Monthly Archives: December 2016

All Too Soon

Two rooms, all alone, where I can be anyone.

               I can be the man that gives her a gold ring.

               I can be Archangel Michael, slaying the Red Dragon.

               I can be whole and good and full of light.

 

               Two rooms, my home, where I dream

               And write the words that bleed out poison.

               Where I dream of a love that might save me.

               Where I fear the death of warmth in humankind.

 

               I can dream my love into my amrs, as I lay in bed,

               And make believe there’s anything for me to give her.

               I can dream her fingers touching me, her kips kissing me,

               Can dream us making love and dreaming on a rainy afternoon.

 

               Two rooms, where I can imagine keeping out death

               And the war coming all too soon, and the heartbreak

               Of never finding the place where it all makes sense

               And they welcome you with open arms, just as you are.

 

               Two rooms, a tiny paradise, that will burn like Eden

               In the war coming all too soon.

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The Song He Always Sang

It’s starting to get cool at night, the first of September.

               The stars look so magnificent now all cities are dark.

               Such lights and clouds and clusters of white in the black.

               The ashes of the fire rise on the flames to touch the sky.

 

               She lays in her sleeping bag, Army Surplus, once her dad’s.

               The flames are hot on her face, and soothing, and so kind.

               She does not want to go into the tent yet, wants to be here.

               Watching the flames, feeling the heat, as winter comes down.

 

               She tries to call that song he always sang for her as a little girl.

               Tries to call the sound of his voice, the scratch of beard on her cheek.

               The nauseating smell of his aftershave. The color of his eyes, exactly.

               The feel of his arms hugging her. The roughness of his hands.

 

               All shadows, half formed, flickers in the darkness of her memory.

               All the pictures burned when the city fell. Memory is fickle and fades.

               She can’t put together the summer afternoon that was perfect,

               When it was just her and her dad, picnicking on the open plains.

 

               She sighs, and gives up trying. She gets out of the sleeping bag

               And goes inside the tent, gets back in, and through the open

               Mesh of the tent roof, she looks at the stars, countless, infinite,

               Until she levitates into the sky, and is one with every miracle.

              

A Tender Nothing

Deidra from the Dairy Daze out by the bridge

               Sits on the rotted and dirty picnic tables,

               Listening to her headphones, to that one song

               That made her stay, that night it all almost ended.

 

               The sky is wide, the horizon bleeding out from sunset.

               No mountains or trees, just the plains and the wind.

               She thinks she can see Chicago, the place she wants to be.

               She drinks her milkshake, waits for Mike to come for her.

 

               That song, about a mermaid longing for the man she loves,

               Fills her with sweet sadness and endless regret, a tender nothing.

               She didn’t cross The Styx, didn’t pass a coin to the boatman.

               But what’s here for her now, that could make staying be worthwhile?

 

               The road is straight and endless, heading to the sea, to paradise.

               Winter offers at least sleep and solace of hiding away from them.

               Mike is coming down the road, headlights blinkered fireflies.

               Mike is coming, she’s going home, and only dreams offer pleasure.

A Deist Election

Primrose Pardon, in her fine clothes, and her long braid.

               Her soft eyes, coarsened by the sun, look for cool shade.

               A smile from her, a kind word, my foolishness has paid.

               I can light the star in her mind if my soul is now betrayed.

 

               A rolling ecstasy, a hope for kisses, or to take a deep bow.

               My heart and my desire and my head get into a hot row.

               Can I have her tenderness, and remain clean somehow?

               Is saintly pleasure and perfect affection a debased vow?

 

               She is a refined and silken, and that braid a dragon’s tail.

               To unfurl it like a flag at the end of watch, a storied veil.

               To brush it out softly, one hundred times, as the open sail

               To the shores I spurned by pouring out blood from The Grail.

 

               I count her words, and weigh them for all their perfection.

               I look away, smile, at her and the ground. A deist election

               Of her wonder left to make a more heartfelt perfection.

               These words, a hymn to brokenness, given in bashful affection.

Whispering Sleep

I sit on the hill over my home town,

               As the sun falls to purple twilight

               And the stars come up, eager to

               Sing their songs, show their faces.

 

               I can feel some other world here,

               In the cold wind of the changing year,

               In the darkness of the night falling,

               Whispering sleep on these sacred places.

 

               I ache for the love of her, a reminder

               Of all the wonders in the waking world

               And the sweetness love can bring you,

               Where miscreant angels leave no traces.

 

               Is there a flicker of faith to be found now,

               In her laughter and big, bear hugs so tight,

               And the soft kisses upon my cheek and brow,

               Can I salvage God from her honeycomb graces?

 

               The stars of the sky and of the city come out

               And I hold onto the embers of hope and light

               That her devotion and love give to me now,

               As for death and war my broken heart braces.

Endless, But We Don’t Fly

Swimming pool, calm and clear and blue.

               Holy water made purer, caustic cleanliness.

               Under those waters, she bathes only her skin.

 

               Blue and white bathing suit, and tanned skin.

               We are almost grown, yet trapped in this pool.

               Not awash in the black and cold and endless sea.

 

               Blue is the sky above us, endless, but we don’t fly.

               We could swim to hell or heaven or coastal Maine.

               We stay in this safe place that burns our eyes to tears.

 

               The sky velvet black and crooked red as the sun falls.

               We will strip out of our bathing suits and fuck fiercely.

               But we are not grown, not angels or demons, only stunted.

 

               Only bleeding eyes in the clear waters that go nowhere.

 

              

 

 

Diadem of Devotion

White diamond, silvery light, diadem of devotion.

               No Iseult, no tragic burning hearts, no love potion.

              

               Spending time, knocking back beers, a winter rain.

               My love was ruled by the moon, growing to wane.           

 

               You hugged me tight, my hope for a soft night grew.

               Not my family or blood, but you freely said I love you.

 

               My wings, circumcised and hobbled, wiped away your tears.

               I placed that diadem upon your head, queen of chasing fears.

 

               I can call you up in my head, but I can’t feel your embrace.

               I can see the warmth in your smile; in this year it is out of place.

 

               I made you queen, because you were all I knew of love, that season.

               You’re gone and all time is wasted, to hold to you I have no reason.

 

               But I do. Oh my god, I do.

              

Midnight Mass

We’re walking to midnight mass; I fall behind.

               I’m chasing her, or rather, the love she gives.

 

               My boots crunch half-melted snow, now ice.

               She is whispering in her daughter’s ear.

 

               I have no faith in god, or any other grand plan.

               I’m here chasing her, or rather, the love she gives.

 

               Her daughter giggles and hugs her mother’s middle.

               The faith of a child grown-ups trifle with, and ruin.

 

               The mother, the woman I love, looks back, and smiles.

               I smile back, but lag on behind, tempted to turn away.

 

               I have no faith in god, or the priests, or prayer, any of it.

               I’m too old to put on a mask, just for company, affection.

 

               They enter the church, stately and proud against starry sky.

               I turn away, don’t call after them, don’t follow, just go back.

 

               The stars are so clear in the bitter sky, the moon close to touch.

               Perhaps I’ll sleep, and forget for awhile, all I so desperately want.

In The Warmth, In The Sky

Naked, side by side in a swelteringly heated hotel room.

               Dim light, the city outside the window, as fat, wet

               Snowflakes fall.

 

               Her hair short and tight, her body lithe, her breasts

               Small, rolling mounds. Her breath is slow, even,

               Her eyes bright and flushed.

 

               I trace a slow finger over the ridges and valleys

               Of her skin, at the strength and wire in her

               Slim frame.

 

               Like angels. We are keep above and apart,

               In warmth in the sky, behind glass that

               Can’t let in the sun.

 

               We enjoy winter, being safe from it.

               Days and nights of just us, and all

               Other things taken care of.

 

               We do not touch now, or hold hands

               Or cuddle, lovers at a distance,

               Sharing the bed and hope of sleep.

 

               It’s almost Christmas, and we are alone

               And together, and not of this earth.

               Our dreams are as silent as the grave.

              

As The Naked Branches In Silent Prayer Sway

The night is cold, and sweet as I kiss.

               A game is on here that I just can’t miss.

               Chat up a young woman, so very pretty.

               I try to be charming, say things so witty.

 

               A light in the distant darkness, orange eye.

               I follow it into the bitter night, a great lie.

               I see her as light, to burn away what’s broken.

               I’ve made her a Madonna as we’ve spoken.

 

               I see her as sex, as love, as the healing mage.

               As the partner in crime, a voice to soothe rage.

               I can’t see who she is, for what I want her to be.

               I can’t see the continent above the black sea.

 

               And, the game over and won, her on her way,

               As the naked branches in silent prayer sway,

               I realize it’s another dream, to replace a nightmare.

               A dream of love, touchy-feely, to alleviate this despair.

 

               And people aren’t dreams, or angels, or even mages.

               There are not perfect words written in notebook pages.

               They are like you, angel and devil and lost and found.

               A voice calling in the night, while you are deaf to the sound.