"demarcation" poems
I dream of Ruby
Bridges with diamond gutters
Demarcation flows
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line
~
*all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null*
~~
The Fall Line
first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls
the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted
so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized
knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem
selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother
letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words
pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt
~~~
silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living
*all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null*
the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful
whatever
one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess
**for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,**
salvation or saving
11/26/16
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Mindanao rain
drain a mind:
rain, mind an a, o (or lack of
the voweled demarcation)
a man rid
or
a dim man in
a man;
Danao
sings something
blood writes heavily
we have many cicatrices
mind
the
now
arid mind
man rid of
a, o — vowels to
fruition a total emphasis
and man
in a drain, no strong aid
in rain — in the
eyes of
god is the
true
anon man
in the rain
amid rain-moan
or nomad in rain.
a **** I On,
you
complete the atrocity.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:
A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.
“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as
marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
soul brothers from other mothers,
fellow city dwellers,
one up downtown
one down uptown,
fellow riders,
of the underground
of the by-NY-ways
of America
we met years ago ruminating on poetry,
late one night/early one morn,
just like us,
there is no difference,
call the hour what you want,
we spoke one language,
long long ago
in the early days here at HP
the I, lion of gray stumbled on me,
with a smiling, stunning midnight crosstown compliment,
kindred instant
he stole
my breath, with work that..
declaimed notions of
quiet unshouted artistry excellent
and a new appetite was birthed
in my head, in my bed
one night
the young black man-father and the
aging white-grandfather
so little in common,
but in the early morn,
we both haunt the hallways
of the city of poetry,
speaking the poetry of the city,
where blood is but
two colors
black and white,
like the poem words we share
that you are now eye-reading
and
in our torn,
but not yet shredded country,
we find ways to speak
I am long done, past being the past,
he is the dapper father of the future
and the river boundaries we share,
on different sides
are lines of connection
not demarcation
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
life choices cast in iron skillets,
presented choices that possess no flexibility
twice, she asks me today
morning fruitage, on offer,
peaches ripe to rip real sweet perfection
from your eyes to the remembering salivating mouth,
or
sweet but just **** enough
strawberries that will wince your tongue buds
intolerant of either, but perfect together
acorn squash,
over roasted to be the violin section
to your barbecued chicken orchestra serenading,
but which shall be the sweetener,
honey or maple syrup,
similar but different
the kitchen floor explosive shakes,
pans to the floor fall, eyelet unhooked all,
spices from cabinets burst forth,
kitchen mittens slapping each other
in utter disbelief
when I reply,
let us choose both!
for there is no bifurcation,
no line of demarcation
on our taste buds
this a truthful -
our lives a perpetual blending,
both will login lead to a
the right and proper ending
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
The Other Woman (Kisses Incessant)
*There always is one.
I am a man, and yes that's my excuse.
It's not as if I kept her hid from your penetrating eyes.^
She has icing on her nose,
Heart shaped sunglasses hiding her pizazz,
She knows about my other woman too.
I write love poems for her too,
Like this one.*
Kisses incessant,
ten thousand for the present,
ten thousand more,
stored away for the future,
secreted in this poem
lest my lips dare to forget how!
Hugs galore,
beyond no more,
limitless,
defying foolish boundaries of
"enough, grandpa!"
Limit is an artifice,
a mind-made precipice,
kisses for the children,
are ethereal, open sky-wide,
limitless, here and now,
forever, for herein,
an oath sworn, taken.
Horizons demand demarcation,
physical selves,
containers for multi-taskers,
simultaneous five sense users,
ultimately biodegrade
after three or four choices made
But fret not, rest easy,
my love, my darling granddaughter,
here and now
and yet to come,
for the love I feel
and the kisses I provide
are spiritual cells,
that will divide and grow,
and never fade
**Kisses incessant,
one for the present,
millions for the future,
lest my lips forget how!**
Tears now, as I write,
thousands more to share
with you for when,
the inevitable arrivistes,
heartbreak and sadness,
Boyfriend troubles,
infuse your inexperienced heart
Even my best friends,
these bespoke words
that I string together,
for our future together, unneeded,
for when I go silent...
