Monthly Archives: November 2022

Thus We Shaped the World

Nothing is so tantalizing an emptiness
when plated against this cornucopia in time
eyes as full as stomachs
intestines balled up in knots
more discerning than the rest of us;
once, the way out was through

               It can’t go on like this.

A broken kaleidoscope is chaos;
where order was found
compartmentalized and mirrored,
now those borders are gone
the colors bleed – running
blindly into each others darkness
no longer unique – or isolated
a singular malady of the spectrum.

                It can’t go on like this.

Our voices war with the silence
raging against the rocks that choke our shores
calling out to be heard
to declare, “Once the way out was through!”
but we all speak in tongues coalesced as cacophony
and the horrors of the world demand, “listen,”

                 It can’t go on like this.

Puzzle Pieces

            We look for solutions amongst lights in the sky
    that can only be found in broken pieces
                fragments of the whole
illustrative only of what is missing
            finite space        finite only in our           limitations
        so eager to find themselves fit amongst the stars
                  to burn
                      then burn out
                                    fade
                              to darkness

                                             but always,
                                                              stars.

                                              too far away to grasp

                                            but close enough for envy.

Full Stop

Between this place and another
                  a red light hangs;
      it – the resentment,
                the pride
  opposite the green lights apology
                    unwritten
                      unspoken

pregnant with time,
    holding us hostage
                                                                                  awaiting delivery

        so we can all just move on
    get on with our lives
arrive at a destination.

Bill Brody

“It was the drugs,”
              they said,
“the trauma”
“the loneliness,”
loading him up with excuses
              he had no business
              nor inclination to carry.

He was busy,
                    always.

Ideas, drawings, paintings
            inventions, stories
                              political campaigns
                                          music, movies,

             shooting out of him
                              all hours of the day or night.

Leafy green things, alive and vibrant.

      though in the winter he would turn statue outside
                                  naked
                                        cold

                          for hours alone
                                no one to prune the eccentricities
                                      or take him inside

      and he would call me sometimes
            to talk through the night;
screaming at me of
                        decay, darkness, the hollow in himself
                    but never saying any of it out loud

Like a dead tallow tree bursting with life.

Nightmares

These days,
              if you’d seen him…

           If you could freeze a man in time
      you’d call him a cowboy.

         that’s what he looked like
                a ghost in a graveyard of mythos
        seeking asylum in the present.

But…
                                      John Wayne he wasn’t.
  Even the most brilliant of the ephemeral
              will disintegrate
when the somnolent wake from
          slothful slumber
              to find the dream to prosper
          dead and mangled

                            hanging from wires

                     dripping with joyful progress…
              each drop that falls
                                grows wings

             swarming the sky

                      blotting out the sun

         the earth
                it’s comeuppance.

Indubitably, this was his curse
          a wide brim hat
                  the shade of dying dreams
                          the ages echoed in his footsteps.

Sentry

His mind was
    patch worked duct tape
on the seams of a yellowing couch
  something that burrowed into the background
    a body discolored like an old formica table
that would topple
                    beneath even the slightest weight
                                              too often.

Discolored and unsettled
          nearly balanced on a piece of cardboard
                that must always be adjusted.
    Each bruise is a decade of smoke hazed biker bars
  lucid stupors of apologies or irritability
stuck to the bottom of this ancient surface.
                            Bright pinks and deep blues
                                now dirty and faded;
                      resigned
                  collecting what remains of life
  as dust in falling will grasp at the light
              spark like fire
                      shine like diamonds
        burn like youth.

Tailored

You put on clothes
because without them
you feel your skin
                              crawl
like spilled syrup in a busy foyer.

Properly dressed,
all you can feel
are the clothes.
All anyone can see
are the clothes.

While you,
                        you,
remain safely inside;
your innocence –

           safely inside.

Our identities,
            sacrament thrust upon us,
quake, like chandeliers
  when the lights come on
              and the world starts moving.

We are always a few steps behind
              tossing in turmoil
      but dressed in stability.The only choice we ever had was
                              material.

On the Banks of the White River

There

          on the riverfront
      at the end of my finger

                                          know that darkness
                              [coquettish laughter]

Who would find humor there?

                               [laughter unending]
      where the solemn mind will oft grovel
              and surrender
                    falling upon their own sharpness
        to let the water carry them in repose
                                  out to the ends of the earth;
                                        down to the depths of the oblivion.

                                [exaltation]

There can be no champions here,
                  no joy in the present.
There can be only reflection
                                remembrance
        the smelting of one’s mettle
                to steel itself against the coming dawn.

                                [silence]

Contentment is the cancer that killed the world
            laughing as it rages past
                    against the rocks
                                frothing at the mouth.

A Garden Hose

Cast aside hastily

          it snakes through dirty blonde grass
useless now.
          The black

       graying
        the green
                    zombified.

           It makes shapes that remind me

           of ice skating.

                     some hidden magic
          in the slice of ice.

I could turn the spigot

                      only a few feet away
and bring to it a life of purpose,

                   but then            

all meaning it has would be sacrificed
                  to those that already spend their lives in the sun.

Tithonus

I want to scream
to yell out against the wind
to accost the world before me
    condemn those responsible
    curse myself too,
I can’t.

I want to rage
to lash out against that stone wall
to become violence upon the leeches
    take by force my fair share
    fight for life until death
I can’t.

I want to collapse
to fold on myself in despair
to make myself small
    diffuse into the static background
    become less than what is needed
I can’t.

I want to live honestly
to breathe the fresh air of clarity
to rest on the laurels of defined purpose
    move through the world without restraint
    act as the situation dictates
I can’t.

I can’t in this climate
so I’ll just wait
…