Category Archives: poetry

Marathon

An endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop.
Let it all flood in,
thrashing against the coves of sanity –
white foam, screaming.
The gulls cry out for stunned fish
lying on the rocks
unaware of their consumption,
an endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop, finally,
amidst the garland.
Are the flowers for respect,
or just the satisfaction
      of causing something else to die?

Carnival

The trumpets blared a jovial tune,
deep from the recesses of nowhere,
fanfare mixed with a shower of ribbons,
drifting to the barren lands below.

Far off and away
a dried-well village awakens,
slowly rising to life,
like a mirage, unbelieving.

From there,
the distant sounds are ominous terror.

To avoid the cannons fire or the bombs that drop,
what life remained –
              beyond the drought,
                          the famine,
                          the plague;
hurries to flee the parade,
thieve its chance to trample what years they’ve saved.

They scavenge for food, water, and memories,
place them in bindles made of shirts and table cloth;
                          cast     themselves       out            into       the        sand…

               Before the great machine can raise their dying town
                                  with its terrible jubilation.

               Before the sun can cut them down,
                                    burning white like bleached bone.

               Before the scavengers can consume what’s left,
                                  to live their days bereft.

               While those awful trumpets play,
                                  ravaging the landscape with sound and fury.

14 Wilkins St.

Brooding, it sits like a cataract in the eye,
        Invasive, meddlesome and menacing.
              Best burn the whole thing  down,
                      and search for fruit in the ashes.

The foundation – the roof,
          from root, to stem, to outstretched leaves,
                every soul that has crossed that threshold
                        is now tainted with corruption.

Some say the darkness grew there.
        Quiet like a mold you see but hide in shadow,
                not looking long enough to acknowledge
                      until it is the shadow, the texture of the walls.

Those who were alive when it was made;
          gestated, and labored over, know,
                it was built wrong from the start.
                        From the first nail in the first beam.

Neighbors windows opened like center stage
          on the day they broke ground.
                The audience loyal to the production
                      if only to see what, if anything, grew.

While the crew toiled to bring the place to life,
            they fell ill to the architecture;
                  the very design, a plague on the mind
                        caking them with madness.

They’d take it home and build it there.
            Unspeakable extensions
                  to the horror on Wilkins Street,
                          but return all the same.

Visit those horrors again,
              or have them visited upon them,
                    until all their souls were lost,
                          though not a one found dead.

The teeth of that house have dulled with generations,
              yet it still consumes from the inside,
                    scraping against the skin;
                        agonizing over the organs.

While all of Wilkins Street is shaped by its pull;
            those bright colors and picket fences,
                    dragged by that darker space
                          to a place where no light can escape.

Vagabond

Nostalgia is a weary hat in a lost town.
It speaks soberly of altered states,
and doesn’t belong there,
                              but it did-

                                           it did.

The brim is warped leather,
      the crown, sulking against the skull beneath,
with deep canals born of frowns and smiles
          indiscernible from those that rest

                                             on the shoulders

                of endless hours that bridge the days,
          swallow the years
and sever the link to innocence.

          It is a native-born traveler,
  returning as family,
but with the wear of life upon it,
            like a refugee denied asylum,
                                        home again
                a stranger in a strange land.

Love, Always

I would live forever
      if you would forever live too,
    seeking no end-
            only beginnings.

I would gladly see the world out,
  if when the lights dimmed,
        the quiet settled in,
  you too remained for me to settle into;
        find pale dreams between living.

I would suffer until it became white noise
    as long as our symphony remained
        rising above the audience of our years,
            humbled into silent admiration.

I would disappear-
        fade to nothing,
            if anything didn’t include you,
                    us,
                        this.

Appointment

It’s a long drive through blurred countryside,
              cars shuffling impatiently like high stakes card games.
        The wheels spin blindingly fast,
                reliving hardships,
              joy
          each burst of laughter,

every embrace, every tear.

Whether the days were full
                or wanting;
          the nights serene,
                  or fitful.

                                     We hold hands,
                            the connection between us like a conduit,
                                  relaying all that energy
                                      that couldn’t touch us when we were grounded.

                        We keep the radio off,
                                  listening now to those old thoughts;
                              those historic machines-
                            loud enough to drown out the static sounds of the road.

It’s a long drive,
                      but this kind of silence can be comforting.

Strange

You’re here.
            That’s your first mistake.

You’re not at church.
You’re not at work.

                Not watching the latest marvel movie
                at a bar, a game, the gym
                anywhere else.

                For whatever reason

                                     you are here.

                                     Let me tell you what that
                              means.

You could be in church,

       stale robes screaming!
              about how unworthy YOU are
                                                                  perfection
                                        the only currency
                            of any value other than
                                                          your wallet.

You could be at work,
        for five cents on the dollar;
            some worth there at least…

                  not much though.
      So you’re here.
                                You’re here. Okay,
but you could be at the movies!

Some ubermensch sees the world ending,
      finds himself, his friends and stops it.

All the action! The machismo!
                The heroics!

The good guys… always… winning…

                         Yet
                                you’re here, where they often…
                    just fucking don’t.

I get it,
        but you could be out on the town,

submerged in whatever works
    to blur the world as it is.
          A backwards magic eye painting,
            that makes more sense
                              distorted,
                    digestible even.

Is it too early? Too late?
          Whatever-
                            You’re here.

Not at a game, a jersey on,
        screaming at the top of your lungs
                about how worthy your boys are-
              (not theirs, never theirs)
      You could be there,

But that’s,
                that’s a lot;
        so you’re here.

You’re not at the gym,
          living the nightmare to reach the dream
                of immortality.
      Some absolute unit telling you you’re doing great,
                    you’re almost there,
                        just one more,
                        just one more,
                        just one more,
                        just one more.
You’re here.

                     By choice.

     Vulnerable but celebrated,
              knowing the good guys, ladies
                            and everyone
                                    in between
                                            or beyond;

                      they lose, and lose and lose –
        but they get back up, they show up.
                    Not paid to be here,
                              still
                                                    finding value.

               Staring the world down,
                  seeing it for what it is,
                                  unflinching,
                and finding worth in every corner,
                            every shadowed table
                      every wilted head.

You’re here
and that’s enough.

Being here is a mistake
          a mutation
      an evolution.

But be here.
      Be strange.
          Be loved.