(no subject)

here
where the legacy of my life
is being put to the test of page
there are a string of stories
for which none have traveled the duration of tale

words that have been repeating in random orders
in circles ad infinitum dreaming of the page
are seeing the light of day
although all that was even asked
was the shine of a moon

words that have been set in stone
lifting from out the calcite trails
and asking for once last chance at rearrange
glow from the fires that held court
over the boulders holding feet
from falling toward the sea of a sky above

words that are bubbling under
all rushing toward the mouth
a few who are wise enough
to detour through fingertips
only final traces of those who do not wish
to meet the remains of the day
stay inside...

that we have made it this far
seems extraordinary
still wiling away without chance at explanation
with beginning middle end no support

thus we have, finally, passed the point of continuation
up next the battle to remain in motion
rather than gliding into momentum
(without even the slightest belief in inertia)

all that is left is yours

when we leave here
pack up our new tech bag
and saunter off
into a darkening sunset
with a great big grin,
the crowning achievement
of our smoke signal escapade
will be the onslaught
of encroaching fools

all that is left
will be yours

forget all that was spoken from these lips
before time turned into clocks
sunrises turned into memories
and sunsets drove us inside for fear of the mysteries
bent to hover 'round the next corner
and have taken
all of the places that were
right down the wrought iron walkway of our alleys

all that is taken
was ours

do not tuck away crying words of masters
incessantly repeating the words of those who have come before
with the embarrassing revelation that all you have learned
is that “those who fail to learn...”
blah blah blah

do not ask where i will go
the hills or the plains
detroit or buffalo
for you already know
(although if you do not remember
look down inside
and realize
only you can draw the map
that leads to me)
and in being wrong
so many times
there is nothing but leaving
with which to make amends

so when the day arrives
and the calendar reads "realize"
this self imposed exile
(all a ploy
to escape the chains
deconstructed
all around our bodies)
will end
and it will be time
for you, too, to leave
resolving only within the walls of the theatre
which one might daringly
rhythmically
increasingly
call home

(no subject)

We will be
Well on in years
When what you remember
Is this little day
Some families ago
Where there was mention
Of a place to return
Someday around now

Having said this
In a slightened breath
Please carry on
As if nothing
Ever or forever
Will be

(no subject)

in the spiral of the coming dawn
we will not be afraid

come storm nor heaven nor pleated death
we will walk tall into the fires
that have been set as traps
and lead our foes to to the dance
that celebrates a false victory

but within the line that decides
what is the written word of the ruling class
and the forgotten realms of the murdered and mass-buried
is a borderland
along which we need not tip-toe
but sing and dance toward a grave
that is neither decay nor catastrophe
but a well-planned ending
to the theatre of the morning
that we have lassoed into our own devices

there
where we will walk through the trap door
providing an effect that seems impossible for the stage
then we will leave the audience to give a standing ovation
to an empty curtain fall

and as the roar refuses to die
and the consternation drifts into the lobby
(that the faces of the players remained in work
and refused to set free the captives
to return to their lands of play)
and the voices call
"we who were willingly locked beneath the darkness
only with the understanding that release
was a given"
(painted by the brush
of all the entertainments from nights before)
while we,
shedding costumes
to become the invisible other
who rehearsed no lines
but the lives we lead
who will not look back
nor over our shoulders
without thought
disbelief
or care

again to reach the center for a moment

for shame and for shadow
where the tree topped city lies
without revelatory nature
or involuntary nurture

to you who has been asking the questions
to the answers this lone wanderer remembers

let us climb to the heights
so that we may waste away
in the presence of beauty

thus to succumb to the overwhelming -

{
disappear as the skell to the skerry
impart what remains into an object of desire
that turns in to a palace of demise
}

would be too simple

to be devoured by the course of events at our feet
relinquish the one identifiable mark that separates
us from the lineage of the tellurian
this must not be our fate

how then to daily revitalize the source of our standing?
to breathe deep yet muffled air
to sigh fully until the lungs are forlorn
to gasp without sign of discomfort or fear

and who has been asking the questions
to the answers this lone wanderer remembers

these trivialities
built upon tradition and partial surrealities
written in books so that they withstand partialities
and passed down long enough to become ceremonial formalities
are not that which clears the mind
nor sets free the self-lacerating methods
of a modern mystic's flailing life

