Boston    1982 -   
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.








.
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.








.

I find it mysteriously sad,
watching my footprints in grass
Begin to fade,
With the upward bending of each returning blade.
My path is gone,
Aside from what i am standing on,
But what if.... where I see tufts in lawn,
My mirrored footprints pushing up and lasting long,
Into my world he pushes in,
A happy man with a stronger print,

As i wake  with a worldly dream still inside my head,
I try to store it in the window beside my bed.
Reaching to touch a star, and feeling the cold of glass instead, i realize so close a world,
Since waking--has long been dead.







A silverscreen of car headlight beams,
gliding my walls conveys a supernatural theme,
Faster and faster,
To the only scary scene,
In another world,
A man it seems,
In a  silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white,
Back to the color
Of a skeleton exhumed--
With an unbecoming
oblivion colored tie,
So flawlessly destroying
Edges onto spectral light.
And this suit would animate,
Gasping, trying to adjust,
The imperceptable knot,
Destroying his tailored cumulus.

This tie cast such a doom,
and such a fear,
It stung me still,
And held me dear,
Paralyzed,
Drawing me near,
Just looking into where i will be ending,
Into its destroying digestion,
I was already dissolving,
In darkness ensphered,
Looking out its lining
Into a more abysmal atmosphere.


I woke...
And touched a star on a cold window drawn,
To quickly make this dream be gone,
I ran barefoot outside,
To stand till dawn,
Grateful,
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Dec 5, 2014

Least my dreams are nice,
for black iron bars,  are my blink,
from upper and lower lid.
and when I am resting,
the cage is not rising, depressing--
but forming the celestial canvas,
of  black expanse,
that stars so easily shine in.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Nov 23, 2014

No care in the world,
war, death, or girl,
isn't it so arbitraire,
the beauty of a pearl--
or the color of her hair?
my mother died yesterday,
and I did not care.
Algerian cafes are nice,
but only with the glare,
that comes from the sea,
sending me so inwardly,
if x happens, or z,
it doesn't matter to me,
I don't see his face in the sand,
I know priests must make a living,
and dunes makes up this prison,
that is fine, but I rather parley
with wine--seaside  at the café--
why must religion,
always come from a prison,
maybe if it was out there,
he could walk on water
because of the glare,
and I can see the arbitraire
golden blond of her hair,
instead she cries,
that I am going to die,
and you messieurs,
might as well be x or y,
and religion arbitraire as  pearls,
can I have a smoke?
maybe I'l see him in the curls,
x or y, I still lose my life,
shooting a man with a knife,
now I am tiring,
I do not know why I kept firing,
it was so hot that day,
I was squinting, I could barely see,
oh her skin when she exits water,
I only wanted to get back to Marie,
drink wine with bagets,
under the river lining sycamore trees,
now messieurs, I ask you to leave,
for I am to die,
because for my mother I did not cry,
and you despair for me,
YOUR RELIGION IS SWEAT IN THE EYE,
we should be calling the waiter seaside,
YES I AM TO DIE,
FOR YOUR LIGHT,
IS  GLARE--
BRINGING SQUINTING DARKNESS TO MY MIND,
AND THAT ARBITRAIRE STARE FROM GLARE,
CAN BE X, Y, OR Z, I DO NOT CARE,
PEARLS, GIRLS, AND SMOKING CURLS,
MY DESTINY WAS TO DIE, AND WHY?
THE ARBITIRAIRE BEAUTY OF PEARLS,
I will miss her seaside,
I hope, the crowd cheers my death,
and the guillotine shines,
and blinds me back for good,
to the darkness of my mind.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Oct 11, 2014

Come join me, young ladies,
I am a prince, tall, dark, and handsome,
shouldn't you be able to dance,
dancing like the candelabra,
in my mighty fine mansion,
and my gorgeous girls,
unlike his, my mansion is tall dark and handsome,
the feather will be out of your hand,
dusting and sweeping shall be dancing,
no more waiting,
you will have waiters answering,
yet they shall be silent,
for you have the tongue,
revenge for all that sweeping and dusting,
taking you from sleeping and lusting,
my mansion will babysit,
and give your children instruction,
you deserve leisure,
and so shall your reflection,
be slender as the curtains gusting,
mansion mirrors will be your husband,
you shall hold your husband ransom,
make him jealous of my tall-dark-handsome mansion.
here your dresses will always fit you,
empty shadows will sit and dip you,
your echo's will gossip for your seduction,
and I will babysit,
tis my duty, to give your children instruction.
and when I have your babies,
no need to be ladies,
mock the waiters, drink wine,
the candlelight-- become hazy
" More wine my lady?"
" So cute and so shady."

but I warn, if you go to the balustrade,
by chance,
no moon, no day,
for the sun does not dance,
and the moon has a cratered face,
leave the balcony, return inside,
for drinking and dancing,
you will have control,
and only waiters will be answering,
forever in my tall, dark, and handsome mansion.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Sep 2, 2014

I can hang out with the men,
my skin, like theirs, can stretch and bend.
and assume its original form,
but only after something from me is torn,
I can get gritty with the boys,
they make better friends,
I love how their bodies always mend,
and the more they stretch,
the more they are a friend.--
But when they return,
to their other size,
no longer a boy, I am in their eyes,
my jokes do not reach their ears,
even tho I have stretched,
I am not one of the "guys."
Then, one will bend,
and laugh at my jokes again,
but now I know,
that I am not as flexible as them,
I am only quiet after the stretch,
as they laugh,
but I don't have my body back,
I can get gritty with the boys,
my true friends,
but only when they stretch they bend.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Jul 16, 2014

Did the Pax Americana,
come and go,
is her statue, made of ice and snow.
do I see her, in the fire, and now I don't.
Pax Americana, I hear her, as I go deaf,
I feel you,
as red decorates slowly through my vest.

I am with you, in a tiny-- but vast land--
yet still on my back,
watching sweat pick up crystal sand,
your dune has no debris that I see.
Mid this blackened road--shining so beautifully,

My Lady of Pax, my lady of last laughs,
that came from the briefing,
my lady of things you want to last,
Yet you stay , now that I am bleeding.

Lady Peace,  just like a goodnight kiss,
in respite, you exist,
this war, all I've seen is their pretty olive eyes,
and you are their lips.
you are here now, as eternal momentary bliss.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Jun 12, 2014

In Robert Frost's, poem, he says from desire, the world can end in fire, but the Frost holds with ice, "and ice can suffice," from what Ive seen.... of the orange lime tasting amphetamine, the world can end in adderal's sexy steam, but like Frost, I hold with ice, zombies sleep face down in heroin's cold saltwater streams, orange and blue, two wings of the beast, fire and ice in the bloodstream, fire gets what it desires, but ice never tires.....can the au natural hero contend in the end, against these, fighting the minatour in hell labyrinthine, the answer is yes, from the undersized hero of ancient Greece.

 
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