Stagehand

Found
on the ground, a rhythm in the dirt
like a cackling brook beneath the surface
the sound is nervous
confounding any sense of purpose.
Look around
[you];
while you are free most are bound
a town full of brown slacks
round spectacles
all shapes are there on stage,
but the spotlight is on the testicles
because there lies rationality
or so says the old spectacle;
a fashion of resounding sterility.
Anonymity the greatest renown
or so says the celebrity.
So what if it costs our identity?
foster instead gratitude
over an exhausting attitude,
those, “what-ifs” reeling always around the head.
That fish you wish you’d caught?
You’ve already fought before and tossed back.
It wasn’t about what it had
but what you lacked.
Now, you’re on the other side,
more mad than glad that bridge was crossed
yet always
still
lost.

Fear (A golden shovel poem written from a line in James Tate’s “City at Night”)

“it’s a good corner on which to sell balm” – James Tate

A ripe fruit built to burst, it’s-
longing for the tooth, the fist, a-
discerning eye to gaze assessment, “good,”
and highlight every soft spoken corner
with shrouded secrets even the skin conspires on.

The gnash of the teeth, the rot of the ground; which-
of these, is any better to be led to?
Either end will see you as shit to sell
though, for a while, you were sweet and glowed like lip balm.

Wishes

The well waits open to the sky
a placid barrier below
silent bait for the passersby.

What water patiently poised
would want of the world above
only dreams will ever know.

The meager coins that violate the surface
swallowed by depths of darkness,
are but emissaries of whispered words
that beg of fate a future to bestow.

They gather amongst the sediment
an ancient glittering congress
perpetually pleading the case
for ambitions that died long ago,

lost to the unknown abyss
where light is known only by shadow
and purpose found only in fools.

Stepping out of the Woods

Trees as thick as grass
bundled together hiding the sky
at night though
stars shine through

One could get lost in there
one could find something profound in there
in the morning
hidden passions
light the canopy like green fire

An untold history crackles beneath feet
crisp with the anxiety of breaking, unresolved
twilight is a pleasant mystery
whispers of color in silent darkness
the fauna changing shifts
timorous insects take flight.

A bright pink cross sanctifies the bark of each tree
some sign of an afterlife that none could imagine
The end is violent and sterile
the ground stripped bare
the canopy pulled back to blue skies
broken by contrails and wires
soon to be hidden in property
too expensive for anyone to live in
just dying slowly,
paycheck to paycheck.

Look Up

The scaffolding grows in relation to failure
success
is not assumed.
Life grows with this malignancy,
While life after death life
cannot be presumed,
just an afterlife;
where we rise again to meet our every desire
and leave behind a world falling apart.
Our progeny can take shelter in the scaffolding.
Let our lives remind them, this is part of living,
only in death can we find true happiness
as serfs in a higher kingdom;
at least that’s what they tell us
the ones we serve now.

Monolith

The door before me is an absurd sarcasm
designed to be a wall when one can choose
an opening otherwise
but has been a wall for generations now.

All children try the handle once or twice
deceive their friends with curiosity
laughing at themselves echoed.

In the years of life’s setting
we try more often;
with every passing,
hoping now the memories behind us
got it wrong – nothing in between.

All the time from bookend to bookend
we are overwhelmed with openings.
A coliseum leading us deep within
until we are more spectacle than audience
at last.

In youth and uselessness we look eagerly for a way out.

Sayyidina

Sayyidna, my desert flower
the author of this refrain
though it is I that write it,
the ink, as always, bears her name.
The blossom of her life
contrast against the sterile sands
celebrated by each sparkled grain
inspires air to dance about the land.
She tells of water when it is unseen
she gifts color when the world is palid
She is thorns adorned on the defenseless
She is truth amidst the invalid
Where the sun takes all it sees
she will fruit with dew.
Where the sand consumes
she nourishes until I am renewed.
Though the dunes shift eternal
she, as always, will remain;
Sayyidina, my desert flower
the author of this refrain.

Between Lives

The blue light from the dash says it’s 2 am
otherwise it is dark outside of time.
Off the road, lost in nothing
the sounds are relegated to engine tumbles
and words that should have been spoken years ago.
To silence them only raises questions
louder than the answers they beckon.

In a place called home but a few hours past
three beds are filled with dreamers
who will wake to half the house their eyes set upon
while I will be awake still
dreaming of the opportunity to tell a story
where I am not a villain.

I whisper words to them they may never hear,
but deep inside they’ll still know;
though my voice is far away
I am always close.