I know no words.
I know no meaning.
I cannot describe to you the explosion of color
Flashing in the night sky
On a glorious Holiday.
I cannot show you the ocean, how it twinkles
And how it loves to play
How she lets the little ones climb upon her back
And tosses them around.
I cannot fathom it.
I am nothing.
I do not have words.
I have mountains of joy.
I have seas of rage.
I have skies of peace.
They are something.
I can give you these.

I can give you these.

I can give you these.





... And so I give thee my life. Take my thoughts. Remember them.

With brain bashing into head cavity,
the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out
to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs
to evacuate before drowning.
"Quit clowning around in there and
save yourselves!"
The moody mistress creates her own hells:
congratulations!
Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed,
she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head
with taffy, thick like molasses,
cooking sugar in the kitchen with
the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth.
Dried up *** stains litter her couch
as she wakes up to turn the cushions
and search for loose change
to fill up her coin pouch.
"Ouch! Ouch!"
She calls out, clean
sheets on a new day,
his fingers firing in a frenzy
and introducing the fusion of
pleasure and pain.
He smells of benzene and
she's afraid of burning,
stomach churning and
using gasoline as lubricant.
He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss.
She misses him at her day job
when she runs around town
robbing banks and
picking up handkerchiefs
that grandmothers drop on the ground.
He would pound
his manhood into a brick wall
if it moved like her,
but the skin-and-bones combo
woos him to coo at her
as swarms of sparrows
nest in her ***** hair.
Spit shined shoes and
riding leaves blown on the air,
she dreams of him awake,
listless eyes alive and pulsing
behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus.
She makes magic potions out of the scents
left over on one of her
mismatching pillow cases.
He tastes like roasted red peppers
and lingering mace:
her eyes water as she
chokes back ***** daintily,
like a queen.
His eyes gleam mean as
he steals her breath to
add it to his bursting bank account,
releasing her to give her back only gasps,
the 2% interest.
She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps,
but he sees her as a phantom,
creeping through the floorboards,
a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.

The Vault stands resolute
Against acidic Time.
It must have much to say.
There is much it must have seen.

It's steady, stony gaze
Is all that now remains
To stand guard over nothing;
Duty-bound to stay.

What resides within?
It is aching to become known.
What resides within?

We rush the beckoning gate,
We push and pry and pull.
Today is a first for the Vault:
For the first time it loses a fight.

The darkness confronts us,
Accusing and severe.
Apprehension crawls up our spines:
What has been hidden here?

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

We set foot inside,
Our steps unnervingly loud.
The cold sun nips our heels.
The darkness caresses our brow.

What's that ahead?
I believe it is light.
The faintest of glimmers:
Thin golden thread.

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

With the greatest of caution
We open this new door.
Beyond is a strange old creature,
Back to the wall, sitting on the floor.

His flesh is pale and creased,
But his eyes are anything but idle.
"What is this place?", we ask.
His answer comes with a smile:

"This is Man's Vault.
It is a reservoir of what we were
Long before the missiles or the disease
Or by both we all were burned".

"Who are you?"

"I am the Curator, the Chronicler.
This place is of my own work.
I've spent day and night here,
Building it with record, picture and book."

"What may we do with it?"

"That is for you alone to decide.
The collection must pass to new hands.
My purpose here has been served.
In this present realm I will not much longer bide."

On concluding his final, heavy quatrain,
He breathed his long life out.
And the liveliness from out his eyes did drain

For several minutes, we stood in silence.
As a weight pulled down on our hearts.
A race had died before our eyes,
And left to us its inheritance.

Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

---

I keep you in a book,
Tucked away in the top drawer
of my night stand
I flip through
from time to time
when I can't sleep
when I can't read
when the words don't come
as quickly as the morning does

You're a grain of rice.
Now you have a face.
A hospital bracelet
Boy, 7/27/2011, 10:15am
Folded up in a plastic sleeve
You're dressed like Santa
For your first Christmas

We have the same smile

In this one I'm leaning forward
and your arms and legs
dangle in the air
We were at the park
You loved the flowers and bushes,
the butterflies and birds that
scattered as I pushed you along
The path

The book isn't full,
A plaid patterned
sticky note
shaped like a heart reads
"More to come soon."

Night after night,
book after book,
Crumpled page after crumpled page,

the morning comes.

Going back to memory lane
Holding the picture to see what I experienced, good or not
Dusting away my dusty, rusty memories
Smiling, frowning down that long windy road of mine
Realizing you can't go back to that moment
Realizing that next time. . .
You'll keep it, capture it and treasure it
And you'll realize how much that memory had meant once you go back to memory land once again

They say to have a writer
Fall in love with you
So you will never die.
But I say
Seize the love of a musician.
Someone to write you
Into colors in the air
And star-****** behind the eyelids
Of any who will listen
To the tale of you that they wrote.

Musicians, like writers,
Bring light through a fog
With their love-speak and poems.
But music-makers
Can create flowers in winter
And warmth without fire.
Their melodies dance
Over the swish of grass blades
And between the tooth-gaps of children
Whose fingers are sticky
With sweet popsicle juice
While an oil-painted scene
Is painted in your mind.

So be cherished my a musician
And hear yourself forever;
Be sung by a hundred different voices,
Danced by fairies and pretty young girls,
Costumed in dissonance,
Etched into souls.
For you can never really die
When you echo forever in the cavern
Of a good song.

When you left us
You left me your laptop
Your laptop was like your life
When you had one

With it you Left me
Poems
Music
Pictures
Your highscores on The preprogrammed games
Secrets
&
Memories

But
They're not you
and you left
and what happens when I've
memorized
all the poems
the pictures
and
The highscores are beat
The secrets are irrelevant
The memories have faded
Along with the Thought of You
and your Future