I see beauty in dark places
Like diamonds in a mine
Some gems are rough,
In need of polish
But I hate to see waste
And find potential in all
Some sparkle where, in others,
Elegance may be understated
Personally I like those best
The most valuable treasures in life
Are often those which were hardest to find

Wounds heal like
hell frozen over--
abstracted blood
never blends in
with the territory
fast enough.
Your long, sharp,
superintelligent
fingernails stake
their claim.
Always repeating:
'oh you poor thing'...
while picking away.

some people
are just
not very smart.

i'm talking adults.

they just don't have the
it, the
thing
that all the smarties
seem to have.
but they do seem
to talk a good game.

a key component is missing.
things don't add up.

and it's a
strange thing to witness,
to come to terms with,
to accept.

but let me tell you
the strangest thing
the most maddening of things:

observing other people
who you otherwise know
as smart people
fall prey
to one of the dummies.
the liars.
the snakes in the grass.

observing you
in this state of
sickness
and dementia
and delusion
is unreal.

you don't seem to be aware
that you are sick at all.

and in watching the
contortions you will make
for this fraud,
i see that stance
you have taken
on me.

Tonight the ceiling fan
clicks with every turn.

The bedside clock ticks
and tocks in moonglow.

I close my eyes
and one by one
the light bulbs in
the house explode.

The darkness
becomes me,
I think.

I wear it silky black,
a spider-tailored suit
imponderous as ether.

I focus on the anesthetic sound
of a future breathing inside me.

Memory folds like
an obsolete map—

a distant archipelago
of diminishing stars.

Years ago, I’m sure,
we married in a copse
blue with wild hyacinth.

Tonight the satellites
cut like diamond tips,

lugubrious orbits etching
across a bedroom window.

Dawn always blooms with
the sound of breaking glass.

When was the last time you took a good look.
Sat in front of the mirror singing the hook,
Of some dark song you heard off a nook.
Which makes no sense because I thought it was a "book".
But who cares you're losing sight,
Of what everyone's talking about; the true "fight".
Starting to realize the futures not to bright,
For some? No for all, because even the biggest have to fall.
Like the leaves on the trees of fall,
This poem is gross and raw.
There's no skeleton to keep its reflection,
In the mirror you continue to look at your reflection
Is that your reflection?
No, because even the smallest have to fall.

I think back to that smell, that person, that memory. I smile because I remember.  All I can think about is who I once was. But eventually I'm knocked back to present time, wishing for something better, wishing for that memory. Why can't I live in the past, never thinking about the future?

Cats and the Office of Prime

With the dignity of an abbess the cat
Enthrones herself upon the morning fence
To welcome with due solemn liturgies
The daily rising of the given sun

Her slow lavabo accomplished, she turns
Offering the peace of Cat to the assembly:
The lesser cats, the even lesser dogs
The night-chilled lawn, the dewy leaves, the light

She blinks her blessings there upon the day

     And all is complete

When happy children then come out to play