Id

Only the blind man believes
In no man’s land
The rest of us
We see
Each cast away stone
As our own
Whether it never was
Or ever should be.

A Century of Suns

My great purpose
Was to wake
With the wind still blushing, under her cloak,
And feel the blades of grass break
Beneath my weight
And breathe, and breathe, till my flesh sag, and bone wither and blood turn to soup
To water once again
This cycle of rhyme

But you of quartz time
Of a world more divided than honeycomb
In psychedilic prose
And liquored lyrics of
Cowards crooning catalysts
With pink thumbs
And wide mouth still wet with milk;
Your purpose
Serves no purpose
The skin you wear feels not as your own
For the treasures you parade bought on loan
Were last held perhaps
By some Mrs Smith of Montauk
The day she died, alone in the woodwork
With the tune of the choir and the name of her Lord
Still in her head, the part of her head
That didn’t partake in the horror
But paused at it’s most beautiful

It is a world of resonating hands
For I can touch you centuries after
Through the wooden mask on your wall
Once wielded as wood
By the lumberer whose mother use to run with a friend
In the wilderness of Wyoming
Where the friend had a father
And he an aunt
Who was my first kiss, one autumn
Under the breaking cherry blossoms
Her limbs, soft silver
And sorrel eyes, tinged with tears and
Floating tenderness
Dark with youth

And thus we are no strangers
You and I
Voices in the void, a century of suns apart
But a pair amidst pairs
A tremor within tides
Remembering life as you lived
With memories of mine
And I with yours, like words yet ink
Thinking thoughts I always had, even before I could think

So perhaps I am here
Raven haired, raven eyed
Painting a still lake, with a husband by my side
And you there
In the courtyard of my autumn age
Under cherry blossoms, and a splintered moon
Kissing my love, as me
Upon a different page

Eidolon

Perhaps I am just a being
That hides in radios
And pretend to sing
The static from my second skin

Inane

I

Long answers shortened
Spilled upon the white tar, gathering garbage,
A small hand, pitiful,
Drops from the cradle,
Pale palm; alabaster,
Raking the sodden leaves, black and gold by
The decay of time.
Does it feel the lips of sand through the heap of shedded flesh,
Or the odour of armless guests sail through the rest
Of the garbage
Gathered upon the white tar
The white tar, the white tar, a fell desert of fallen stars.

Look right at the left
Till you are left, looking right at yourself

Since when did the rhythm of words
Have escalated the flavor of form?

II

This age has been kind,
To the cattles
Roaming freely along the roads
As Hermes on hash and
Eyes full of fear and tear and tar
Sitting symposium on walking slow but reaching far.

The moonlight falls through the trees as trick
And bees with honey hover
Over the pink froth of crusted smiles
Their be sounds of tiny teacups
Taming thunder in her wild.

Take the napkin, sweet love
Wipe the wine that stains thy face;
The chiseled contours of constraint
Holding together the cracks of your feelings,
Lest the painter in pain find faults
In your peerless beauty of tarnished times
And burn home the truth, in whipping strokes
Of his, that reveal the bones you hide
Under the youthful peach tree
You have watered every moment
In perfected agony

Inheritance

I was a yawn
Before I slept
I shall be a yawn
After I awake