no, we need something that will cordon us off
feed us from dusk til dawn
as we are cornered into fasting from dawn to dusk
celebrate the essence without risking the transience
that pervades from the wanderlust of us all
and has blessed us
like clockwork
as we have marched our way
through thirty years of dying

flags gather in the breeze of butterflies
wings torn off like a child's final dreams
here, at the end of art
this life of death calls

iconologist

there is no need for justification within the endeavors
of these few who venture out this evening
darting through the doorways
dodging snow or crowds or armies only they may see

these hooded figures pervade in tandem with the night
as last pairs of creatures heading toward an unfurled destiny
to save a species from some tired method of self destruction

these who are willing to forego
this communal stance on all matters extroverted
wrapped in a simple coat through to jointed knees
crowned in a felt that will transform into gold
when the nights shift northerly someday
hold their camaraderie close to the vest

entwined and much maligned do the solitary vie
for some look of longing that holds the same desperation
of those who do not have the freedom to enter the foyer
for freedom is but the foyer
and liberation insists
that the door must be opened, unlatched, unscreened
and left behind

please then give us this day the moon cast her shadow full
so those of us who sit within walls shrouded
by the contrast of light and darkness
might find our way from shallow ends

thus life a glass of what-have-you
to beginnings bountiful and blessed from inception to fruition
encompassing the complexities of walks that wander with purpose
finding places of rest marked not by signs, tail-lights or parking brakes
where cessation of movement is not considered an option
and destruction and death do not sit with their fingers intertwined
in the fortress of a childhood game

for anyone
left alone long enough
will begin to believe in an icon
as transient
as ours

trains go by

here one can hear the trains go by
in the middle of all hours of the night
when we have shaken off the slumbers that do not suit
for dreaming is not our key

instead these streets will be tread
down by the heels of the boots that we wear
in search of that which we tried to forget
ad infinitum although we claimed to seek memory

there is no place to avoid that which we know
the voice, that is our own, that speaks
reminds us that there is a journey set forth in our soles
and no hiding in marriages, jobs, friendships, will relieve us
of this task

somehow, though, in this stretch of time that seems
disjointed and convoluted, amiss and unresolved, barren and cold
the few remaining who hear only their own voices
chatter quietly in the winter of the soul of the world

let us come together then and find our way from here
leave a testament or three so that others may be inspired
(though hopefully not tricked into believing that by following
toe by tow in line with our faces they, too might reach liberation
before they are even free)

in this resolve, these days of petulance are numbered
and the turning of the face back toward the east is nigh
yet there is no satisfaction in watching the winds sweep through
simply the knowledge of the fact of what is to be

(no subject)

there are those with art in their blood
others with blood in their art
for so few us comes the revelation
that without both coursing through the veins
life cannot continue

we live in so little experience

there are those who wish to whisper
sweetly and we lend an ear
willingly tossed readily
into the tease of the lips
which brush flesh in a manner
unable to be proven as accidentally
or otherwise

although i do not hold to be caught
up in the meaning of the action
that the contact surely occurred
is pointed enough telling
to whisper back breaths
upon throats and lungs
and walls that the words provide
in the beginning

and while it is not so certain
that with resolve
a thimble of soup could not feed this army
what is really meant
is that the anxiety of the unsure nature
(whether to do or not to do)
has taken from the children
any chance to be

in an age of loneliness
someone is always willing to take you in
for all of the modern age are wanderers
and with some training of the eyes
an angel of good company

in the homes of hibernation
that are believed to be the sleep of the season
are nothing but holes
and the sleep of eternity and reason

(they asked the suicidal boy which apartment he wished to rent.
His response? "Not 2B.")

to walk on water with weighted wings

what buries me is not the snow -
the window sees through and true to my safety
as a fence that holds the cold at bay

with a lantern and a blanket
and a glimpse of rest
with the painting of first snowfalls
ten years and counting gone by

tonight through clouds
the spectre of seafarers
whose feet are weighted by their won hands
sail with the spirits
whose desires to dance
did not pass
with their demise

if only we could learn to let go
release the memories clutched in both hands
this heaviness
(that it takes only moments to sink
out of reach of the sun)
would not claim us so speedily away
and allow our chance meeting
with life eternal
to flee