The reality of this composition
of kisses incessant,
of hugs galore,
tears and thoughts,
is for you, for us,
for now, for whenever,
for our forever, whatever that be,
but that too, limitless,
for this poem will be stored, incised in our
cojoined hearts
and in our genes
**For my beloved, my Isabel full of Grace
Oct 22, 2011**
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
fresh orange clementines on a
white kitchen counter,
incongruous with a windowed view of
white winter's barometric pressures.
eye illusions,
making no sense,
like me drinking
ice coffee in NYC on
New Year's Eve.
New Years Eve too,
a nonsensical notation,
an illusory line,
imposed upon us by
calendar salesmen and astronomers,
for profit and seals of good timekeeping.
There is no solstice,
no verifiable, demonstrable,
celestial line of demarcation,
just a box on a calendar
of man-made paper,
man-dating
fresh thinking,
de-man-ding,
we gaily clad ourselves
in suits of optimistic armor,
heavy with good cheer,
so much so,
we list to one side
under a burden
of greater expectations
the starting line is
worldwide, continental.
a ball drops
to signal the beginning of a new
human race to
another artifice in future time.
with inebriated staggering starts
over staggered time zones,
thus creating a continuous,
rolling wave-eve of resolutions.
I say to myself,
what the heck,
why not!
if the whole world
must share
but one
global illusion,
this one,
fresh starts of fresh hearts,
is not a bad one,
maybe, perhaps,
as good as it gets?
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
We are
one but we are
not. You reflect the
image that I project,
yet we are not the
same. We are
pens
that
are limited, and are taught
to perpetuate stories only with blank
papers; stars that are gifted with
ethereal shine, but upon its
acceptance, the clouds
inevitably create
a demarcation.
It screams a rule
that stars may only fall for
wishes, and not to gift their innate
shine to another star. The sun screams
that two ends of polychromatic rainbows
may not meet in order to preserve the treasures.
But I stand before you, a similar image of you. We
are unfathomable depths but with divergent trenches.
Everyday we hear the
sun scream, and I say
do not fear its flare.
For in love we are
free, and in love
we are both
limitless.
We are
free.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
Demarcation embossed on her skin, puncture point left with a pin
Fishnet stockings for the masses, Wiccan enjoyed in classes.
Personality goes from void to resigned, alternate progression good and primed.
Keen eyed father takes it all to heart, seeing his daughter’s wrist opened with a part.
Packs up and moves them all down to San Tropez
Hoping freedom in peace would take it all away.
Clean cut, concise and thin, award worthy with a stellar grin
An esteemed academic decathlete, salacious in the recesses of his sleep
Pressure mounted at too harsh an angle, fell back on those that dangle
Clean and cut with a proclivity for exposure, an outlet to relinquish his composure.
Packed up and moved down to San Tropez
His father thought it could take it all away
Fed and bred on notions of sin, premature birth, no more spin.
Baggy-eyed and caught in heat, the reasons that led her to cheat.
Husband took it as the answer to a problem, the baby could no longer haunt him.
She fell back into a deadlock stare, her husband thought it was a prolonged glare.
He packed them up and moved down to San Tropez
No amount of travel could take that all away.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
My brain buzzes and my fingers dance.
My eyes twitch and dart to make the world vibrate.
Too much coffee and my heart slows down to one,
long,
drawn-out
thuwump.
I feel the fibers in my muscles coil like a snake.
I'm all adrenaline and nothing to do.
No fight to be had,
no flight to be made,
no harm,
nor foul,
nor **** to be given.
Wires pulled taut,
I could strike out a tune,
make the bones dance
a crackhead jig.
Long breaths in staccato time,
high on the oh-2 painting my brain red.
