I TOO have a garret of old playthings.
I have tin soldiers with broken arms upstairs.
I have a wagon and the wheels gone upstairs.
I have guns and a drum, a jumping-jack and a magic lantern.
And dust is on them and I never look at them upstairs.
I too have a garret of old playthings.
sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of the park the
couple across from us rolls something
to smoke the “hooligans”
(who am I? That was me months ago)
congregate on a bridge overpass
a dog lies down
your tears do not fall steadily and well
practiced like mine,
in a cacophony like an abscess
in a concrete dam wall
clutching your shirt, cursing masculine dogma,
my fingernail pushes a little orange seed of water and you
blindly take out a pack of menthol
you offer me one– you never do
I take it, light it, burn it out after five moments,
I press my face against yours so our tears blend, this nodule of saline congregating merging like a bacteria
as it falls ahead on the ground
our tears, one
hit the Silent concrete on the grey New York
fat rats play on the nettles behind us.
. The closer I look
the more I notice
folded into eachother
(exhale); collapse —
(Sink in) .
That rushes skin and widens in flooded veins
Breath in, exhale, I've poked a nerve"
Sorry I havent written in awhile guys. Found this little gem tucked in the back of my old journal. Not sure where I was going with it.. but I know at some point I had planned to finish it before posting but Ive deceided conclusively in this moment to leave it unfinished because, so Ive recently come to realize; some of the most beautiful things in life are left unfinshed.
She saw the box and her heart did flutter,
Her fingers fumbled and her conscience muttered.
The clasp undid, the lid lifted free,
And oh the horrors the world would now see.
The rivers were dried and famine did reap,
So many a soul there were none left to weep.
She lay on the floor and she cried and she shuddered,
For she was to blame, only her and no other.
The gods fury was that of which she most feared,
They would take all she loved and kill all she reared.
Distraught and sobbing on the floor of that room,
A notion of peace interrupted her doom,
From the box it emerged and the darkness then broke,
For last but not least the world would have hope.
We were a sunset. A beautiful progression, finally approaching it's ending.
We meet, bright and forming; your yellow rays of blaze fusing into my blue, silky sky.
Morphing from solid oranges and blazing yellows, to placid purples and tenacious, seducing pinks.
Coral red base lining, the clouds turn grey to the core, almost black. With rosy pink below, and baby blue above, a sort of white has met in the middle, the dark clouds intoxicating the innocence, the brilliance.
With a quick glance elsewhere, and looking back at the setting sun, all has quickly faded.
Now only two colors remain: a dark, devouring blue flowing into a waning, innocent white, no longer any clouds in sight.
Just as we burned together, danced in roaring color, and molded into one another, now we fade; fade into nothing, maybe even everything, yet left alone, only one of our colors remaining.
As the ardent black of night consumes the last of radiant blue, little is left to be seen among the twinkles of stars and gaze of the moon.
Though we may now be a black nothingness, forever we have the dancing of the stars and triumph of the moon to evoke what of us has been left. A beautiful progression into an even more scarring, alluring finale; what once was, into what will always be.
who ever sees them
in this canopy of night
until one barks out…
tracers, hot light?
cleared by chemical fire
from orange barrels, then blessed with monsoons,
kneeling, feeling, the modern moors’ mush
wet my knees
do you see
what I do? do you hear,
do you fear, slant eyed demons
who can blend into the ground
make not a sound
it is too late for me
I have seen them, I have
made them black with light
crisscrossed with crimson
too late for me, after all
this fine art I crafted
other pictures I painted
still dripping in my dreams
you can't see them, framed
by my memory, lies
I wanted to believe
to the day after I returned
my grandson, six years ancient
told me what happened to dinosaurs
I didn't see a meteor but I don't tell him
his brown eyes wide with curiosity
when he rubs the scar on my arm
his tender touch takes me back
to the fields where the invisible game
still lay, waiting for me to return
to resurrect them, and me
but I cannot see, what
was never there