the crimson of a rose
in the air
leaving on a cold winter day
in old pots
on old tables
spilling its petals

onto the hallways and little rooms of sunlight.


do the churches lead somewhere divine?

forgive the sun
for growing weeds in the garden
on the same light
used to bloom tulips
and daffodills,

forgive the soil
for the things which died in it,

forgive all the sins
carried on the rain
into the earth

Eulogy to Relationships:

Worshipped at the altar
In this
Private temple of sadness
Is a pocket full of sorry
And rainchecks, so grab
The raincoat, and try
To keep dry
In the metallic storm
And stardust of memory;

Stellar winds blow
And eons pass,
I am somewhere there. Particles
so ancient, I am made in the siblings of meloncholia and moons,
And our sun--Assembled into something human,
Something capable of

LOVE

Yet we still keep medusa on the mantle.
Yet we still scavange through the pasts' bones.
Erecting our great mausoleums to the slain tigers
And our own
beast of burden,

And what good is writing poetry in it all
If it
At the very least
Didnt feel good
To elevate the benign and still neglected moments
To a status
Of art.

did you know, azaleas only bloom in the shade.
she's much like that,
bundled in argyle sheets on my couch
with her hair up
and golden hoops in her ears
little red nailpolish on the tips of her fingers,
the colour of Mother Earth on her skin,

she's just like a bouquet of wild petals
spilling heirlooms of universal beauty
upon this room
my eyes
and my soul.

i wonder when it was
i noticed
my relationships with family
and friends
had started to become warmer
kinder,
Gentler. she is--subtle ethereal
change
touching up the darkness
in there, the mystery of
where my heart had gone.
where the good remained.
she is turning the furniture inside
gold.
everything she touches
turns to gold.
she is like Midas.

her laugh
is like spring rain,
she is blooming
blooming
on my couch

delivered through the seasons
without being tainted by
the autumns,
and the winters, someone
else's hand
had never been allowed
none of this
world
had reached her.


in pure,
untouched
uncorrupted
rapture,
my fingers are the first
to trace the contours
and the painted lines
that form her cheeks
and her hips,
i am the luckiest man on earth.
i am in love.

one time, i saw it.
in the window,
a father--the wife,
a couple of kids,
alcoholism
a loveless marriage
a little girl--
right before it turned black,
a thick, sludging like ***** oil
from an engine
shifting over,
black. i didn't
see a childhood,
i saw
abyss.

that's the
only time
she ever spoke
about it
to me. her
darkness, i understood
then, why she would run
from shades of grey,
and lived
with that fake light
in her, the one that
will laugh
at anything
you say
the one that
agrees with everyone
the one that
is loud about having fun
when no one is.

i wish i were king midas.
id turn the moon gold--and make you a pseudo-sun
in the dark, in the night,
to sheen endless reflections
of the real one
so that you are always in light.


if i were king midas
id touch everything
inside of there,
and you'd never know
the night
ever
again.

1

I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
             the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
                      the technicolor
of each pile
                 of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
                         of recording
that I can
             only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
             deflated.
not a single
                work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.

         2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
                                 in the hope of something
to be proud of.

I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
                   not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
                                                   but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
              I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
                  from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.

I have lost my voice as of late,
feeling like prospero living in the island of my mind.
Here's an attempt to describe how I pass my time.*

there are moments when the ache overcomes the present
the scratching demon inside, selfish for something I can’t pronounce
and I find myself swallowing my tears over black coffee, hoping you don’t see.

I look into your hazel eyes and see the frustration with age.
you tell me, ‘I hate being old’
and I quietly tell you to embrace your wisdom
‘you’re only old once, nana’
you laugh and I find my place inside your sweet warble
as we look around for the keys that you just put in your purse.

the small girl within me reaches out and holds your shoulder lightly
guiding you in and out of the slow traffic swimming in southern humidity.
everything has slowed down in the past few months
the decaying town I grew up in is full of molasses minded folk,
and I only wish it was slower as you forget why we are here.
We walk into the the cool air and I tell you we needed to leave the house.
you’ve been folding the dishes and scrubbing the laundry while my grandfather yells about the TV and his inability to find his mind when they put another persons heart inside his chest.
we decide to leave behind the scene of you sobbing in the sink
and drink some black coffee.

You and I have sat so many times
wrapped in fits of laughter
defying the pain of the world.
I try to make simple jokes as an excuse to lose ourselves,
but my new silence has grown with the summer honeysuckle
and I have lost the desire to forget.
We sit side by side, watching the black water slide inside the creek.
You begin telling me how you finally feel relaxed.
I kiss your cheek and tell you I love you.
We smile, no longer needing to grasp for breathless laughter.
The ache becomes a part of every moment
and I breathe in the golden sadness of mortality,
knowing that I am learning the art of dying
in southern heat of the town I was born.