The Fox River flows
like a river of nothingness
Through my mind in the light
and my life in the dark

So many places like this
where I never have been
Exist in the world
outwith my experience

A bridge crosses over
the flowing waters
As endless as time
that I cannot tie down

On the library steps
beneath an Illinois sky
A woman gazes out
absorbing the scene

Where I do not feature
except in the mind
Testing conciousness
and the meaning of life.

Destinations.

empty roads filled with

the empty gazes of

hollowed out eyes,

framed by the bags and

the black circles

burrowed deep into their skins.

"Where

are we

going?"

you ask the chillness of the night,

the stillness of the bright,

blue cars rushing past--

dazed,

you swim in this world as

a goldfish with no memory and

no vision

of what's to come.

"Where,

oh,

where

are we going?"

you ask,

feet out the window as

the lustful wind runs its chilly fingers

through your hair.

"Nowhere."

he answers,

hands gripping the steering wheel,

knowing someday you shall float off,

up,

up,

and away

to a distant land

and a distant time--

we're on a road to

nowhere.

(A Virginia Legend.)

The Planting of the Hemp.

Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
(Black is the gap below the plank)
From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
(Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

His fear was on the seaport towns,
The weight of his hand held hard the downs.
And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black,
For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack
Was all of their ships that might come back.

For all he had one word alone,
One clod of dirt in their faces thrown,
"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

His name bestrode the seas like Death.
The waters trembled at his breath.

This is the tale of how he fell,
Of the long sweep and the heavy swell,
And the rope that dragged him down to hell.

The fight was done, and the gutted ship,
Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip,

Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame,
Back to the land from where she came,
A skimming horror, an eyeless shame.

And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck,
And saw the sky and saw the wreck.

Below, a **** for sailors' jeers,
White as the sky when a white squall nears,
Huddled the crowd of the prisoners.

Over the bridge of the tottering plank,
Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank,
They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank,

Pinioned arms and hands bound fast.
One girl alone was left at last.

Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord.
He sat in state at the Council board;
The governors were as nought to him.
From one rim to the other rim

Of his great plantations, flung out wide
Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride.

Life and death in his white hands lay,
And his only daughter stood at bay,
Trapped like a hare in the toils that day.

He sat at wine in his gold and his lace,
And far away, in a ****** place,
Hawk came near, and she covered her face.

He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave,
And far away his daughter gave
A shriek that the seas cried out to hear,
And he could not see and he could not save.

Her white soul withered in the mire
As paper shrivels up in fire,
And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth,
And her body he took for his desire.


The Growing of the Hemp.

Sir Henry stood in the manor room,
And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom.

And he said, "Go dig me furrows five
Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive --
There at its edge, where the rushes thrive."

And where the furrows rent the ground,
He sowed the seed of hemp around.

And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid
At the furrows five that rib the glade,
And the voodoo work of the master's *****.

For a cold wind blows from the marshland near,
And white things move, and the night grows drear,
And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear.

But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean,
The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen
Veiled with a tenuous mist of green.

And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees,
And many men kneel at his knees.

Sir Henry sits in his house alone,
And his eyes are hard and dull like stone.

And the waves beat, and the winds roar,
And all things are as they were before.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
And nothing changes but the grass.

But down where the fireflies are like eyes,
And the damps shudder, and the mists rise,
The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies.

And down from the **** of the pirate ship
A body falls, and the great sharks grip.

Innocent, lovely, go in grace!
At last there is peace upon your face.

And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown,
"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

Sir Henry's face is iron to mark,
And he gazes ever in the dark.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
And the world is as it always was.

But down by the marsh the sickles beam,
Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam,
And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream.

And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees,
Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas.

Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair,
And white as his hand is grown his hair.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
And the sands roll from the hour-glass.

But down by the marsh in the blazing sun
The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun,
The rope made, and the work done.


The Using of the Hemp.

Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
(Black is the gap below the plank)
From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
(Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

He sailed in the broad Atlantic track,
And the ships that saw him came not back.

And once again, where the wide tides ran,
He stooped to harry a merchantman.

He bade her stop. Ten guns spake true
From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew,
Lacking his great ship through and through.

Dazed and dumb with the sudden death,
He scarce had time to draw a breath

Before the grappling-irons bit deep,
And the boarders slew his crew like sheep.

Hawk stood up straight, his breast to the steel;
His cutlass made a ****** wheel.

His cutlass made a wheel of flame.
They shrank before him as he came.

And the bodies fell in a choking crowd,
And still he thundered out aloud,

"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"
They fled at last. He was left alone.

Before his foe Sir Henry stood.
"The hemp is grown, and my word made good!"

