Monthly Archives: November 2019

The War Is Over

French girl with strawberry blonde hair in a pixie cut.

A white bathing suit, with navy blue trimming.

The war is over. The war is never over. Another one will come.

 

She floats in too clear and too harsh pool water.

The sky is blue and clear and untroubled.

No bombers or fighters above, now.

 

She closes her eyes, and dreams a sacred dream.

The sun is hot on her face and grit of drying water.

The war is over. The war is never over. Another one will come.

As If Still Dreaming

Black and white bikini, a blue sea, a bright endless sky.

She is beautiful. She is sweet. We’re in love. We all die.

 

Paradise, like in a swimsuit calendar, or vacation brochure.

Paradise, where all is well, and we are young, and so sure.

 

Her flushed skin in the fading sun, in the softest light gleaming.

Her dark hair still wet, her dark eyes distant, as if still dreaming.

 

I take pictures that go back to be put in magazines to sell beer.

She is not completely in this world, and the night is full of fear.

 

The stars are out, endless and milky and swirls in the firmament.

We swim together in the lagoon, with affection as an armament.

 

We are lovers, and we are free as only the damned and wild are.

The water is warm, the night filled with laughter, a joke too far.

 

 

 

 

Ophelia

Water, between earth and heaven,

she went under, heavy heart and

light flesh, beauty put away,

a soul that guttered and went out.

 

Love? What was it? Could it be?

Gave herself too freely, called back,

called down. The demons drove him

and drove him from her, from herself.

 

Broken, the edges sharp cuts spritits

and something more holy and precious

than blood spilled out, was lost. He got his end.

She was reclaimed by the water, the womb of loss.

 

Looking up at the sky, and the clear blue and clouds,

she smiles, laughs to herself, her garland crowd off

and floating down the river, to signal the passing of her,

as she sinks below, forever gone, maybe to peace at last.

Galilee

Israeli woman from a past year, me and her sharing wine.

Lost all hope for a resurrection, a saving grace, from Galilee.

Just drink our wine, and hold close, as the sea eats up the sun.

There’s no comfort left in the stars, no kisses sent by the moon.

 

No rocks or bread, no devil to tempt us, just the foolishness of hope.

We lay together, look at night sky, the one and only miracle of light.

We make love in the depths of the darkness, to sweeten our death.

One flesh, but no spirit is kindled, the seed falls onto the hard ground.

 

And morning come, will come when all is barren from man’s infernal fire.

The sun mocks us, offers a cruel hope, a santimonious reason for living.

We are naked in the last shred of soft darkness, of cool and empty delight.

The sun on our skins is warm, but touch leaves no traces, only ugly scars.

 

Something About Faith

Sharing soft drinks in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant.

Music plays on the radio, Johnny Cash, something about faith.

We talk of God, and angels, all the things he, my brother, will do.

 

You’re scared to hope; you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’s seems well. Some color back in his skin. No more hunger in his eyes.

Is he really heading back to us, putting away the drugs, my brother again?

 

Still, I’m glad to spend time with him. He can make you feel like you’re

the center of the universe, a king among commoners, the most important thing.

Still, we are so much alike, for all our divergent paths, and different kinds of faith.

 

We drink our soft drinks, and talk about the angels, and all those hidden secrets.

Just us, brothers, perhaps even friends, talking while Johnny sings, a shared troubadour.

In this moment, in this place, in this night, we are brothers, and all is well.

Gallows

It’s a sunny day, crisp in early spring.
They’ve taken away my wedding ring.
Cold in a plain white dress, shorn hair.
There is beauty today, beyond compare.

Uniforms, I am marched in front of.
I die for mercy, God and his love.
These men have blood on their hands.
They have taken over so many lands.

I knew I could come to this place.
The sun is now warm upon my face.
If none will fight, what would come?
If now they fight, my life is a well spent sum.

Emily Jean

It’s late September. We’re passing a bottle of wine late at night.

Sitting on a worn out couch outside her apartment, talking about life.

Red wine leads to red thoughts, of what comes when death finds us,

and what will be left of us as this world burns away sweetness for a laugh,

of what could last for all time.

 

A bottle finished, another opened. We don’t realize where this will lead.

Just something to soothe broken hearts, make us feel light and full of dreams.

Her man left her. I’m facing the loss of someone dear. The stars gave us no names.

We’re both lonely and raw and just trying to hold onto warmth as winter comes.

We get drunk. We always get drunk.

 

She ends up asleep on my shoulder, asleep, troubled and at peace.

Both bottles of wine empty at my feet. Her rust colored hair bleeds

the death of sweetness, of hope, down my chest. Another wound.

Buzzed, full of dreams, way too horny, I watch the sky, counting her breathes

and counting the stars, and giving up on the tenderness of the moon.

 

 

Sucking The Lights

New York, winter still lingers in April, cold winds all day.

You said the snows are only pure at first fall, then they turn black.

We walk late at night. The cold our only solace without a vice.

 

Maybe angels keep watch on the top of Empire State Building.

Angels and demons are mesmerized tourists sucking the lights.

The lights that make it all look like your above a golden galaxy.

 

At Battery Park, I cut open our palms with a hunting knife.

We mix blood, we become one blood and flesh, one soul now.

Monuments to empty promises cannot break our hearts, or break us.

 

It’s still cold in April, the time an the hour not decided for summer.

We huddle close, both of us in olive drab army coats, worn out clothes.

When the sun rises, the war is over, and nothing will make us sad, anymore.

 

To What End?

I could call her name, but to what end?

I could touch her face, but stars still fall.

I could fall in love, but The Devil always wins.

 

I float up from my bed. I touch the ceiling.

I float like air, but tonight it rains diamonds.

I float, but the weight of hope burns the sky.

 

I make things, to rule and have control over.

I make things, to burn before we burn ourselves.

I make things, to hide when Lucifer comes around.

 

I could call her name, but to what end?

I could touch her face, but stars still fall.

I could fall in love, but The Devil always wins.

No Hand Raised

I used to dream of the forests and snows up North.

I used to dream of melting like foam into the ocean.

I used to dream of love and of kisses, of two made one.

 

You say there’s places to hide, where God gives us shelter.

You say no one goes because of the cost, the sacrifice of it.

You say trust God, and all will be well, and you will be whole.

 

But cruelty is the Church’s coin, and God always looks the other way,

when children are abused, when the innocent are shamed, and power

because the word of scripture, just another fucking weapon on the weak.

 

No place is safe. The knives are always out, no one can be trusted

because of their faith or party or high minded bullshit; all are predators.

And God always looks the other way, no hand raised, to the abusers.

 

I used to dream of escape. I used to dream their were places to go.

I used to dream a lover could quiet those wolves clawing at the door.

But there’s is nothing true here. Nothing pure. The Devil always wins.