades me to heed your haughty strut?
Each inch of every corner of my gut
is begging—not—accept—refuse—intrusion.
ah!, but I budge, I give in to temptation!
why,why,why must I make the same mistake
instead of just quite well so simply break-
-ing the cycle of you?—o’ that salvation,
in what dark nook lurks it?, which saviour holds
the key that unschackles me from your folds?
Attempt, attempt, attempt, I try, I do,
but find success a frightful,fretful sort
of creature.—.landing always just so short
for you,—my victories?: far less than few.
From void to verse then verse now void,—but you
reject my voice,else’y*u[ / , u ]d*stort
it, and to good will ill intent impart;
My inspiration, skewered by your view,
lies fallow in your lap.—Tell, what’s the use
of baring open heart and mind and soul
when evil’s understood the sole (and whole)
ground of my poetry? — — rather a noose
than these restraints!, ach! and the love you reek
of, it struggles with my fine nose. I speak.
A(nother) (Sh*tty) Sonnet
Cute girl who works the local liquor store
counter, I wonder sometimes how I strike
you.—am I happy in your eyes?—do you like
to speak, when daily, as a steady chore,
I stroll onto your heavenly sales floor?
(You said it was another day (yes fake)
‘in paradise’, in answer to my joke.—
—and then I left with my usual four.).
Reality looks (more (something)) like this:
biting my nails until they burn like hell,
eating my nervous thoughts,—binging and purging
on romance,—and on a deathly scourging
of emotional detachment. O’, belle,
there’s nothing more I miss than someone‘s kiss.
how long and sourly sobs the lonely heart
depends on how grave the weight which grieves the tears
pouring from the despondent spirit’s pores.—
a witness, too, will know the surly sort
of rain that beats down harshly on the court
called Sorrow Drive.—sure seems like nothing cheers
up the—nor nothing soothes the—nasty fears
nesting in somber nooks.—no, only art
comes close to curing spiritual sores.—
but even it leaves quite untouched the cause.—
able only to act as numbing gauze,
art is the first of many guarded doors,—
engraved on its threshold,—and colorfast—:
“seek you now to enter your wounded past?”
O’ dear, I learned today you’re spoken for;
I asked the question, got the answer: “no”.
Ayayaye…but, considering the blow
wasn’t so bad, I’m glad I tried to score.
Oh dear,—(I must admit)—you know what’s more?,
you’ve snatched the beauty right out from this low
world; o’ diamond, why must you hoard it so?
All other charms have lost their glow, they bore
me now…I hadn’t grasped what beauty meant
’til I had seen your radiant strutting gait. ?
Nevertheless, I do not write this sonnet
that I should have something to bemoan it;
Rather, I’m thankful for the sort of fate
that sends me for a spiralling ascent.
The lady looking up had said that “good
was bad” and then had added, “all was well”;
Tripped up on his feet, and after her fall,
she who was glad was then made madly sad.
But the man stooping down from where he stood
replied that “bad was good” and “well was all”;
Though with his words he’d made the tall feel small,
he’d been trying to make the sad feel glad.
O’! what grand narratives, what foolish tales
we spin for our mad selves!,—such stupid stuff
we weave inside our mangled minds—as if
our current suffering wasn’t enough!—;
But I present this riddle for a laugh:
“Can the heads side of a coin catch its tails?”
Observe the modern generations walk
on by; they suckle from the plastic teat
of coffee cups, and stumped by stamping feet
they shamble unaware from flock to flock.—
infant adults—if earnest I may speak;
Look there: one loops in circles (a grand feat!)
and, as if an ornithological suite,
the gaggle shuffles behind,—“squawk squawk squawk!”
Yikes… I suppose that if I ran at ‘em
they’d scatter faster than frightened pigeons.—
Wouldn’t even need to make the barest noise,
merely the sight of a threatening poise
is enough to disperse their religions
(yes—religions—phony, false—“fun”:—numb!).
Though matter may not be destroyed, the form
must be deformed; absolute fluidity
demands—with absolute rigidity—
that bonds made break free from an unstable frame.—
Erratic molecules and particles swarm
beyond the confines of lucidity;
But we, in stupor (and stupidity),
(poor things), give to fluidity a name…
I mean to say: Destruction is a must!
For,—given that something new’s to be built—,
creation draws from the dead flower’s wilt.
The energy that binds two atoms:tight:
is Love, attraction in the highest light!—
I mean to say: Destruction is the Just!
Love sends a signal (so intangible)
through time removed and space—more faraway
than high heavens, sun, spark of moody day
when Night her might has made immoveable.
The bold heart beats, but shyly (:¡magical!:)
hides a gross ache—(perhaps gone quite astray)—
of love destroyed by space and time. A ray
has passed and left behind a palpable
shadow.—but time’s the healer, space the fact,—
the proof? the medicine of poetry.
So know it truly, bear it in your heart:
without your gift, my art could not be art.
I mean not to entangle again what’s we—
simply I reminisce—(love? I react).
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