Morning Is The Gift of Light

Walking through The Fort on my way to work,
coldest morning yet this fall, wearing my heavy coat
instead of my soft and comforting hoodie.
The sun is just shaking itself awake, sluggishly, tiredly,
trying to shake off sleep, the lethargy of the nighttime
and light our way down here again.
Rebekah, a brilliant poet friend, is on my mind, my heart.
I hold onto the tender thoughts she brings, let the rising sun
and my adoration of her light my way in a roiling world.
Love, when the world is burning, and heaven looks away.
Be a star amidst the flames, light instead of raging heat.
Rebekah’s words echo, and she and the sun show the way.

 

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“Icabod”

Rachel, Rachel, I’ve got Ecclesiastes in my satchel, bad shit in my head.

I can’t find peace in this world. I can’t find a quiet place to lay myself down.

I looked to you when I came out of the night, I followed you like the North Star.

I still look to you, but faith is broken, impossible. The church door read “Icabod”.

Crosses don’t cast out the demons, not mine, not the ones pointing guns.

Crosses sharpened, the guns point at us, the fucked up, the not in line.

Rachel, Rachel, Jesus gave you a soft, tender soul, but their’s are sharp.

If love is gone from them, if death comes for us, what did I ever believe in?

Rachel, Rachel, I stand in the middle of Henley St. Bridge, the cold wind calming.

The mermaids here were hunted to extinction. The sweetwater fouled forever.

They just use, they just abuse, they just make excuse for innocence stolen carelessly.

Was their God ever your God, was there even a light from the eye in the cross?

Sink down to the cold sidewalk, back to the edge of the bridge, wind breathing.

Rachel, Rachel, they failed you, and I have failed you, and no one cares at all.

A goddamn smoke might have once calmed me, but not even hymns call angels here.

Rachel, Rachel, I have no hope of light winning, of us laughing in heaven, in the light.

 

Sea of Tranquility

I sit in a swing, watching the house burn, the house where we were children.

Slowly push my self back and forth on tired legs, to dissassociative to care.

I’m watching myself, the orange flames ripping open the night on my face.

I’m a tin dime angel, addled brain almost touching heaven, which the flames reach.

I know you’re up in the sky, the eye in the moon, the listening dish, Sea of Tranquility.

You have that pilots clearance and the love of all that’s holy, good little princess.

I might have gotten something in my mind from kissing your older sister, a tumor.

I’m like neither of you, neither saint or demon, just at a loss for who to breathe in.

The house burns and I don’t care, not even my revenge gives me any feeling here.

I still float, brain damage and alcohol making me float, far away from you, in Tranquility.

The ashes always become embers, and I can never be free, my demons are invincible.

The Raptors are scrambled to take me to hell, still better than being a drone like you.

Still I have the name of love carved in my belly, without your name beside it.

 

Rebekah and Death, Smoke Break

The death angel said hello,

tapping on my car’s window.

She also bummed a smoke,

and of you and me she spoke.

A chain book store, cold night.

She said maybe it was still right

to dream of you, better than

the lingering rage at a Jesus Man.

Thin, gold rim glasses, black hair.

Rebekah you have a halo to despair.

You have a smile I made an a prize.

A dirty needle of greed, no surprise.

The death angel makes a joke rhyme.

Her cold, soft hands inspire my crime.

The night is endless, for you I ache, empty.

Walking on the highway, you just tempt me.

 

Collecting Her Winnings

The gunshots stopped hours ago.

The fire alarm is silent now.

The sickly, angry florescent lights

shine on into the dark, cold spring night.

The Death Angel collected her winnings,

the souls to take to Charon and to Hades.

The bodies still, killed and killers,

blood innocent and blood profane

mix in the flat, grey carpets and tiles

and the well kept grass out front.

They all sleep together this night,

in silence and quiet, excruciating peace.

The wind from the high mountains

is silent in it’s passage through the town.

The tall grasses on the edge of suburbs

bow dumbly, like so many prayers of strangers.

Tears are shed, so much loss, so much waste.

The dead sleep, but the living dream.

 

Diadems For Princes


Rain and Sun


Three Saints

Joan, Rachel, and Anastasia; books of my three saints

kept in my worn, brown leather knapsack, all these years.

Veneration of my saints, and my hope for my own soul,

the light I tried to sail to, across the Venusberg sea.

It’s raining tonight, and my stiff leather jacket, and scratched helmet,

and the knowledge that I can’t stay in my ten cent paradise pushes me on.

Saintly love is just another childish infatuation, my three graces at my sinner’s table,

trying to make desire a dream of paradise and heaven and holiness.

If there isn’t courtly love or engrossment in beauty and flesh, for an angel to wipe away tears,

what is there for me in this world? I have to go to find out. I have to go.

Old, battered and blue Yamaha motorbike, Carter Administration vintage, will carry me,

either in flesh or spirit, through Lincoln Tunnel, to what lies beyond childish infatuation.

If I dare to go tonight…….


Laying On My Back, Looking Up

My lover is asleep inside.

It’s a cold Autumn night.

So many stars above me.

So many stars.

Looking for a streak of light.

A bolt across the darkness.

An alien craft from a far off world.

Come down for me.

My lover sleeps. I am empty.

The passion calms no demons.

Same hunger makes me tired.

Sex is evil.

I lay on my back, look up.

All those infinite worlds.

A better world out there.

Come down for me.

Hollywood Olympus

Cara’s picture, torn from a fashion magazine,

is laid carefully in the center of the pentacle.

White candles, white light.

The demons have come; it is night time.

There is no rain to wash them from the windows.

There chattering draws blood from my dreams.

Cara is an angel from Hollywood Olympus, up in blue sky.

I invoke her youth and lust and wild heart in this night.

I want to be alive and real again.

The demons drag dead bodies from my memory.

They mock the corpses in the harsh light.

They grow powerful from this grave robbery.

Cara, I draw peace from her flesh, blood of her soul.

I draw the air of Hollywood Olympus into my lungs,

Let glamour win the day!

Morning, finally rain, knocking on my window,

to let the moths into breed and die and become seeds,

Cara is here, with a knife, to rectify the balance.

The snatching of purity was worth it.