Monthly Archives: January 2019

Shallows/Depths

I see you, mermaid, out on the rocks and the sea foam, sometimes sunning your self, or combing your golden hair with a bone white comb made from a sea shell, or diving in the shallows, and coming up with treasures.

You wear a pink and vibrant anemone in your hair, like a land girl wears a blue flower, and your beauty is stranger and wilder, still untamed in the tempestuous and loving azure oceans.

I swam out to you, and you watched, unsure and suspicious, until you smiled and swam to meet me in those shallows, so clear and warm, and we played like we were children again.

Diving and hiding and finding ourselves in those easy and calm shallows, your aquamarine tail and it’s scales glinting like jewels in the high butterscotch sun, your green eyes flashing with fire.

And as the afternoon fell into twilight, the bright sky because dark and wine colored, you took my hand out past the shallows ancient and brown rocks, past the white and frothing breakers to the open sea.

And you wanted me to follow you, but I cannot breath in deep water, and I am a child of land, and I cannot go with you. You watched me a moment, and then you were gone below the dark, dark waters.

I see you sometimes, back on your sunning rock, or combing your sparkling golden hair with your seashell comb, the scales of your aquamarine tail still brightly bejeweled, and you’ll see me on the shore, and wave and smile.

And I wave back, and wish I could be your consort and love, and I could follow you under those dark, midnight blue waters, to what wonders your know so far below, that two worlds could meet again.

The Soft Face That Draws Blood

A single frame.

All that angel wings

wipe away, is there.

The bright flesh.

The harsh, proud

tenderness.

The soft face

that draws blood.

 

Glossy, slick paper.

I touch it, hesitant,

as if touching her.

I close my eyes

and kiss her lips

in the photograph,

as if kissing her.

 

All that’s holy eyes

can find is not here.

The tiredness, sweat

and cold in Annapolis,

where this all was taken,

is not here.

She is fey. She is glamour.

 

I hang the picture up

with scotch tape by my

desk, to look too, be inspired,

to dream, to love a perfect love.

I don’t know her days and nights.

nothing can break the spell.

 

Stars are so beautiful in the sky,

but only have dead worlds in orbit,

useless wonders and not even ruins,

for nothing else has ever been here.

Stars shine in the dark, fooling us.

She is fey. She is glamour.

The Dead Will Never Hurt You

Cemetery in a cold January, the beginning flecks of snow, no stars or moon.

The stone angels, the little lambs on children’s headstones, glisten under the

streetlamps, on the four roads that pass by this place.

 

Lilish pulls her navy blue coat tighter, her blue and teal beanie farther down

over her ears, feeling the chill even through all of her layers, all her tired body

can do to warm itself.

 

So late, and so cold to be out, but her mind is troubled, and this is a peaceful

place, and the dead will never hurt you. The living seem out to harm you, for

any reason at all.

 

Lilish walks and looks at the monuments to those now gone, at the dates

marking their coming to the world and their leaving at, at the bible verses

and tributes carved into stone.

 

Her cheeks are flushed, but her mind seems to calm, and their is a beauty

even in the cold and wet and the dark of night, and in keeping company with

those now lost.

 

The Bible says God will wipe away every tear, and that night will be no more,

and that we’ll all dwell with God forever. Are these people’s tears wiped away

now, are they in paradise?

 

Lilish turns back to look at her house, and sees that the light is on in Joseph’s

window, that he is working again, like her not sleeping, too restless and keyed

up.

 

Lilish love’s her brother, but it’s getting harder and harder to talk to him,

to feel close to him, something between them. She talks to Chris, her best friend,

but he so eager for her love, it’s off putting.

 

Wiped away tears and God being close forever and the sun evermore in the sky,

will we finally all see face to face, and understand perfectly, and forgive all?

Are these dead finally free of the weight of this world?

 

Baby’s Breath

The pathologists came, and collected up her bones.

Curled up in a shallow grove, by smooth river stones.

Tenderly, they place her remains in a temporary casket.

There’ll be a question for God, and in prayers they’ll ask it.

 

A family member took her down to the river, took her life.

A loved one hurting one near and dear, these cases are rife.

The bones cleaned and examined, like holy relics, reverence.

Put the killer away, life made living death, penalty of severance.

 

A donated grave and headstone, marking where she may be at rest.

She dreamed of the SoCal sun, of a glamorous life out their to the west.

No meaning to be made, God wasn’t trying to teach us, just a horrid death.

Hold on to warmth of a setting sun, wind bows the blooms of baby’s breath.

 

What Kind of World

The news grows grimmer everyday.

At night me and my wife watch it unfold on TV.

We eat our meals, silent, wondering what will happen.

She told me yesterday that we have a baby on the way.

 

Never get ahead, always a disaster, always a thing to fix.

Not enough food. Not enough money. Soon, will money matter.

I watch warily my friends and co-workers. Don’t know trust, now.

I will soon be a father. What kind of world is this?

 

I sit in the parking lot of the pawn shop. Undecided.

Buy a gun. Don’t. Which is right. Whom is to be trusted?

Whom will hurt me and my family? What is yet to come?

I will be a father soon. What kind of world is this?

Endgame

She is with child. We’re running to the mountains, away from Babylon.

God is a word emptied of all meaning here. Hope a dream too far gone.

God was the word etched on the guns held to our heads.

God was the word uttered by the ones who took us from our beds.

 

With old army knapsacks and some tools and knives,

we run to the mountains, where maybe a family survives.

She knows the plants and the animals and the sacred waters.

I have a .22,  a few shells, as angels guide holy men in slaughters.

 

She is with child. The pro-lifers would kill her on sight,

for not being Christian, for being atheist, for not believing right.

We were ground under, all outside those golden doors, left to burn.

God’s indifference in his own corruption, His name we now spurn!

 

She is with child. Not too long. Make it to the forest, away from people.

Jesus the impaler running people through on every single high steeple.

Me and here, in the woods, Adam and Even after men have become cold.

Christians have taken hope and dreams, and me and here will not grow old.

Anemones

The clear blue water of a swimming pool, a bright noon in August.

Her hair a pixie cut, still waving like anemones in that cool water.

Black bikini, golden brown skin; her sweetness makes it all perfect.

 

Water, even treated and contained, holds us aloft between worlds.

Her smiling down on me as I sink away to the deep end, a supplicant,

we can catch our fingers on the moon or the sun, or the end of all things.

 

She swims down to me, touches my face, and I surrender to her, to fate,

and what measure of peace God allows in the remnants before extinction.

She touches my face, and we are somewhere else, that no demon can find.

Fairies Could Go Either Way

Her hair a short and spiky mop of brown, like the rich earth of the forest.

She shivers in her baggy, navy blue hoodie, digging out lighter and cigarettes.

A drizzle of February rain falls on The Strip, lights of banality, useless night.

 

Hood up, soothing cigarette in her mouth, she walks down to Tyson Park.

Closest woods, and the dark and rich soil, a fairy kingdom half-remembered.

Her mother told her her brown was like the dark soil of that lost kingdom.

 

And she knows The Devil has walked those woods, and spilled some blood.

And she knows angels whisper in playing children not rotted by pop-culture.

And she knows the fairies could go either way on a bright summer afternoon.

 

A cigarette and some rain, very noir, in a city too much like every other now.

Even hear, just down from bars and chain eateries, the never ending interstate,

she can still count to the secret star, her fairy mother made just for her.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth, left naked and cold, in a weed grown lot.

Pale and bloodless, such violence for her bought

immortality, her ruined body was never forgot.

 

All night theatres, sleeping while happy movies played.

Smiles and gentle touches and soft kisses from her paid

for meals and drinks, from men who found she never stayed.

 

On a beach, darkest before dawn, few stars through city glow.

Not even SoCal very warm in January, the sun sighing so low.

Death angel closed an eye on his wings, now her time to go.

 

She was found, broken and discarded, among tall, dry weeds.

Death angel is silent, as the butchered for their life pleads.

Remembered, but not known, beauty lost sows these morbid seeds.

 

for Elizabeth Short, “Black Dahlia”

The Bloodshed Crowd

Glossy magazine, fashion photography, fine white gown.

Strapped on angel wings, made of whitest, silken down.

The grace is in a sighed breath, above a moribund town.

 

Her eyes, high and sharp, distinct from alien and human.

One prince to carry now, priceless in her uterine lumen.

One prince, two daughters, whose hope we are consuming.

 

An simple shot, she looks out the window, sad and so proud.

One from heaven choosing to fight for us, the bloodshed crowd.

I don’t know why, but I offer my peasant magic, all prayers aloud.