The slow progression
Ghosts, headlights past my window
The million footed lives
And the slow drum beat of the city
The clip-clip of horse's hooves, the squeal
Of babies, tires, old gods dying in the gutters
The honking of street cars
And the ghosts
All million footed
Wandering, rootless
On the corner, thick shades hide
****** eyes
Laughter
Drowned in the sirens and the street cars
And ghosts
Million footed, Passing
Ethereal and true
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
The wind, the wind, that wind;
That maddening,
Howling
Wind, stoking
Fires in your ears and
Driving your legs (left,
Right left) catching
Cheeks and buffeting your eyelashes; digs
That rope deeper, deeper
Into your skin.
Feel
The wind and grip
The earth with your feet, rip
Slowly,
Almost
Soft
At the fresh earth and
****
Deep, hard:
Breathe, and dig.
The wind, tearing
At your eyes ---squinting,
Over the clouds you
See the coronation of the sun ---
And battering your body, whispering
Soft musings
Midst the howls and the thunder --
Straining, hear
The voices, hear the song --
And that rope,
Pulling
You,
Attached to the clouds and threatening
To tear you into the open sky the
Maelstrom -- but
Maybe, just maybe, in its eye
You'll find peace you
Hear it tongue in your ear -- and
Listen
To the crackling and the breaking
Of trees and the far distant shouts and
Hear
The whispering and
Remember
Ulysses lashed to the mast
To listen to the sirens and
Grit, grind your teeth and drive
Your legs (one step
At a time, its there
In front
You're sure) and
Drive,
Drive
Drive with all
Your might against
That eternal ******* sky
To the clearness of the blue
And stillness of a night just beyond
Your vision, right past
The gold rimmed evening of a yesterday, right
In front of you in that foggy
Tomorrow that may never come, drive
Your feet and grit
Your teeth and
Revel
For a moment
In the song of the muses.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
When I die put pennies over my eyes
And burn my body
On some foreign shore
When I draw my last breath,
May my faltering heart be met
With the trumpeting silence,
The thundering of that purple-hued night
Let me **** forth the marrow from life,
As my body will one day be broken
And when I die
Put pennies over my eyes,
And do not weep
Knowing
I have lived
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
If I were a painter
I would craft a goddess, hung
Immortal to some museum
or midst the the dusty collection of some baron
With body, flawless
Form, divine
And all of her admirers
Turning the muses flanking Apollo, jealous
But the real fire, the life giving spark
Would flare mad passion in her eyes
And the thundering, A call;
Theodora, freed from the patriarchy of old Byzantium
A bearer of the old magic, ghosts dancing from another time
Her beauty would be harmonious
To the glittering brown-gold of honeydew
And bursting,
Like a symphony loud and tremulous
All the true aesthetes, trembling
That a painter got to meet a woman so
To set his heart afire
And if I had been born a sculptor
If I had been given the power to shape
My crowning achievement
The great anthem of my time, spent
Would be a face;
A chin, gently tilted skyward
The eyes, sparkling with that unknown sea
Hair disheveled, parted, smoothing the cheeks
and the glimmer of lips,
Softly pursed;
But the eyes, the doorways to that tidal force
All of the dreams
All of the feelings, trapped and rolling, the ocean beneath
Would burst forth; A thousand church candles,
Or a gathering of street lights.
If I were a sculptor my greatest achievement would be cast in Lady's Dream
Not for the skin, but for the glittering eyes
Or if I were a composer
Working on my symphony
I would have the brasses buzzing,
and the strings
A chorus of thought
And the melody would be defined not by the loudness
But the silences
The gaps of deep thought, juxtaposed
Amongst the roaring
The soft gasps of tide being pulled back to sea
and all of the sweet undulations, the rivers of a mind
If I were a composer the audience would get a glimpse,
The briefest moment,
Of the beauty
Of quiet
The deepness
Of thought
But I am merely a poet,
A poor shaper of words
Strung out on hope,
Gambling on luck,
Trapped, eternally, to the brightness of the sun
And lost to those whirlwind emotions that govern men so
And for a moment, smiling,
I got to know the wildness in another poet's eyes
The softness of her smile,
And if I could spell love in her heart
I would
But I am merely a poet,
A poor shaper of words
And with these powers
I can merely say this:
When I say beauty
and the thoughts fall loosely on the page,
hopefully bringing forth a smile
When I say beauty,
When I say beauty
What I mean:
You.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC