I remember fighting sleep

Posted on Jul 11, 2016 in Poetry

I remember fighting sleep, in youth,
thinking it surrender of the gravest sort—
Surrender to the same thing that people
who close down their businesses on holidays surrender to.
A real Christmas, mind you, is the busiest Christmas,
with yacking people everywhere
In red and sparkle—
Gold and twinkle.
Not sitting,
Staring
At four walls,
Concealing mind-numbing boredom—
Waiting impatiently, if not frantically,
for the 26th to come—
The day after our Lord Jesus
slouched, as Yeats put it,
to mingle—to slum it—with those who are the fleshiest.
The day after, with its resurrected people rushing
To malls and sales,
Filling up all the highways
Cursing at the traffic and the fact
that people won’t stop fucking
And making future lane-hogging babies.
The industry of humanity,
Shuffling
Its bright shoes,
Its tight, yoga pants,
Sweet chaos and carnal dance
of flesh, clothed in sin skins
that we all imagine stripping off each other.
Fragmented conversations as we pass one another by
in our glorious, gorgeous little worlds
of hope and folly.

It’s not here that heaven

Posted on Jul 8, 2016 in Poetry

It’s not here that heaven
Will be found,
As much as we look for it.
The animal remains
In our genes,
Stains the hopes
We continually aspire to.
As for me, I’m comforted
In the thought of illusion—
Impermanence.
The reaper isn’t
A figure to be feared.
He’s a guy in
A Halloween suit,
Sent to shake you awake
From a long night of sleep,
Of wrestling with oneself.
And on waking,
There standing, smiling,
will be loved ones,
Moral in hand;
Memories fast kept
in their hearts;
Comforting words
On their lips;
And the missing animal,
The elephant in the room.

Will you run to the mountain

Posted on Jul 6, 2016 in Poetry

Will you run to the mountain,
to the hill with its fractures,
were just fingertips fit
as if someone had measured
and planned for the swell in your heart?
Will you rush to the water
the cool of its bed
your toes squishing into its mud?
Strip off the sin garment.
cast off your shame—
the animal skins of hate,
the knowledge!
Be like the dog
his excitement unconfined,
his intellect gladly restrained.
I speak with words
that aren’t real.
I notice nothing dreamed up
by a lonely, bored dreamer.

If you’ll block the light

Posted on Jun 22, 2016 in Poetry

If you’ll block the light,
turn the mirror,
so I’ll not see what time has done;
If you’ll fool me—
Add to the doe-eyed,
your face,
your favor,
the moon’s countenance
upon the sun—
I’ll wrap up this play.
Stand between heaven, earth,
And with a cry not heard
since your mother’s days—
With the draw
of a thousand suns,
I’ll remove this firmament,
this trick—
Hands reaching
Up,
down,
torn asunder in ancient times,
will find each other once again.
The touch of fingers
will wake Him
from long stony sleep,
and when he reaches—
when I do—
I’ll pull you to me.
I won’t forget,
Never again, never again.
O heaven
what standard is enough?
Wrestling, wrestling
below, above.

If only I’d have caught it

Posted on Jun 21, 2016 in Poetry

If only I’d have caught it,
that moment, you know?
But we never think that quickly.
There was a dream that was Rome.
If you’d have stood in the city,
its white buildings emerging
birthed from pure soil
of the Ancient, the Sea,
built by hands
of calloused craftsman.
There one moment in time,
but then gone.
With time running faster,
you’ll need to be standing
at just the right moment,
else you’ll miss it.
Like a movie on fast-forward
this is how time works.
You sit in the theater chair
while vanity puts up monuments
just to watch them come down.
It looks as a children’s pop-up book
looks, turning its pages .
Up, down. Quicker now.
But the book is kept;
It’s a family book.
This is where you’ll need to be careful,
that word family.
Don’t let your eyes deceive,
taken in by dream.
Begin by wiggling your toes;
the only way really.
Feel the bedsheets
the clothes
of an alien world
in which you’re the little green man.
Beside you
lies your little green bride
warm and clammy
from the long, restless night
of wrestling and tossing.
Move a leg and feel for her toes
Next her ankles and legs
working a way up to her
dream-weary head.
As she whispers of mistakes
put a finger to her lips
replaced by a kiss
you’ve been waiting to give
for millennia you’ve lived
separated, and yet never really.
When you’ve both wiped
the sleep from your eyes
find that book.
Remember your hot, carnal days.
Ladders set up
that went no where and everywhere.
Hands red and sore
against rungs of passion
and war.

Wonderland for small creatures

Posted on Oct 19, 2015 in Photo, Writing

Wonderland for small creatures

Road with no end

Posted on Oct 19, 2015 in Photo, Writing

Road with no end

The builders

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

Each morning,
I confront the builders
with their brick and mud,
setting up
and plumbing
a soundproof,
recollection-impeding wall
between the heart-shoring running,
this subroutine to that,
and my humble bedchamber.