The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
  And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
  And the harpies of upper air,
  That flutter and laugh and stare.

For the village dead to the moon outspread
  Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
  Where the rivers of madness stream
  Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.

A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
  In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
  And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
  For harvests that fly and fail.

Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
  That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
  Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
  And looses the vast unknown.

So here again stretch the vale and plain
  That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
  Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
  To shake all the world with awe.

And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
  The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
  Shall some day be with the rest,
  And brood with the shades unblest.

Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
  And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
  Of horror and death are penned,
  For the hounds of Time to rend.

The thundercloud parking garage swallows me whole
and drains the authenticity from my smile.
The descending escalator sends me to my personal hell.
All I can think of is my counterfeit countenance
or the carefree singing voice of my mother.
I grasp at the sound, the long lost curl of her hair,
the sun of her eyes.  It's like trying to catch smoke.
The tears before security tell me I'm not alone
though the final embrace of my mom disagrees.
She disappears, fades into the metal detectors.
I'm alone.
I float through the crowd, past half-machine men,
their brows furrowed in stone as they slice through lines
without one last look at the family they wish they had.
They race to winged robots that autograph the sky
like the parting at the end of a letter.  The goodbye.
The stain mochas of Starbucks beckon me.
The neon magazines cheer at me from Hudson News.
Together, we watch the clouds gobble the planes,
mourn the farewell of the familiar, the leaving of love.
Rain pummels the windows like tears down a face.
Again, the machine men, the magazines and mochas
comfort and reassure everything will be alright.

I hear you cry, it makes me look down and to the right. I sigh.
I miss the sparkle in your eye, your laugh and how it makes me high.

I have to make your tears go, but how? I know, a rainbow, now.

I'll tear the blue out of the sky to paint your ceiling with its dye.
I'll **** the orange from the sun. I'll throw it on your walls ***.
I'll strip the green from a willow to splash all over your pillow.
I'll squeeze the poppies for their red and spray it on your bed.

I'll steal the violet from an orchid and spill it on your floor kid.
I'll scrape the yellow off a bee and sprinkle stars for you to see.
I'll ****** the silver from the moon 'n' pour it all over your room.
I've gotta rush and do this soon, I cannot stand to see your gloom.

So, I grab my bag and start to fill it, I run a mile in a minute.
I reach your home and yeah, your there, still sitting in that chair.
Before you can tell me to stay, I shout, “I'll make your day.”
I dip my hand into my sachet, only to see it come out grey.

And looking at my hand I understand, why it's all so bland.
My withdrawal clouded my reason, colours fade as in season.
It wasn't me who took the hue, it wasn't you. It was simply due.
Leaves will come back to the trees, the sun shall shine again with ease,
when the gale turns to breeze and when the waves leave the seas.

While trying to tie all iris in a bow. I forgot what you very well know.
Clouds come and colours go, washed by rain and covered by snow.
Sometimes we just feel low, we rest, we weep, but then we glow.

Little blips of you in the mornings

delicious sights and opulent tastes

night time wet and sleepy all day

summers swimming in pa pa lake

little blips of you so so exhausted

resting slightly upon my shoulder

waking in the rage of sunset fires

little blips in my mind's photography

of magnesium flash bulb memories

when you were here alive with me...


Copyright  2010

I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow

And all the great conclusions coming near.

Words are calculated,
    see past them to the truth they veil.
Every person is an ever-expanding formula:
  the product of a combination of variables
  determined by environment, attitudes,
  interactions, anything; pronounced by
  motives -- Ambition, or the lack there of.
Hear what is said and observe action
                                           to decipher truth:
If you want to understand someone
or something, have NO expectations.