I wish to speak with myself The conversation Neither a monologue nor a soliloquy But I am afraid I would not allow My own confessions This heart knows far too much Of envy and hate And much too less Of chance and fate; those dark mistresses Pulling and pushing The tide of each rebirth Should I excuse myself within reason then And let the age that passes through each of us Sunder me to atoms Annihilating; once and for all Each kingly cause And gangrene dream Festering upon the thin skin of mind; For the soul in the end is nothing more Than a shadow aware of it’s own existence. Or should I in opus thoughts claim The Midas Touch And let the pleasure and pain Every loss and gain, ravage me alive Into my own version of heaven and hell Beyond resistance and repercussions Or time and it’s tale And dare to be free For once all of me? Alas the soul cannot know Of which the mind did not sow Thus I remain here Within this blindness which seek The mirror left behind; And await my reflection to speak.
In this sudden stillness A final silence grows From beneath the dead branches Enveloping ants and Angels alike
The dry mist of purpose That once haunted men Now haunts their monuments The mindless mortar Made and remade For each thought And every contour Which seeks in itself The forever form That everlasting aspiration Of becoming a being
But the Promethean promises Are but promises Just as the silhouette stems from the shape So does the shape is rooted in the silhouette Like a circle trapped Within its own circumference Sans a seen beginning Sans any unseen end
There is a witness For every arrival Till no one arrives anymore And then the fishes are left alone in the desert To drown in the mirage of memories The breathing carcass Reminiscent of living In an abandoned womb Never to awake Never to walk Like ages unspent Upon the faces of the rock
I saw my children standing in the rain Their faces lined with age and late reason Watched the abandoned bicycles And broken seesaws Being pulled down by the weight of raindrops Their hands, long and thin, like dead seaweed in the summer wind Their legs green and gold, like new leaves suddenly old Seemed painted In the moist color of quiet The abandoned delight Having dissolved In the lament of the rain They turn; the motion a sad song An unfinished lullaby To look at me with eyes Half awake but never asleep As if I with my window earned wisdom Would know Why all things grow Only to die If life in the very virtue of living Is a lie But they know the answer As well as me It is better to forget than to believe what we see In the everyday aftermath Of the daily demise Of choices left to chances And promises made before goodbyes For in the end all paths Shall return where they began Even the oceans with all their eternity Are but remains of the rain…
Pieces of sunlight on my shirt Golden flakes caught unawares in snow I wear the world As a witness upon my eyebrow
Pendulum thoughts, mine, Rising to always fall, falling to ever rise A deaf dance; this one legged tango Should I mourn The forgotten remembrance Of irony bound in common things Like water buried in a coconut or born in one who knows what it means to be a child Without being none I, myself, was born skinless In a seed of wild fern Wordless they named me; those voices in my head, Till I spoke and my friends began to fade One after another Like orange in marmalade
The wind upon the canvas do not dry the paint Nor a fire miles away Help me find my feet Of all the pain in the world; it’s the loss that alone tastes sweet With syrup on my bruise And sugar on my wound I limp away From weeping windows and waking walls For I heard my cupboard say the other day Wear less and be more Was that a dream, a dream Like Dali high on sour cream? I wish only to know Can my hand reach out to my heart and squeeze The last drops of Carpe Diem to please My soul; that cotton candy wrapped in light and luck Made In Bed after a night of soft….
Dear Diary I am exhausted Ginsberg and Sexton, Whitman and Poe Conrad, Tolstoy, Orwell and Thoreau I read about them all Copperfield and Twist And Einstein’s Relativity and Marie Antoinette’s false feast Should I sleep now Will the night ask me no more Questions and answers Legends and lores
There is a spider on the bed (Yes, it’s a thought in my head) Should I scream or be quiet (There is nothing to be said) So twinkle twinkle little star There are bottles in the hotel bar And many miles to drink before I sleep Till the laughter stops and it soothes to weep…