I can feel my whiskers like an aura,
hovering over my skin,
every hair a bright,
electric
nerve.
Throb, pulse, twitch.
Writhe, dance, squirm.
Eyes-wide,
drink it in,
eat the lightwave whole.
Bits and bits and bits
stab,
pierce,
*****
puncture,
penetrate,
explode
into image,
view,
vista,
site,
sight,
seen,
scene.
It's all the same.
All light
and heat
and motion,
no differentiation,
no line of demarcation,
no distinction,
no more,
no me.
One more cup,
and I'll be gone.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
How eloquently and beautifully we hid from each other.
You with your righteous truths, hard and cold like granite.
Marking lost-love’s old bones.
I gripped your proffered broken shovel. Worn blade rusted, and shaft broken.
Aged and useless now, worked and worked on too much cold, hard ground.
And so the old, cold, bones below lay undisturbed.
Deep and all but forgotten
Forever waiting to be found.
Mine? Barbed wire…a measured demarcation simply, efficiently separating a field of dreams from a shell-pocked Somme….taught, unyielding, sharp and unforgiving.
You, a brave soldier hacked and bit and and gnawed at the unforgiving steel wire, tormented by the verdant vision, which lay beyond.
Striving to reach that goal.
That which lay beyond the muddy battlefield….
Beyond the rigid stinking corpses….
Beyond the ghastly horror.
I know you saw a bright field of soft scented blooms and dreamed of resting, head pillowed on sweet, rainbow petals, scented nectar and soft green grass.
I would have gladly surrendered the wire cutters, but, blunted and useless, dulled by one or two, too many tries… there was no use.
You see my dear, they were long ago worn down. Worn down on many a marbled headstone.
Their once keen edge, ground and blunted on words which said ‘here lies love’
(May it rest in peace).
There they sit and there they lie, the gravedigger and the soldier….
The soldier, torn and tattered upon the ****** barbs……
The gravedigger, frail and worn, broken shovel resting on broken feet…..
These were the culmination of our defences
Our defences…
Mine a spiked barrier,
yours an epitaph in stone.
****** battered love hungry body
and weeping gravedigger by loves tombstone.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
She sits there on a chair
brown eyes
brown hair
where opposites attract
and attacks me with familiarity.
I modestly avert my eyes
her ****** tells me more lies
and I have no reply to this.
But should I kiss and comfort her
the chair that sets a demarcation line would be
but just a simple waste of time
and I in time could come to see
her ****** is not for me
but for her sense of
femininity.
I couldn't care less
my bedroom's in an awful mess
I'm going to strip off to the buff
jump out the window
I've had enough or not enough
stuff this life
I hope out there I find an equilibrium.
Like a wayward sheep I follow her
but does she care?
she doesn't give a hoot
gives me the boot and says I'm just a stalker
but she knows she's trapped me in this baby walker
and if I the baby catch her eye as she wanders slowly by
what does she do?
but ignore me and I abhor that.
She's like a wild cat sometimes between the sheets at bedtimes
but those times are few and far between.
I've seen the writing on the wall
she's calling time
that says it all
I should have jumped
stopped the pumping of my heart
I know I'll never be a part
of her.
She doesn't care
she doesn't give a hoot
I think I'll shoot
myself.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
Most moments in our lives pass unnoticed, without remark or consciousness.
Then, there are those that mean something, or that we choose to mean something,
that become a placeholder for our lives, to add meaning, understanding, passage
a demarcation that bestows significance
My daughter graduated, under rainy skies and cool breezes.
The white tents in the grass flapped empty and lonely like a cancelled wedding
We sat in a loud gymnasium rather than in the grass quad surrounded by trees
I was there with a thousand other proud parents;
I circled her name in the program. I waited for the moment when it was to be called; being
slightly afraid I'd miss it
And I whistled and yelled, but I don't think quite enough. I didn't seem to mark the moment.
