the shops were
packed out to-day
everyone was on
a shopping foray
all I wanted
was four dining chairs
but the furniture store
had none of these wares
the shopping experience
is oft fraught with distress
especially when one can't get items
which bring happiness
I'll have to resort
to shopping online
at least there
I can obtain what I so pine
it is time for me
to do a Google search
to find four dining chairs
made out of birch
The trip complete there’s nothing left
Save for the souvineirs.
It was a blast, a welcome rest
I’ll think of it for years.
But here I am at LAX
No dream, no cardigan.
I’ll have to wait a hundred years
Just to lift off again.
Don’t get me wrong the airport’s nice,
The smell is odorless?
The chairs, the chairs, Oh god, the chairs:
The source of my unrest.
I’ll sit and sit and try and sleep
but always: no avail.
The strangers stare, don’t offer help
They watch me as I flail.
The pillow doesn’t offer rest
The armrest pokes me, merciless
My mind white-hot and furious
Just calm down.
Relax your self.
It will all be over soon.
Denied: my only boon.
The music always reminds me of her skin
so gently tender
she invites me in to feel the notes,she plays
upon her heart strings and she lays herself to strum some more,then in these lonely moors of melody
I sing to keep her company and to be at one with her,we share the staves and octaves,enslaved to what becomes desire and the music that she plays defies the laws of gravity where we both float in that ecstasy that only lovers know.
There is little time to feel the rhythm,hear the rhyme but I will stay,I want to watch the play of fingers over frets and let's do it once again.
I watch as the evening of the last day rolls on in and pin my ears back to listen and try to understand,
where did the music begin and did I know how fast or slow to make those moves?
I want to go back to the start and restring the lonely heart or play symphonies across her keys
and if only this could be,
that I could find the music man in me.
In the middle of the desperation sea
miles from land
you torture me
with sadness rising up in tides that carry me across the scales,
and as my confessions ,declarations sail into port fortissimo
I want you to know
that now I know and can we play the music one more time
before I go.
Reckless could no longer describe us.
Our movements become a pattern, a series of gives and takes.
We've taken comfort in the creak in the floor.
We look for stability in the reliability of each other.
We have forgotten that this is where we started,
but found its never to late to return.
So we may have become
and returned to each other.
Our lives have been worn by the break of each new day,
but we count few ways
to waste our days
Worst than someone pulling you down a ladder.
Worst than not having a liver to filter your bladder.
The enemy of enemies is your lover when night falls begins.
Wash away all that is not true in the morning forget your sins.
Toast to highest and dash past the library with less knowledge.
Tip the stripper as she dance and wish to get your balls polished.
The last to sit down will stand forever lost in a typhoon.
Keep turning a blind eye to the obvious life will past by soon
He rested his walking stick by the corner
having stubbed his toe,
overseeing the cat grass grow.
Outside he would stoop only for wall flowers
refusing politely to enter stately homes,
for he wore but one Name, his own.
Under nocturnal happenstance
he would fend for the stray Marmalade cats
their gratitude matching his deciduous cloak.
I was sitting in a blue chair,
rough against my skin
but strong and soft against my body.
I felt supported,
weighed down by the knowledge that I could stay here
if I wanted.
And I felt pulled,
compelled by the idea that somewhere
was waiting for me,
tapping their foot in time
to the seconds that passed,
as if they really truly cared
about being on time.
And in turn,
I tapped my fingers on the arm of this chair,
in time to the steps of others passing by,
in rhythm with the music that played in my head,
still echoing from this morning,
when I stepped off the train
stuffed in my ears,
and I was playing a song that made me happy.
I tapped out the rhythm,
deep into the confines of this solid chair,
and finally ready to stand up.
One last tap,
one final fear to go;
and I pulled myself straight,
stretched myself thin,
breathed in the oxygen of a new day,
arranged my scarf around my shoulders,
gathered perfection up around my arms,
set my smile in place,
and made it there on time
just for you.
There are ghost chairs
dancing shadows in my kitchen
it's a division of demons
creeping into the limelight.
I hold my fists tight.
I am riveted in this breath
staring at the darkness;
the lines on the walls;
I am re-walking dark halls
between men legs.
I can't break my eyes away.
I reach for pictures.
This is a trigger
in full blown affect.
so they'll understand
how unexpected flashbacks
wait lurking in corners.
and movie scenes
in case I'm swept in reverse
to the times I was hurt.
Bruises never go away.
They're right here
dancing in the shadows
cast by the day.
I'm stuck in ghost chairs
missing fistfuls of hair.
and I'm there again screaming.
The memory echoes like
thunder in my head.
Don't travel there today
But you see
makes the minutes go slow so
it's best to write a poem
and let it seep
to keep it from whispering
I don't wish to recall
yet I long to fill the holes
sift through the dirt
and dig up the bones.
Someone's gotta pay atonement
for the innocence they took,
but death has come to greet the swine
and they're almost off the hook.
One day they'll return
to where the fires burn
and in the middle will be a chair
for the wicked fan fare.
I hope they splay their wrists bare
and eat it with the twine
like they did mine.
All I have left are the pictures
the sunlight makes in halls,
when my mind decides to recall,
an ink stained bed sheet,
a thousand journeys
written on lined paper,
and a ghost chair
dancing on my wall.
copyright @ dbv publishing
Peace will forever hunt my dreams
because i call him every night
and i'm greeted with his answering machine
"Peace is not here, peace is not there"
if i left a message at the tone
i'd get a busy line or hear the operator drone on
but that's getting somewhere right?
peace is never home
everytime i call war answers the phone
he sits by it never leaving it alone
crying in between disappointing phone calls
putting pictures on milk cartons
and writing poems
searching for his long lost friend
peace never made it home