And the cutlass clanged with a hissing whir
On the lashing blade of the rapier.

Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck.
As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck,

Pouring his life in a single ******,
And the cutlass shivered to sparks and dust.

Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck,
And set his foot on his foe's neck.

Then from the hatch, where the rent decks *****,
Where the dead roll and the wounded *****,
He dragged the serpent of the rope.

The sky was blue, and the sea was still,
The waves lapped softly, hill on hill,
And between one wave and another wave
The doomed man's cries were little and shrill.

The sea was blue, and the sky was calm;
The air dripped with a golden balm.
Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun,
A black thing writhed at a yard-arm.

Slowly then, and awesomely,
The ship sank, and the gallows-tree,
And there was nought between sea and sun --
Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea.

But down by the marsh where the fever breeds,
Only the water chuckles and pleads;
For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat,
And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.

Can I question the rooting stitches of clockwork?
With every poke and pull it drains faint locked words,
But does art remain if dust is thrown and paint chipped?
Tallies kept by pastel white dead windows skipped,
Rumbling frames whisper minuscule scents of study,
Will heart tinted honey roses make me lucky?
A lens casts shadows by speaking pictures unmatched,
But even it gets lost when hugs come attached,
And I tied a string to yin and yang with hopes for photos,
This circle sings into my skin how to stop the solo.

Hands of the random lie to the wind, cycles feast,
Numbers auction off spelling to unify heart beats,
Everyone trades sparks to impress perpetual absence,
Meanwhile I flirt with gates but I'm never the fastest,
And this ray has taught me to find nutrients in looks,
See this ray I know well cause I see him when I'm shook,
Stagnant gazes draw out maps to find what given gives,
We get that love and hate fight in everything that lives,

There is a shadow
over the world these days.
Maybe it's been there for a while,
it just took time to notice.

The flinching gazes of friends
nervous like grazing deer
in the open. Exposed,
like fraguile things
no longer confident.
Humanity seem to realize
how young we are.

The guns are loaded.

The blood is real

3
2
1

We are not ready.

And here it comes.

a cold and distant stare
...everywhere
from you to me
and from me to the world
as though given a chance,
would be ripped away
by self-destructive nature

the tyranny of thought
gazes at it's "master"
from a distance of genius
to create loathing
and pity for no reason

empathetic?
or just plain pathetic?
horrified by all
when all is strange.
seize the night,
and let go tonight.

"They hate me." I closed the lid of my laptop.
"I don't understand, why can't they just stop?"
He gazes into my eyes, as his were filled with care.
He starts, "I know that I can't always be there,
I know that you've never felt a hug from me,
And you don't know what it's like to be free,
But you're my princess, my shining star,
I'll love you even though the distance is far."
That's all I needed to hear, to forget about the hate,
And if I get to see you someday, it'll be worth the wait.

My lady is a marble statue, standing tall and aloof in the doorway as she gazes upon me. Her skin is cool porcelain, smooth and pale against painted cherry lips. She’s straight out of Pulp Fiction -- Mia Wallace brought to life with blunt, dark bangs and piercing blue eyes. And though she is a woman of glaciers and not embers, her presence radiates just enough warmth for me to feed off of. I come back to her – she is home.
I can feel her watching as I sit on the couch, legs curled beneath me. A slight turn of my head and our gazes meet -- mine eager, longing, like a child, and hers a latent affection veiled beneath sly satisfaction. My heart swells with desire as I look her over. She is lovely, and she knows it. I am the chosen one, and she tells me through a ghost of a toothless smile that lasts for but a second. One slender hand brushes against the frame of the door, and elegant fingers beckon me forth. I rise.
There’s a seemingly perpetual distance between us until nightfall, where she takes me up into her arms and sweeps me to the bedroom. It is only then that she is affectionate – but it is more than enough to make me happy. For she is an exquisite treasure, a rare delicacy that is sweeter when kept out of reach.
Cruel and cold as she may seem, she’s different when we’re lying together beneath the covers. I am hers. She tells me through soft caresses and occasional kisses, slender arms pulling me in as we rest in silence. It is a simple life and carefree existence, and I relish it greatly.

She is the raconteur.
Her presence is boisterous,
Words lack to depict her beauty,
Or does it relish the redundancy.
She is the replica of rapture.
The eternity that is encapsulated in her eyes.
Her benevolence is bolstering,
Her gestures are sporadically jesting,
Her looks are lavish,
Her voice is tranquilizing,
Her touch is tingling,
Her walks are wallowing,
when she strolls in the street,
entangled eyes ogle at her.
(her dimpled face,her cramped dress)
................................
.........................­.......
This persuasion is to her as
She leans herself in his arms,
With her neck unbend on his shoulder,
and strand of hair leaping on his lips,
as she then aligns herself  poking him passionately,
admist gazes with her enlarged engulfing eyes,
by which he is transfixed and couldn't answer her no more
when she questions him "How do I look",
With the wry suggestive smile on her visage....

I sit in a bar
with Miss Pinkie;
her son, who is a copper,
is getting the drinks.

She looks at me
and says:
we are just friends
if he asks
(as if I was going
to tell him
I was rogering his mother)
and don't talk politics
or say you write poetry.

I will be
the perfect gentleman,
I reply.

Her son comes
with the drinks:
a whiskey for his mother,
a beer for me
and a lemonade
for himself;
he sits down
and gazes at me.

So, Benedict,
what do you do
for a living?

I'm a nurse,
I work with your mum.

He looks at Miss Pinkie,
then at me.

What do you do?
I ask,
giving him
the Mr Innocence stare.

I'm a police officer;
aiming for C.I.D.

He sits upright
in the chair,
brushing a hand
over his dark hair.

What do you think
of the IRA?

Miss Pinkie stares at me
as if I'd let wind go in public.

They're a murderous lot,
he says;
you don't
support them
do you?

No, I don't support them;
I agree with their objectives,
but not their methods
of achieving
those objectives.

He looks at Miss Pinkie
and she looks at us both
as if she didn't know
who we were.

Both their objectives
and methods
are objectionable.

He takes a sip
of his lemonade
as if the very words
were distasteful
in his mouth;
I sip my beer;
his mother gulps
her whiskey.

What do you do
when you're not
being a nurse
and involved in
“leftist” politics?

I listen to music:
Wagner, Delius and Mahler,
and that crowd.

High-Brow stuff;
I like Johnny Mathis myself.

He wears a smug expression
and looks at his mother;
she looks at her glass.

What else do you do
apart from listening to music?
he asks.

I write poems
and read books.

You're not a queer
are you?

He stares at me
suspiciously,
then looks
at his mother.

Would I be
with your mum
if I were?

Miss Pinkie looks at me;
her blue eyes
are large as a cow's.

What do you mean?
he says.

Another drink?
I say,
another lemonade?

He means,
Miss Pinkie says,
we're good friends,
and he's not
that way inclined.

He stares at me
with a hard glare,
but I don't mind.

He has left me like
a letter without a message
a roof that gazes upon a broken home
but miserably so, a heart which, to it, love is a foreign land.

Look at life with a whole new view,
wondering why people do what they do,
Heads turning.. glares and gazes,
Why the strong look upon their faces?,
What is it they think I do?,
Besides look at life with a whole new view.

Sitting cross-legged in a field of grass
Sun glimmers through the trees
Eyes closed, breathing with the flow of the wind
Hands planted on my thighs
A deer gazes from up on the hill, 1000 feet away
Continue to breathe with the flow of the wind
Three feet in front, a female mirror, my best friend
Doing all the same, breathing with the flow of the wind
No words, only the sound of our breaths and the leaves rustling in the trees
No lust, instead of one with each other we become once become one of the same
Separate people
Similar struggles
Finally found the calm

Do not patronize me.
I am not looking for gazes full of wonder.
Or questions that do not rhyme.
Who is the artist?
The canvas is stretched to tearing.
My taut body holding on to the frame that encases me.
Maybe my colors are just not right.
The blues a little too bright.
The yellows a little too dull.
I am trapped in my own downfall.
I am looking at you from across the room, your eyes darting everywhere except here.
You are tinted with regret and encapsulated in your sadness.
And I have heard so many artists say that they need it for their art.
But what's the glory of art with so much heartbreak?
Your tears spilling and mixing into a palette of grey.
I will draw you to me just to be mistaken as divine.
Your hands will ignore the calls for caution telling you not to touch me.
That I will just ruin you is just another way of saying I will eventually love you.
Chaos is just another word, unrequited is just ten letters, but risk is all too close.
You will try to paint me another smile, to cover up for past mistakes.
And I will flake, revealing the ugly layers underneath.
This masterpiece was just another study.
Another shamble in the pile.

I

The Trumpet-Vine Arbour

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long, white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines -- up -- down -- criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.
'Yankee Doodle,' my Darling! It is you against the British,
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top
Through Father's spy-glass.
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
But the smoke was white -- white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red --
And I cannot see you fighting,
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings 'Yankee Doodle' at her milking.
The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.


II


The City of Falling Leaves

Leaves fall,
Brown leaves,
Yellow leaves streaked with brown.
They fall,
Flutter,
Fall again.
The brown leaves,
And the streaked yellow leaves,
Loosen on their branches
And drift slowly downwards.
One,
One, two, three,
One, two, five.
All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves --
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.

'That sonnet, Abate,
Beautiful,
I am quite exhausted by it.
Your phrases turn about my heart
And stifle me to swooning.
Open the window, I beg.
Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!
'Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
See how straight the leaves are falling.
Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe,
It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'?
You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey?
Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?'
'Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'?
A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
And Venus herself shines less . . .'
'You bore me, Abate,
I vow I must change you!
A letter, Achmet?
Run and look out of the window, Abate.
I will read my letter in peace.'
The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
His yellow turban and black skin
Are gorgeous -- barbaric.
The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
Lies on a chair
Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The lady reads her letter,
And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows.
'How silly you look, my dear Abate,
With that great brown leaf in your wig.
Pluck it off, I beg you,
Or I shall die of laughing.'

A yellow wall
Aflare in the sunlight,
Chequered with shadows,
Shadows of vine leaves,
Shadows of masks.
Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
Then passing on,
More masks always replacing them.
Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels,
The sunlight shining under their insteps.
One,
One, two,
One, two, three,
There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
Yellow sunlight and black shadows,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
Two masks stand together,
And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
Marking the wall where they are not.
From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
From elbow to sword-hilt,
The leaf falls.
The shadows mingle,
Blur together,
Slide along the wall and disappear.
Gold of mosaics and candles,
And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections.
A cloak brushes aside,
And the yellow of satin
Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement.
Under the gold crucifixes
There is a meeting of hands
Reaching from black mantles.
Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
Hide in confessionals,
Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
Gorgeous -- barbaric
In its mail of jewels and gold,
Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks;
And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
Flutter,
Fall.
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.

Blue-black, the sky over Venice,
With a pricking of yellow stars.
There is no moon,
And the waves push darkly against the prow
Of the gondola,
Coming from Malamocco
And streaming toward Venice.
It is black under the gondola hood,
But the yellow of a satin dress
Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
Yellow compassed about with darkness,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The boatman sings,
It is Tasso that he sings;
The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn.
But at Malamocco in front,
In Venice behind,
Fall the leaves,
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.
They fall,
Flutter,
Fall.

Malignant gazes warped the
the fabric of the air around me.
I couldn't do anything but tell
her that to wish upon a dying star
                          will never end well.

The atrocity that clung to the ships
hull, was no less human now than
    the artificial meat 3d printed..
It taste liked chicken,
but..
            there were no eggs in space.

Words like plasma cannons fired
around me bouncing off the walls.
Ok, ok listen I didn't do this to you!
Your the penny that could pay the price,
and this is your tarnished self pity.

I wasn't having any of her grief,
       though it could vacate me with ease.
Standing before her I said I could less
cure her than breath in space..

With that she raged in a language
of ferocious exasperation.
I knew that it was time to vacate her
need for some sort of vengeance.
I'd got the necklace on under my garments.

Pointing my pistol at her, she smirked,
             then a gargled laugh spat out.
That toy cant harm me, is this your last
stand what a pointless endeavour..

Now it was my turn to smirk,
        I don't know if it was panic
or confusion to why I was laughing.
            like a hyena knowing that the
pray had just cornered itself.

With that I shot past her, like a
random act, I still laughed loudly.
And then a buckling ache approached.
As the hull cleaved open like a piñata
hit feverishly by an excited child.  

As we where exhumed from our coffin,
suffocating in the emptiness of my actions.
I could see her fear, no matter her augmentations,
nothing could survive the vacuum of space.
I pressed upon my chest, my nanite suit
encompassing me.
            I was like a new born taking a first breath


Looking at this sorrowful figure, floating
in to the abyss. I knew I was partly to blame.
But now was not the time for respective thoughts.
This was about survival, and I used the small thrusters
to edge closely to the air lock.
                       Time to move on, time to breath deeply.

Bonjour whispered out of my verses as we
pondered on the smiles eclipsing our eyes.
We bathed in the pools of each others carefree
waves splashing upon the others guise.

She spelt out her intentions with soft palms so
gentle on my face, its like she was taking
my breath from within me, and I adored slow
reflections of our au revoir gazes which were breath-taking.

A darkening sky covers an expansive forest in a dreamy blanket
As two lovers lay
Surrounded by flowers emitting the sweetest scent
A fragrance so intoxicating to the two
Though not as strong as gentle kisses
That make the hearts soar
Drunk off of affection
And stumbling through sleep
As suddenly stars descend from above
Flickering among the two
Shining like a supernova
Before drifting off
Gazes caught in awe at the display
That illuminates skin
As lips connect for another kiss
The action being an explosion itself.