atoms cried for
"home, home, home."
you came. brought
the rains that fell
on blessed fields
and wet the dirt
and crushed the
petals. listen: "ah,"
they gasp, and "here
it is," and "home
is the thing that
hides in the rain."
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
it is dark, and in the center of the dark
is a white spotlight
and a box as if on the floor
of a stage
a hand enters the light
it is lifting the box and holding it up for display
but what is the box
is it pandora’s dowry
or
a collection of nails and screws from my father’s garage
does it drip with old motor oil
are rust flakes clinging to the hand
is it covered in mud and clinging roots
inside a tin robot, ripped playing cards, a length of string
and a box of matches
is it tin or wood is it light or heavy
and if it’s heavy will the thing inside blind me
is it the ark of the covenant
or an old wedding ring
or a penny, or a dead worm
the hand retreats with the box
pulls back into the dark
there is only the spotlight
and the light is gone
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
the last time i flew
it was daylight
i didn’t look out the window.
now
i look outside and see
a thousand lights;
and each light is
a thousand souls
burning against
the
gaslamp yellow nightscape.
clouds provide a familiar metaphor
yet those nightshade souls still glimmer through
where the cotton grey
is weakest
shining
as i like to imagine they will always shine
even though i know
that always is a relative term.
once in Tokyo i had the perfect drink
like electric moonbeams
and violets
and secrets soaked in gin.
i taste it here
in the recycled air above the nightscape
while viewing the souls
that may or may not be
the remnants of fevered dreams.
listen with me
if we’re very quiet, we can hear
the faint strains of
tokyo jazz
filtering through the soft thrum
of wheels and
motorized air
and a crying baby that’s never tasted
the smoky sweet burn of gin and juniper.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
Poor fly.
He taps at the window
longing for his home
but he is stuck inside with me
and my swatter.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Once, after a long summer and a few too many draughts
of harvest ale,
Father Time overslept.
While he ignored his massive
grandfather alarm clock,
the world’s population stood frozen
impatiently checking their watches and muttering to each other
“whatever could have happened?” and
“he’s always been such a reliable employee.”
He only woke when time flew into his bedroom
and nipped him on the ear
once
twice
the third bite was charmed.
Father Time woke to see Baby New Year
glaring and tapping his plump little wrist
from the end of the bed.
Father Time used a number of words that cannot be repeated.
They all had four letters.
Some of them were learned in France.
Afterwards time had to be hastened to make up for when it lost itself.
Leaves fell overnight and animals dropped into hibernation where they stood.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran into each other, so that
people were eating turkey legs while they shopped for
presents.
None of the Christmas trees had been cut down. Instead,
on cold evenings across the world, people stumbled into the woods
lit a single candle
and opened their presents in the snow.
This of course was very messy and that year squirrels and birds had nests made of
wrapping paper and tinsel.
Poor Father Time never heard the end of his slip up.
Years later, he was still getting
alarm clocks and
roosters for his birthday.
He took them and slid them in his voluminous sleeves;
expression grave, as ever, but the slight blush
on the edge of his cheeks gave his embarrassment away.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
Here is a truth:
We may draw lines around a thing,
but they will never be more
than tricks of the eye.
The shapes of things are blurred
and shift too often
to properly map.
Relax.
Rules and nomenclature
ain't no fun, and
bean counting leads to
indigestion.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
Picture in me the ravening beast
and you’ll have a sketch of my character;
though I’ll warn you
it is not I who stalks deadly in the night,
looking for soft flesh on fleeing feet
and the taste of fear.
I save my prowling
for the scullery door and
the elusive glow of the hot oven.
I am the Thing That Scuttles,
the Devourer of Grains,
a card carrying member of the Cheese Sanctification Society.
(Progenitor of Pestilence, too, if you want to get fancy).
Stop up your cracks and close your cellar doors.
Anything less than a full lock down
I consider an invitation.
There are no spells to keep me away for long.
No beauty dares kiss my lips
and try to change me.
Isn’t that grand?
I know of no creature more comforted
by their own monstrosity than I.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
My crossroads is a lonely place.
I know the question
but not the answer for the
brave heart.
Jack Kerouac claimed that he would always choose the mad ones, but
which is better: to flare bright and see the light die all the sooner,
or to bank the embers and welcome the long, slow burn?
Either flame could catch the house alight; more likely that
both will fade cold into the dark.
Am I the sun, or the hearth?
And what better test than this,
the heart’s old desire against a new
and potent love.
Which is the dream?
Which is the shadow?
Go forth and the road becomes stone;
but the soul cannot be torn forever between two paths, lest
it grow mad, or dull.
The future is hidden by thick fog
and the smoke from an old fire *******
Alone, I move unto the precipice and fall...
(But later- much, much later-)
Heart’s path grows clear.
Soon, a step.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
i am a creature of inconvenient lumps and angles trying to fit into the suit i thought i would wear when i was young enough to think thoughts like that.
but the suit doesn’t fit and if i try
if i try to force it on
if i pull it over my head squeeze it over the swelling of my thighs and sharp joints of elbows and the jutting points where the bones of my wrist perch like islands beneath my skin
if i let it smooth the bumps and soften the the angles into something more palatable to the eye
will i ever take it off again?
or will it be a permanent fixture impaled
on the spikes of my own personality
will they say on my tombstone
“she lived. she
was ugly grey but not so hideous
that you would notice her in a crowd,
or across a chasm.”
is it better to be naked in all my deformity
finding no comfort from the cold but a life more
spectacularly violently lived
i would be depraved they would scorn me ridicule me
pity me my foolishness
(but i would feel every glorious rash of the wind. the cold would snap against my skin and raise small bumps and when i breathed the air would seem sharp and clear and real).
the suit is waiting on the back of my closet door.
i turn over.
the mattress holds no comfort for a body
so marred with crooks and cusps and declines.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Heartache spiderwebs
across the landscape; the glass,
cracked, weakens.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC