Monthly Archives: December 2019

New Year’s Eve, 2019

In the cold morning, I don’t know where to go, though I have somewhere to be.

Before sunrise, and all is silent and empty, and as peaceful as my mind will be.

I don’t call a women’s name. I don’t call a god’s name. I call the stars fruitless wombs.

Another year almost arrived. But it only gets worse for us. The blessed people kill all.

I keep my eyes on the ground, try to shiver off the cold, as another year come on.

Another year comes on, and prayers are still useless, and I still will not call her name.

Dark Red Parka

Dark red parka, hood up; the little girl there.

Snowy night, after Christmas doldrums, no

bright and candied lights, just grey and black.

 

Eyes, eyes seem black, but I can’t really see her.

“Is you daughter home?” She asks. “I know her well.”

Her feet in their Mary Janes don’t touch the snow.

 

“No, she is not here.” I tell her. “Now go from here.”

I walk to my door, cold from more than the wind.

The girl watches me, her parka a wound against the snow.

 

A smile, rictus. Her eyes are covered by her hood, but I say…..

Her silky hair falls down, almost an obsidian veil.

Her eyes are covered by her hood, but I say, but I say…….

 

…….they are black!

 

Like January

The cemetery statue, with her wings intact and her arms broken off, looked down from her pedestal in pride and harshness.

She watched as shadowy, murmuring people walked among the rows of graves, listening, hoping to feel warm sunlight on their shoulders.

I sat at her pedestal with a Styrofoam cup filled with scalding hot coffee that burns my tongue, keeps all to close to earth.

And I listen, but hear nothing, not even the murmurs of the smattering of mourners, and the holly berries tempt me, but have already taken everything.

The cemetery statue, tired and worn, having watched these seasons and the nights that are indifferent to our lustful magic

can only sit in judgment of her piece of earth, and me, her supplicant and exhausted prince, who thought this would all have meaning.

Hot coffee, and a cold morning, the temptation to make it a grand conspiracy, like January, like a new year, like love in it’s promiscuous grace.

The cemetery statue, her arms taken and buried with the poet who made her a goddess in vulgar and infantile words

might be relieved at the coming of spring, at the moon becoming gold once more, like the ring that binds only angel, at finally feeling warm sunshine on her shoulders.

Waited For Stars

She had grown out her hair from its harsh shortness.

Still simple and plain, it now fell to her thin shoulders.

She smoked a cigarette, fragrant cloves, waited for stars.

 

You could see a dim, hazy, flicker of the drive-in movies.

We watched these blurry dreams from the roof of the house.

We made up wars, we spread our angel wings, grace of sinners.

 

The movies go long into the night. Her beloved stars come for her.

Floating, her pale and bare feet pointing down, she is above me.

She is innocent despite her sin, for she was always full of love.

 

And with unfocused flickers behind her back, her wings are clean.

I turned to hatred when I was broken, Satan ensnared me forever.

No kisses now, like when we were young. She belongs to the stars.

Queen of Tarturus

You’ll never sleep in this garden, behind the walls of my eyes.

You’ll never know it’s black splendor or blue hued surprise.

The seas of my dreams smooth as glass and bright

or the raging howls in the blackest part of night

or the tender place I keep just to nurture what she gave me

or the golden apples of innocence I take from the life giving tree.

The ferris wheel were my hand reached out to touch the stars

or the Queen of Tarturus who stole kisses that always mars.

My places, only my own, things I’ll never share with you.

Wishes silver and cold and misty like morning dew.

You fingers a blasphemy on my mind and heart.

You can’t know my soul, so don’t even fucking start

with high minded words and goldy proclamations.

White light is the burning fire, life’s ruinious decimation.

So I get upon the battered skiff to sail away from your temple.

I don’t love you. I don’t trust you. I don’t want you. It’s that simple

 

Night Watch

We’re driving through the night.

A country road closed in by naked in winter branches.

By morning we’ll be home.

 

She is asleep, curled into a semi-ball.

There are no kind radio preachers,

so I play sacred music from long ago.

 

I drive us home, and sh has faith,

that when she wakes, she’ll be safe

at the home we still long for.

 

Sacred music. A women’s voice

is closer to God’s than a man’s,

can show love without bared fangs.

 

I love her. I want to be worthy

of her faith and love, even as this

world stars to burn, fill with hate.

 

Later, out of the mountains,

into the valley were we grew up,

I see the soft orange of the sunrise.

 

We made it home.

 

 

 

Endless?

Is the universe infinite? Endless? With unbound form?

It’s snowing outside. It’s Christmas Eve, now Christmas Morn.

I stand outside my house. I have hot coffee. I have soft clothes.

I look up into the endless stars. The wide white clouds of them.

 

There are devils everywhere you look. Angels seems obscure.

The world is burning. We are a blue and green little island here.

If the universe is infinite, is their another little blue and green place?

If we blow it here, is all life and hope blown forevermore?

 

I look up into the stars, galaxies and clusters and clouds in darkness.

It is snowing. It is Christmas Morn. Someone, once tried to save us.

I call out to those brothers and sisters, Children of God, if they are out there.

Are they like us? Lost and cruel? Is there anything if we lose ourselves?

The Last Red Burn Before Dark

I sit outside on the dirty, raised concrete patio; I’m not allowed to smoke inside.

It’s December, almost Christmas, and the sun is fading, the last red burn before dark.

We live very near the gats of an air base, and a jet screams over, into the horizon.

Lying in bed as a child, I imagined being in them as they flew over, absolutely free.

 

The war goes on, somewhere else, somewhere out of sight, as we all, not affected,

go on about our lives, as if it was all the same, as if The Devil would never knock.

I imagined as a boy, and I imagine now, the force and speed of those screaming fighters,

as battle angels, as if invincible, as if you would never again fall back to the earth.

 

The jet fighters flies on into the distance, the last red burn before dark, and I now know,

they are not free, and the speed and the force and the battle angels are bound to earth,

but what powerful men build and destroy, and whom they serve, and all the gold they horde.

I still try to imagine, breaking free of this earth, flying into the night, absolutely free.

A Tale Already Told

Navy blue hoodie, hood up, feeling hot and sweltering, despite the cold.

The young men and women on the street, laughing; I feel so fucking old.

It’s a rainy evening, and I walking to the theatre, for a tale already told.

Is it rubbish, is it nostalgia, is a way to suck up money, no choice so bold.

 

The street preacher shouts and screams, and people scowl at him, or ignore.

The stick of damnation of sin, the carrot of eternity on that heavenly shore.

He howls about gays and sex and woman outside their place, Babylon Whore.

He’s not here to convert, but to hate, count ever scowl and figure, God keeping score.

 

The young woman at the ticket office is sighing, tired on her feet, still kind.

I ask for the ticket, the latest iteration of some long ago thing, the hive mind

still says it has meaning and grace, but I want to leave that world so far behind.

I don’t know where else to go, what else to you, and that’s how childhood binds.

7 to 3 to 9

I am up in the blue sky. Way up high. Way up in the blue sky.

 

I will touch the moon. I’ll see heaven soon. The stars will swoon.

 

She’s waiting in paradise. Beyond light and ice. She’s waiting in paradise.

 

Past Titan and Io. Past the endless black I will go. Infintiy not enough to know.

 

The stars gleam. This emptiness has no seam. An enternal day in a sunbeam.

 

Her hand in mine. Counting down, 7 to 3 to 9. The days unravel in a disturbed line.

 

And at the end without end where the night will end, on my knee to her I’ll bend,

 

Be my loved one. Be the goddess of light and sun. Let me be the only one.