It was a moment, and I knew it, expected it, wanted it to be.
so badly.
Bittersweet. I like that word, it explains life so well.
I like the idea of bittersweet and I wanted to have it envelope me that day.
I tried to hold on to it. Like a good dream that comes too late in the morning and wont be prolonged quite far enough
I wanted to hold on, to understand what it meant. I knew it meant so much,
or, at least, I wanted it too.
I held on to understand what this meant to her.
I held on to remember my own graduation and the dream I then only fainty realized I had just experienced in my four years of college
I held on because I know her next steps take her further away.
I held on to feel what she felt in the mixture of joy, relief, sadness, confusion;
all that goes with parting from friends who alone know the exerience you shared.
I held on to make sense of my life. Making sense of moments makes them meaningful.
I want life to be meaningful
I wish I would have written something that evening. In the full emotion of the day.
I thought about it.
And now, like that dream, it is fading into morning light. I can't remember all that was, or seemed to be, profound and important as I watched my daughter those two days.
I want it to mean something enduring, symbolic and permanent.
I want my life to be important, to reflect a famous quote from someone, to be in granite.
Not so everyone will know it mattered, just so that I will.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
the desperado cowboy-poet awakes
anxious, needing-ending relief,
the craving greater than great,
he begs-raggedly, with Raggedy handily Andy words,
to all and anyone in the aroused surrounded vicinity,
give please give, of something to write
the bay, soothingly plays the would-be author,
"place me, look my way,
have I not droplets endless
from which you've drunk exquisitely,
so many more to fair share"
the birds twit and flit,
raucous caucus demanding
to be seated
by the tablet's keypad
to gain entry
to one more congressional natural tribute
the sky and sun organize a
joint session, extraordinary mission;
"we are the first of your day,
thus primarily,
we win the primary,
deserving in your recording of our
nomination as the first day's
sound and light show victorious"
sorry folks,
got a better tale to tell,
natural in its way,
titillating, and quite suitable
for reputating Au Naturel humanity
and it's a quirky, say hey tale,
morning coffee fresh,
a first word report from an
untelivised convention
of a different kind of congressing
awoke to find the:
*chauffeur in bed with the cook,
the Poppy, beside the sleeping Nana,
the poet, eyeing the lying next to him, tango dancer,
the classicist eyeing the sleeping moderne,
ditty ditsy Ogden Nash astride a Shakesperian sonnet,
the thinning gray line defending his bedded half,
from an invading horde of unionizing blonde tresses,
the republican with the democrat,
the conservative with the liberal,
heated discussions, non-neutralizing negotiations
conducting and watched by
peeping tom skies, clouds, birds and waters
pretending to fly flow past*
wow
now that,
is quite interesting
deserving worthy of a
disrobing disputatious disreputation,
very newsworthy and why not,
a poem all its own?
the bay waved goodbye,
the birds disbanded in silence,
quietly disenfranchised.
the sun and the sky hung around
pretending to be UN neutrality observers
wearing cute blue and white helmets
looking every where but not,
at the line of demarcation
the beggar, by his new impoverishment, enriched,
another love poem writ,
niched and pitched
one more itch,
so very well scratched
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
its a tuesday and you are waiting for me
standing at the central dressed all in grey
inoffensive, unassuming: avid
i can see the whites of your eyes
all the way from point zero down
so now your voice comes plain
through a sea of fog, and i know
we are coming up death row
red steel, old stone: is this how it goes?
i throw myself all around you
flesh onto flesh, man onto man
two guts into a gordian knot
a futile attempt at lessening
your incomprehensible hugeness
your bones, the empty room
i cannot see any walls to
you are: my har megiddo
my mount, under thunder
and the sun is brighter than white
if only i could see it, and the rain
is clearer even than air--if only
i could feel it! but now we are grey
among grey, concealing seas of pink
storms of milk; there is no sky
where we are bound
no opening, no end
you press your hand into mine
and you are warm like dirt, maybe
like you are barely born from the earth
only just learning the load of being addled
with such clumsy comfort, this rough touch
the worthlessness of words and the distance of skin
but we are stretching our necks to rise above it
do you like what you see, now?
so you bring me to your little home
and you feed me little pills, one by one
and we take to your little bed, spilling over
too much, not enough, back and forth
the same air again, the same words
no lines of demarcation left to bear
just your blood and mine and
one little winding red road
from here to (THE END.)
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
Oh, Mork.
****
Genius-Madness
Oh-so-Sad Sadness.
Anger-Danger
Rage and Gladness
I am so sorry
The flip-side of your
Brilliantly Cre8tiv
Coin landed
Down.
What is beyond Genius?
That fine razor's edge,
Where they both dance and
Flirt on the demarcation
Line, spinning, control,
Out of, in, and out.
Who knew what it was
Like to be you?
There are those who knew
You, and loved you, and
Appreciated you. I'm creative
Like you like slugs are to
***** whales. Life's
Images can hit your eyes
So hard they leave dents.
People's words can sound
Like world condem-
Nation.
Tho I never met you,
You felt comfortable enough
To be a virtual-friend.
Spirit kindred.
Hero, if I am allowed
To use the correct
Context.
You were the Mt. Everest
Of Comedy, Improv, Stand-
Up and Delivery. Not impossible
To reach, but the effort, the extra
Ordinary effort to slow your
Einstein brain capacity so that
The rest of us could try to catch
A glimpse of the train
That was your life zooming
By.
I'm sorry your pain and misery
And anguish and the hole
You were in were finally
To massive to bear.
You will be missed,
Dearly,
Dear Mr. Robin Williams.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Draw a clear line,
definite demarcation of reality and illusion,
he was given the brief straight and simple,
by the impatient project chief, no ambiguity to it,
just a matter of sorting it out, what is real, what isn't
when far enough in to it, he found it humbling,
everything real begins from nebulous, returns to it,
real and illusive, are in a dance of interchange, exhilarating,
the cheer spreads as cosmic glow beyond destruction and creation
universe, a kaleidoscopic percept seemed a conjure of cosmic imagination.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
Whitewashed fences mark
the division of shallow lines
of demarcation marring a bitter plain
Truth that too can be seen
as a balance with bruised knees
whispering prayers of bent supplication
Looking for a smile seen in clouds
of judgment and blurred hazes
The drum beats of life and echoes still,
in cracked addicted alleys of fairness
gone awry with a broken wheel
spinning on a loom of time
Native pains and naive indiscretions inexcusable, earth telling a compelling
tale if you can dig your hand in the dirt
Seeking through the mire for truth
and tales long since buried in the sands
of time, which whisk away history,
books burned with lies full of distaste
Imprinted on impressionable minds
like miscreant clones sprung
from fanatical factories
Indoctrinated with false education
and breeding still more hate, echoing,
listening to the heartstrings playing
a concerto of truth, an aria of sad realism
A beating of a drum
that has long since been silenced
by an oppressive, regressive hand
These times give me fear when courage
is what is needed most, post haste
Hate seems to be in such a fury
hurrying at a madman's pace.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
i'll die of a bottle cut my neck lays, drips
Waiting for re sus citation
Wanting rec i pro city
tickle down monopoly
Aye diabolical necklace ripped
Watershed light on Plateau Vistas
Wishful thinking washed up beached whales
Supernovas pangyrize death seen shaded in roses.
i dye bottle called negl i gents
Water wars UN nest estuary
When pet roll eaves seed li n e wall
its cash flow exsiccate ration al
If i could fold lyricigami tighter
you could read or di gest and
your actions would still gather
dust on the shelf of apathy
You would kick coke bottles
filled with hot air and promises
on the sahara ocean shore and
wonder why waves didn't clean
the sand off your feet.
