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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
…
What prizes satin words afford!
our foreign ears made to boiling
with those that dine on finer things
describing our future delights
in fly by night campaign speeches.
Not David, but Goliaths chord
booms over the gathering throng
praising what god is left to us.
The world razed, we in its ashes,
they tell us that we are adored,
that they are umbilical cords
feeding us and making us strong.
The hollow message would echo
if the acoustics weren’t so wrong
resonating against the horde.
Insecurities long ignored
now awoken and brought along
to territories unexplored
carried away by sirens song
to rage and die on their own swords.
I felt love
the twisted turmoil of Jovian clouds
though closer than ever before
still far enough away to look like
cream colored dresses on a coffee stage
young dancers in promenade
a layered cake performance
rehearsed a million times before its premiere
I felt love
now that we were so near
that the universe had become more tangible
our vision more defined
our futures free to explore new borders.
I felt love
knowing all that came before
all those bright minds focused on a single goal
all the world in collaboration
living an alien life beyond the one we know.
Grow Gray With Me 