I’m Late
I’m late, I’m late
Song blare, lights on
I’m late, I’m late
The party has started,
I’m not ready, ready or not;
I hope i look nice, I’m so late.
One-sided Window
you peer into my life and know the ins and outs
you see my rights, my wrongs, and all that I’m about
you observe and I let you, dear, I’m as open as a yawning sky
but when I press my eyes against your window all I do is sigh
give me a tour of the house you built that has an open view towards mine
I’m happy to give you everything if you just loosen your confines
what’s hidden in there? my knowledge of you descends into nothingness
throw me a bone, I’ll be okay with anything that you confess
the way I reach for you is something like searching for a phantom hand
lift me up, or please, let me pull you close—I just want to understand
2019 – Six – “The New Fruit” a Love Letter for My Own Dulcinea
There is a water,
cool and bright,
beside an orchard.
Beneath those trees
the sun seldom
shines
except to nurture
fairy circles of grass,
soft and thick
and made for resting in.
In that orchard
there are many fruits,
succulent,
sweet,
new-sprung for
spring-time
adoration.
Pagan in their
natural depiction,
their like exists
nowhere
else
and there is nothing
in the wide world
that feels as they do
in the mouth,
on the tongue,
on the lips.
In that orchard
there is a linden
tree
that blooms all
the year round.
A pillar of the nine worlds.
White, silken blossoms
that drop in the wild
dark beneath the trees,
stirred and shaken.
The whole of the
orchard is scented
with them until even
the gods themselves
are distracted
from their thunderbolts
and their lightnings
and come to be fascinated
in their breasts
by the fullness of them.
I would take you to
that orchard
and I would ask the universe
to see you,
more cool upon my skin
than the coolest water,
darker and brighter
in my soul than the shadows of
the orchard.
With your glory, soft and thick,
a wild thicket.
More heavenly to breathe
in than my beloved linden
blossoms
and better,
richer,
sweeter
in the mouth,
upon the tongue
and the lips
than any other fruit
the gods can despise
for its perfection
and nurture for fear of ruin.
You are my sustenance,
that which cools me,
the darkness of my passion,
the thunder and the lightning
that drives me across the
face of the very world
that I may come to you again
and make love to you beneath
a linden tree
so that we can forget the gods
and so that they
cannot help but remember us.
And when all of that is done
and we have shaken the roots
of the ocean,
we will rest and be content
beneath the laden branches.
They will be content with us
beside the cool water
and we will be new fruit
for a very old world.
Scream
Born in anger, fear, or stress,
the little Scream starts inside.
He wants to get out, to see the world,
but he is trapped and chained.
He starts in the head, a tiny voice,
“Won’t you set me free?”
But then he grows as time goes on,
and falls into the chest.
The Scream hits the ribs,
bounced around, bruises his cage,
but still is confined to prison.
Screams feed off of sorrow,
of pain and doubt and rage.
He grows so fast, so big, so strong,
and claws his way upstream.
Up out of the chest, into the throat,
and digs into the vocal folds.
“LET ME OUT!” he cries, desperate for light.
He’s only known the inside,
damp and dark and small.
But the throat convulses, swallowing,
and squashes the Scream for good.
His corpse falls into the stomach,
A heavy grave forevermore.
Euphoria
Nothing hurts
There’s nothing to
Be stressed about
All is right
And good in the world
Everything is perfect
(Book 99 #19331)
Empty
Sweet praises are empty
when all you do
is scream them
I hear you, I hear you
Hold back what
little dignity the gods
have blessed you with
I see you, I see you
Forget the ravages
of those dreams you
abandoned for adulthood
I feel you, I feel you
Sugarcane woodburns
the rake of a whip
across charred asphalt
I taste you, I taste you
Morning fog that
dissipates in the heat
gives way to cerulean skies
You’ve been gone for a while now
No Tunnel, No Light
It’s dark in here
And narrow
I can’t seem to make headway
Because I cannot see
What’s in front of me
Or behind
If I stretch my arm out
What will it touch
I’m so afraid to find out
Yet I cannot be idle
Because the unknown
Is scarier than the truth
So I step forward, boldly
Only to have the darkness
Swallow me up
Was that a noise I heard
Or just my own heartbeat
Pounding mercilessly, loudly
If only there was light
A glimmer of hope
To light my path
To give me strength
If only it wasn’t so dark
Could I find my way
Axe Work
It has a rhythm.
Like a heartbeat.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
A simple, clear song.
Muscle, tool, and wood.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
It doesn’t just cut
It’s not a saw.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
Wood is crushed
Pinned aside.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
The gaps deepen
With each new strike.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
The tree grows weak,
The arms grow sore,
The shadows stretch.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
But each new stroke
Stays steady and strong
Will, tough as oak.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
Twilight creeps in
Like moss, like age.
A tree trembles.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
One more, last swing,
Felt soles to skull.
A fond farewell.
Pull, lift, swing, CRACK.
6 – cavern
I roam,
the edges of this small cavern,
my hands running along the damp walls
I sit alone in this crowded room,
the chatter deafening,
words bouncing,
thoughts screaming,
then I forget and all is quiet,
sleeping in my prison..
She
She was the scent that lingered heavy in the air after a thick and heavy summer rain.
She was the sun that burst through the gray clouds, absorbing the moisture, she was the humidity that saturated your skin
She was the smell of perfume that clung to the fibers of your clothes.
She was all I knew, all I wanted to know
Now, She is a lingering thought at 2:37am
She was everything, and now she is nothing