Take your hands off the wall
its time you can't by and by
demarcation in between
life in blood air in water
put oil in sea
what seed grows money
what Sun loves Farther
away to love Slaughter
Earth mother dawn gone
man i p u late den der her
thirst is everything a
mess age nad e bac le
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
1.
It felt like crossing
all things cross, right?
2.
It has been many years since we have walked through that tunnel
and into this land
where the hands of spirits became the wings of ancestors over us
and the quiet inner gust became an orator of truth
Truthteller could you tell me again my name
They have given me so many on the northern journey,
disguised me to be one of the multiple
flickering pixels on a television screen
eyes darker than their own
but who has darker eyes
3.
She is the barefoot daughter of the Pachamama
womxn of many tongues
womxn whose tongue was not cut off
so you hear her sing when the sun comes up
and sway with the blades of grass
onward in the direction of the voices and the wind
and all the things that cry and laugh out loud
4.
They made you cross, too
and at the same time
But they made you forget
about the birds,
the wind,
your name- our name
and the alphabet
5.
silence is the alphabet used to speak truth
6.
They made you forget your name.
Ask them your name as you look up at the sky
cloudy or clear
as children lay silently next to demarcation lines
housed in steel bars
gloomy and lost
ask and listen
to be humbled by your name
7.
The spirits call again
can you hear them now?
back through the tunnel of innocence,
they whisper your name.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 1:34 AM UTC
What is this line that separates us?
Why this lone tape that cordons our spaces?
Who assigned the thread that parts land and sky; earth and the heavens?
How is it that a boundary could be invisible yet bind so sure?
Which of us was given the right to reinforce... to validate this demarcation?
So what is this line that separates us?
It's reality.
.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
The line in the sand
is at such incredible depth
but suddenly obtainable
through unspoken tragic demarcation
whatever the outcome
the 91st floor comes from underneath
they say today is happening
outside of me
and from a window
along the stress fracture
it's falling decidedly at your feet
Jun 23, 2024
Jun 23, 2024 at 2:10 PM UTC
A perfect entity:
Past life regression as a metaphysical act of war,
Held still in flashes of light from beyond mirrors, captured in essence for sake of eternal memory, martyred for sake of one or two moments of hallelujah before total collapse,
Divinity! Break the silence! Moan your lovers name! *** into oblivion! Leave pieces of your kaleidoscope skin on the shellshock floors of echo chamber bedrooms for someone to find and remember you by!
Listen! The voices of the great suicide angels crack and bleed through stereos! This is the last great art form! This is how you establish a dialogue between yourself and abyss! The black hole named God will take your calls but will not return your light once it has left your eyes!
How beautiful you look like this, defending your faith from the hawks of war, eyes lit by the turbines of jet engines burning fossil fuels on towards confrontation, hair falling in waves around a single demarcation point that reads: THE ****** AND THE SAVED,
Try hard not to think about where you fall on any kind of spectrum,
Be fluid and give only vague directions,
Paint self portraits out of what you can learn from static,
Static is the only way our gods know how to communicate,
You have to tread lightly around an ego so fragile,
Return home when the damage is done,
Home where you were a Joan Baez marquee moon in my memories of sunflowers!
Home where you were a Carl Sandburg eulogy read in tripping staccato!
Home where you leave your lights on all the time to ward off spirits!
Home where your shadow climbs higher and higher into the night and leaves your soul behind!
Home where you listened for the sounds of Pagan rituals through the walls and hoped to find salvation in a chanted chorus!
Home where you let the deep red shades of a thousand electro shock patients turn your machinery towards eternal rest!
Home where I love you as a perfect entity in radioactive decay!
Home where you love me, and my great way of forgetting
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
minutes grow heavy
plump with promise
late spring blues packed in tight
weighted with white sands
burnished by winds
that drift from there,
just there, beyond that line
bursting now to color
then fading to night
momentary demarcation
where sight becomes vision
and longing drifts hungrily towards
the ever-desired elusive perfect summer
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC