"augustine" poems
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
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…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day’s events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another’s virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will;—
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies,
Nor doom the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
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The Land of Nod (Hebrew: ארץ נוד, eretz-Nod)
is a place mentioned in the Book of Genesis
of the Hebrew Bible, located "on the east of Eden"
(qidmat-‘Eden), where Cain was exiled
by God after Cain had murdered his brother Abel;
According to Genesis 4:16:
_And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD,
and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden._
(וַיֵּ֥צֵא קַ֖יִן מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב בְּאֶֽרֶץ־נֹ֖וד קִדְמַת־עֵֽדֶן)
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod is usually taken to mean
that one takes up a wandering life. Genesis 4:17
relates that after arriving in the Land of Nod,
Cain's wife bore him a son, _Enoch_,
in whose name he built the first city;
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod can mean to live
a wandering life; Gesenius defines (נוּד) as follows:
_TO BE MOVED, TO BE AGITATED_
(Arab. ناد Med. Waw id.), used of a reed
shaken by the wind, 1Ki.14:15; hence to wander,
to be a fugitive, Jer. 4:1; Gen. 4:12, 14; Ps.56:9;
to flee, Ps. 11:1; Jer. 49:30. Figuratively, Isa. 17:11,
נֵד קָצִיר "the harvest has fled" ["but see נֵד ,"
which some take in this place as the subst.]
Much as Cain's name is connected
to the verb meaning "to get" in Genesis 4:1,
the name "Nod" closely resembles the word
"nad" (נָ֖ד), usually translated as "vagabond",
in Genesis 4:12. (In the Septuagint's rendering
of the same verse, God curses Cain
to τρέμων, "trembling")
A Greek version of Nod written as Ναίν
appearing in the _Onomastica Vaticana_
possibly derives from the plural נחים,
which relates to resting and sleeping;
This derivation, coincidentally or not,
connects with the English pun on "nod";
Josephus wrote in Antiquities of the Jews
(c. AD 93) that Cain continued his wickedness
in Nod: resorting to violence and robbery;
establishing weights and measures;
transforming human culture from innocence
into craftiness and deceit; establishing
property lines; and building a fortified city;
Nod is said to be outside of the presence
or face of God: Origen defined Nod
as the land of trembling and wrote
that it symbolized the condition of all
who forsake God; Early commentators
treated it as the opposite of Eden
(worse still than the land of exile
for the rest of humanity); In the English tradition
Nod was sometimes described as a desert
inhabited only by ferocious beasts or monsters;
Others interpreted Nod as dark or even
underground—away from the face of God—
Augustine described unconverted Jews as
dwellers in the land of Nod, which he defined
as commotion and "carnal disquietude"
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
I buried my father:
In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears
My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing
I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on
When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please
I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets
He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P: what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)
Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories
I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,
I will always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
I hope I see the moon in the British Aisles
So I can imagine myself staring from home.
I hope I see the moon from Belgium
as I imagine the old lover I will never forget gazing, exhausted, from Uxbridge.
I hope I seee the moon from Paris
so I can imagine the millenia of poets and I-love-you-till-it-kills-me romancers gazing from French cafes, sipping on their
wine, coffee, tea
and I think of great friends in Victoria, glancing towards it from busses 9 hours later on a commute to Uptown
Downtown
what town?
I hope I see the moon from Vancouver
so I can imagine child-me watching the white of the cheese-like craters wondering nothing
but so, so very curious.
I hope I see the moon from Toronto
past smog and spring-time city shadows
so I can imagine the short-lived friends I made in Ottawa looking to it with awe and smiles
grasping the fingers of a loved one.
Everytime I see that great omnipotent orb I imagine
Marcus Aurelius in the court of Rome
Julius Caesar on the battlefields of Gaul
Charlemagne crossing the Rhine
St. Augustine marching through the desert
Micochondrial Adam tossing a spear into the heart of a boar
Soldiers of the American Revolution
the British war for South Africa
the Prussian Empire
the Third *****
Siddhartha and his son
Li Po hugging his moonlit reflection
Han Shan on cold mountain
Kerouac in San Francisco
Burroughs in Morocco
Snyder in Japan
Thomas walking to work
Brian out on a stroll
My future life lover
future girlfriends
all gazing at that wonderful omnipotent moon
the same moon
that gazes so still
so patient
forever
as far as
I'm concerned.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC
So many “road stories”
from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine.
Each rich in emotion and spirit
most of the stories
have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler
to bathe the soul in word and mood
to throb with the music.
I have recurring dreams.
I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator
can’t find my floor or room
or can’t find my car downtown.
I wander streets, and lots.
Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?
Why do I trip, fall
stay misplaced and lost
find only
transitory
destinations?
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
A message to the boy minding the pastry,
one finger in each the webs
of cosmic lust and mercy,
waiting to be told it is fine to want
the best for everybody:
It is fine. It is fine.
What are you?
Were you born here?
No, I was born on the banks of the Seine,
beside the boneyard of the nameless,
in the pits of Delhi with
the blood of roosters on my toes,
***** who pecked one another
to their entrails because the
colony of the living sunrise was
shrunk to a pocket of feathers and fire
by some wire, wood, and staples.
I was born in the Academy of Athens,
where Socrates made salsa with hemlock
and danced into a dialogue,
because the grocery habaneros were all too tender,
and St. Augustine could offer no alternative.
Never forget - we were born to unfairness;
unfair as long as our appetites differ,
or we exhaust sooner than one another,
or we grip one another differently and come at different times.
The only person less fair than me is God.
But my justice - that is perfect,
like my voice, which has none of a gavel's
authority. Or my heart: which was manacled by giants
and sentenced to be pecked by a flying poem, a girl
with hair she won't comb, a song about Jerusalem.
Fair. **** fair.
I am fair as long as I can wait, quiet -
silent as the sand, sunburned and happy,
to be drawn into
that kindness, the Atlantic - - -
the flip and twist of the sea.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
Early morning
book on Schopenhauer
under your arm
cigarettes
in your pocket
you sat in one
of the cafes
in Dubrovnik
having ordered
a coffee
and lit up
to smoke
the book
put on the table
the ashtray
set so
you observed
the passing people
the females mostly
the gentler ***
as is said
the sway of skirt
or dress
the fine legs
the shape of foot
the figures
slim or plump
the mental study
of the shape of ***
the tightness
of ****
and all the while
at the back
of the mind
the idea of God
the faith required
seemingly lacking
the St Augustine view
wanting to be saved
from sin
but not just yet
the waiter
brought coffee
and cake
just the nibble
for the breakfast’s sake
and you thought
on the night before
the walk in the City
the lights lit up
the passing crowds
the concert
some pianist
playing Chopin
you and your brother
side by side
taking it all in
making the most of
and the indulgence
of wine
and the chatting up
of the waitresses
at the hotel
with no success
and you opened
the Schopenhauer book
the print of page
the scatter of words
ideas too deep
for the morning sun
you closed it up
and sipped the coffee
took a drag
on the cigarette
viewed the cute ***
as it passed you by
summer dresses
short skirts
tight tops
in all colours
shoes or bare feet
to please the eye
and the idea of God
observing
listening in
secretly pleading
maybe you do
or do not
to be absolved
from sometime
the deeper sin.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
1.
we all know versions
of people
we all know blips-
flickering tv screens
with constantly changing channels
on to the next, one after another
maybe this show will feel right
maybe this genre will fit
unsatisfied by the plot
in this episode
unfamiliar with the characters
on the screen
the lighting in this room isn't
quite right
eyes flickering in candlelight
skipping over the horror channel
very quickly
trying to move on to the love scene
2.
you talk about my body
like it is a puzzle we have to finish
i'm waiting for you to realize
it is actually a dress that
will never fit anyone
but being a puzzle gives me
some time, so i let you
piece together the edges
you create a faceless outline and
call it a beautiful frame
for a piece of art you
don't quite understand
3.
but i will never be the basillica
and i am not an augustine
it's impossible to drink
the wine from my insides
without being poisoned by it's strength
we have been fermenting for a long time
and the bread does not break because
it had already been broken
into too many small crumbs
i wonder if you're still hungry
4.
and i think about our houses
both scattered with wooden bits
of the eiffel tower and taj mahal
big ben in the bureau by the wall
the colosseum in the middle
of the kitchen table
sydney opera house suspended
from the ceiling of the bedroom
monuments to so many bodies
we sure like putting them together
but it's hard to find storage space
when you're done
5.
you take pictures to remember
how proud you once were
or sometimes just to seal them in a frame
frozen in time so that the next time
you see them standing in the doorway
like a degenerate masterpiece
you can touch the photograph in your wallet
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Father forgive me my sins,
for I come seeking love
when those who have loved me
have suffered on mine own account.
I come with nothing to give,
I prostrate myself before You
in Your House in St. Augustine
a mere mortal Fool,
besotten with drink and fear.
Father please forgive me,
the sins I have committed in my own name,
this denial of You,
this anger toward You.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
The street named after the Spaniard who discovered the Pacific
The drive named after the Spaniard who conquered Mexico
The lane named after the Spaniard who blessed the Americas’ first Thanksgiving
Yielded enough rubber bands from newspapers
To twine a ball
Round enough
Bouncy enough
For a good game of stickball
Until the kid tasked
With finding rubber bands
From the circle named after the Spaniard who painted pictures
An oddball among all those adventurers
And a cluster of dwellings that didn’t subscribe
To rolls of paper
Hit it into the backyard with the dog on a chain
But fear kept us on a chain
As we stood over the rock wall
Looking for a manila spot
On unwatered St. Augustine
And spotting it
Disdaining it for
The angry barks
Bared teeth of the restrained beast
Letting it wait
For an archeologist centuries hence
(Maybe even a few decades from then)
To find it and marvel
“Even back then humans played games -- or so we assume --
With round objects.”
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
Do you feel how the air moves
Autumn, my love?
I have a secret to confess
Autumn, my love.
I have been blue like the summer sky
Among the cordial zephyrs
Those crowds and their pleasantries
Alight everywhere
As the trees in plumage
Concealing so much as they reveal everything,
Autumn, my love.
It has been a feverous summer,
Mad Augustine march of the southern breeze
Into the remote Tuscarora contemplation
Of lascivious concealing,
Autumn, my love.
You chilled my hands, leading me up
The logging path,
Ignored my glance and kept pulling
My insecurities up to the surface
The grief and lethargy I feel
Stomping through the moving pictures
Of the concealed revealing
Soon the sky will be very clear
And your darkness passes across your face
Much sooner now,
Autumn, my love.
Why did you bring me here, to the edge?
You pause and wait for the sky the perfect
Blend of grey and decay.
You speak and the leaves fall around me
And I feel myself melting into your *****
Covered by your many hands
Curving around my body, enveloping,
With your gravity putting me on my back
And carve my every sacred cerebra
With the twists and moistness, the cool
Air scent of the sleeping earth
Of your belly
Autumn, my love,
I wish to have you always,
Autumn, my love.
Your cracked embrace swims down the ravine
Seeming to wave goodbye.
It’s in time likes these,
Autumn, my love,
I cannot bear the thought of an equinox of passion,
Where the golden sun is soon on its way to setting
Autumn, my love.
You look out, where the sun will rise,
Your footsteps gliding over the edge
Where I cannot chase you out
The valley of your body and you giggle at the fact,
Autumn, my love.
A single leaf falls from your hand,
I wish to have you always, too
But this joy can only perch on the precipice
Of despair
Each day must flee quicker and quicker
You tell me, you’ll love me more when I am gone,
Autumn, my love.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
At the moment of choice
I faltered
Now there needs to be a sacrifice
At their altar
But before I go
Headfirst into the unknown
I need you to see
The true colors of me
You knew I was sensitive
To the threats in the cafeteria
But do you realize
We were all once bacteria?
I'll take the blame
For how I've made you hurt
But is it my fault that I haven't evolved
Past my time as a bug in the dirt?
I know your heart burns
And suicides need revenge
They shouldn't reside next to the daily weather
They should be mystically erected like Stonehenge
I know you feel like all the pain
Is on your side of the fence
I'm just going with my gut here
I'm just trying to make sense
I have a feeling I met her once
In a hostile, sterile place
Don't remember what I said to her
But in those walls, I let no one into my true head space
I have birthmarks on my ears
And when I was young, I stepped on a toad
One could be a sign of something miraculous
One could be a sign of a wicked, wretched road
I know your people value the color red
I know you protect those with wings
But like Saint Augustine said,
All birds have their origins in the sea
I know you cast your spells
While I say my prayers
Magic and religion were once one
Till divided on a truth or dare
The soul of the world is nourished
By happiness, sadness and envy
Our desires came from the Universal Soul
Even if they caused a frenzy
Even though Lisa said it didn't matter
I have one last thing to say before I'm done
The soul of the one you love is everywhere around you
Even if Earth is the third planet from the sun
(ALL THINGS ARE ONE)
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
you were too much like a nectarine
in early summer. All poreless and bright
and insinuating sweetness. Filled me up
with your secret eruption then shut me down
with your sleek silver tongue. Lava barricaded my eardrums,
enhancing my blood, fire in your eyes.
I was a plum, stealing forth
in the wake of your Augustine heat. My tender skin
gave way to your deft touch.
But then I bit down,
tasted the flesh beneath your glossy sheen
and oh how it betrays you!
So yellow and unripe, so taut with newness,
still clinging to the brightness of dawn,
spring-frozen with fear of the darkness
of my nectar.
Today I woke up with a magnet
in my pitted stomach. Echoes of
cold metal scour my throat. That love-
-less twang in the aortal penumbras--hope,
a refuge swallowed by the ephemeral night.
I always knew
you were too much like a nectarine
in early summer.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 8:56 AM UTC
I'd like to tell a true story to you, dear readers. It's not exactly a nice story, but it's one I've only told to a few, so I think the time has come to make it public, especially since I know that the only person involved that would read it is me. This is a story that has changed my life, for good or ill, some experience that curdled my perception of how the world I live in works.
One night, years ago, I wound up at a house party in beautiful St. Augustine, and I was sober when I got there, very late, as I had promised to be the dd. But, we walked from the dorms back to Riberia Street, so I had no responsibilities once we got there. So, while drinking and partaking of other choice substances, I met the now famous Emily, she who I first started really writing for, she who set me free from some pointless idea of what was necessary. Dear God she had perfect ******* and could kiss like French writers wished their wives or lovers could kiss. I fell in love with her that night....and also was wounded at the same time.
Emily had three friends, a Latina from Miami called Natasha ironically, a White girl from up North named Lauren Ruotollo, and another chick from up that way who introduced herself as Kiki. I was in the middle of a conversation with Emily, when I had to *** So, naturally I walked off the porch and did my business on the side of that house, and while standing there I looked to my left and saw a random dude shoving his thing into a girl's mouth propped against a tree. I thought nothing of it in that moment, and went back to talking to that perfect Emily.
What felt like hours or honestly was only minutes later, on the back porch with my tongue in Emily's mouth and my hand up her shirt, Natasha and Lauren found us; hunting for Kiki. I found her out back, not ten yards from where Emily and I were standing. She was the girl taking it hard from random ******* who left her with not even a thank you. Her skirt and ******* were racked up over her stomach, and when I picked her up, she coughed up *** all over my shirt. I carried her to Natasha's car and put her inside, yelling to God that He owed me one. Emily, Natasha, Lauren and Kiki then rolled off into the wee morning hours, and a little piece of my soul died.
I went back inside that house and couldn't find that empty piece of **** So I snorted an entire 8 ball and took off my *** covered shirt in the middle of Riberia and burned that ****** then and there.
So when you ask me why I have some problems that didn't come from the Army, I'll tell you this story.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Moses descends from the rugged heights of Sinai bearing the tablet
"You shall not ******
Nietzche organizes the cobwebs of his mind to declare morality is his own
"God is dead"
Even Monty Python creates mockery and mishap from "The Meaning of Life."
A Macedonian, a **** a Patriot
with Intelligence, Voice, and Sword
step over the caution tape and march nations
into the deepest valleys atop the heights of Everest.
The likes of Augustine put their chips on the table for patience
but Patton has a pair of aces and the academics fold before the river.
The denotations of Good and Evil are forever
infinite and versatile to the dismay of the Philosopher,
while God himself
is denied power
to undo the past.
Humanity lives
on the nourishment
of knowledge.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
"It was pride that made angels into devils.
Humility makes men into angels."
Well, then, Saint Augustine...
what happens when men are prideful?
For if this curse can transform
something as pure, genuine, serene even,
into evil incarnate,
what hope do mere mortals have?
How do we combat this inner demon,
whispering in our ear,
stroking our egos,
egging on vanities and successes,
when all we try to do is
belong.
To validate our existence.
To prove our worth.
To be able to point to something and say
"Hey, look what I can do,
all my hard work paid off."
While that's all well in good,
how can we safely toe the line
between having this pride and motivation,
without becoming consumed in the fire?
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
so much
remember how we got really very lost in st. augustine, and ended up finding somewhere beautiful on unfamiliar beaches, smoking a bowl next to a oceanside bar dimly lit with christmas lights that was playing one good song after another?
remember how you looked at me the first time we intertwined, alone, laid in big fields, and i noted, how your eyes looked like the freshest honey? the air was full of blossoming love
last night i rolled into you and my head fit right into the nook where your arm meets your shoulder. i said, you are like markham park in the winter time. seeing you is like seeing the excitement i had when i first saw snow, and oh how i expected it to resemble big asterisks falling from bloated clouds, because i live in florida, and that’s all i’d seen.
the bitter cold that settles into a comfortable warmth once you slip on another layer leaves me in a satiated daze. my eyes well up with the thought of you. memories of our shared existence streak past my cheeks and drip off my jaw.
we were laying on the floor.
i jolted and you embraced me.
it was night, and i rubbed your nose, just like my favorite song said to do.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
I always have this feeling.
That there are these following
Eyes always on my back
Or on the top of my head
Or in my black blood. . .
Do you know what I mean?
It is in a sense, comforting?
And completely sickening all at
Once and I have nothing left
To speak at all.
But one time, sometime ago
I felt a strange relief.
No more eyes on the back
Of my head or your head on my
Spiny back; crooked teeth
Straightened back out
By the cold streets
Of those bizarre,
******
and draining
cities.
Saint Pete, Oh Saint Peter!
Where are you now?
Your smooth shadiness and weird wilderness
Covered up my sins but only for a little bit
A moment in a movement inward
Inside my lungs, I breathe you in
I’m going outside and out of my mind
They forgive me for my sins. . .
But, I still love you.
Saint Augustine, Saint Augustine!
I will be back to you
I will let your silly green water
Take me in and bring me home
I’ve been too far gone for far too long
Sliding around the other stars in this galaxy
Seeing the inside of some strange girls
In the complete capture of a crutch coma
I let you go. . .
But, I still love you.
I thank you both,
(True Gentlemen)
(Wicked Women)
For your hands
They were there
(For Strength)
(For Shade)
To cover the curse
Of these
(Dying)
(Lying)
Eyes
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
augustine, what have you done to me?
i should feel wildfires without guilt
i should tremble on the cusp between
wishing i could be entirely consumed
and wishing i could erupt.
we should shiver without fear
of melting retribution.
god can hold the candle that drips
hot wax on my nape,
i don't believe they hate what they create.
augustine, you've made me unclean.
we spend hours smearing acid between two
bodies, don't we erode our impurities?
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC
Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.
A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.
Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.
Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.
The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”
There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.
There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****
The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.
A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.
An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.
Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.
Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth of Ontario.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
I know that this mind
This wicked and ****** up mind
Will sink farther than yours
Under the waves of the graves
That has been opened up before me
and your once perfect thoughts
If there is even such a thing
I’m sure you thought that
Wear the skin of the corpses
That have followed you downtown
Into the ****** streets of that town
Into the ****** streets of Saint Augustine
or Saint Petersburg or Gainesville, Florida
I wonder which one I’ll burn away first
In the ******* emptiness of my heart
Thank you, for beginning the start of my madness
Oh well, I’m not sure if it was you that pushed it off
I think it was the sick sadness of world that has turned me on
The rush I get when I write these words
The worse words that connect and form verses
That will infect the simplest things that once were the simplest things
Before us, but are now just lies and memories
Dead men tell no tales.
So let the world continue without ever believing that we were real
Keep on telling yourself that the past should stay dead
Because it will, unless you **** me…
And I swear I’ll haunt you.
Infinity.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC