Category Archives: Uncategorized

In Memphis, She Headed West

Not only is sex evil, but it’s gross.

She turned her head away from him,

blocked his mouth with the flat of her palm,

watched the city pass outside the bus window.

 

He turned from her, miffed and silent.

The body and all it’s working, it’s hungers,

and it’s frailty and disgusting detritus,

was only redeemed by soft, and simple touch.

 

She wanted to hold his hand, cuddle close,

lay her head upon his shoulder, maybe fall asleep

as the bus drove on through the night to Memphis.

Even the kisses he fished for had the taste of sickness.

 

She watched the world pass by, past Nashville, into the west,

and she knew in Memphis she’d he heading out alone to Denver.

He wanted what he wanted, and would take nothing less.

The revolted flesh overwritten by the perverse pleasures.

 

Just touch me, leave all the other to rest.

Touching, the weight of another in her arms.

None of the mixing, none of the risk of new life,

and all the damnation it brought upon an innocent thing.

 

In Memphis, he left her. In Memphis, she headed west.

God only touched another when touch was all there was.

Sex, the evil of debasement and cruelty and vice.

Sex, the original sin, the most despairing, the least despised.

 

Angel might now keep her company in her dreams……..

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Slim Shoulders

She had slim shoulders. The weight of the world slid right off them.

Thin and bird hollow angles. Wings were kept under her satin coat.

Loose and curly chestnut hair fell over those shoulders, hiding joy.

 

She smoked expensive and smooth French cigarettes, white as time.

Thin fingers that picked the eyes of the dead, like crows on a battlefield.

Almost an Orthodox cross, but there’s no line pointing to heaven, or hell.

 

Those wings did not unfurl, restless and bitter, made for another world.

Fae she might have been, glamour of an alien, or half-human changeling.

She walked away, into the crowd, hungry for eyes and her crow daughter.

 

The scents of putrid tobacco and exotic cruelties lingered, a soft barbarism.

The little independent book store was closing for the night, too early for death.

In the crowd, I saw bulges under her satin coat, and the bouncing of chestnut hair.

The Stars Will Come Tonight

Just, be silent.

The stars will come tonight.

They will twinkle and glow.

Just, be still.

 

Words, to make her face,

her qualities beyond words,

as if, like Pygmalion,

she’d become real for you.

 

The song, conjures her.

The words speak a sacred invocation.

In the dark, and alone, it’s safe to dream.

Dream of her, dream of love.

 

A dream is clean and whole,

or it can be, can be the last sacred thing.

Don’t talk to her. Don’t look her in the eye.

Dream of her, dream of love.

 

 

Columbine’s Blooming

Edge of May, weather warming in Colorado, the columbine’s are blooming.

The park with the crosses of the martyr, and the one who led me to a God

I’ve now left behind.

 

So long ago, edge of a century, the last years before the next one began

on a warm September. I loved her and I loved her lord, but know they’ve

gone rotten with hate.

 

If she was still here, still in this world, would she stand against the monsters

who use god as a gun to hold to unwanted heads, or would she cheer it on,

or worse, excuse it all?

 

I loved her across time, as I healed from the darkness, but god’s light burns now,

for it shines not on the lost and broken and left behind. It’s light is found in the fires

of burning crosses.

 

I loved her, but it’s better to burn in hell than spend eternity with the cold blooded

faithful. The columbine’s bloom, the warm weather comes, but this all that’s left,

we’re without holy light, only indifferent glow of the sun.

A Sighing Rejoicing

I sit on the cold, damp sand of the Oregon beach,

in the little grotto closed in by tall rocky crags

and ancient pine trees, hidden, but open to the sky.

 

On a jut of grey stone, just before the breakers,

a mermaid sits and watches that dark ocean as it crashes,

as the tide rolls in, and she sings a mournful song.

 

A song I don’t understand, but I feel in my heart,

a song of bittersweet loss, a still and cold eeriness,

a song of something no longer close.

 

And the mermaid turns her head and sees me,

knows I am here everyday to hear her sing,

everyday just to watch against those bitter breakers.

 

Her face is calm but curious, unsure, but she stays.

I offer the ghost of a smile for her, remnants of innocence.

She turns away, and sings again; a new song, a sighing rejoicing.

 

And then she dives back into the dark waters, gone for now.

I’ll be back again as the tide rolls in to her hear sing, and to see,

something of wonder and grace, which always carries with it sorrows.

Elven Queen

Too haunted by paths not taken,

the soft heart that did not awaken.

Too haunted by things I can’t change,

try to find ways to go and re-arrange.

 

Elven looking girl from high school,

that by a gregarious king might rule.

Silken blonde with the crinkling nose,

and the navy blue and practical clothes.

 

Tolkien or Brooks, I might have seen light,

in the madness that took me into the night.

I should have been that girl’s friend, instead.

Her kindness, a star shining in my lost head.

 

One time, heading to Louisville, us in backseat.

Sharing bits from a nice chocolate, sugary treat.

I came away from hell for a slice of afternoon.

It ended, getting her too her home too soon.

 

We talk of music, and she’s that Fae queen now.

With her sweet son, and her atavistic chow-chow.

We talk in messenger about dreams, and a bit of peace.

I’m becoming the man I should have been, piece by piece.

 

Wisconsin so much farther than Louisville, but stars shine again.

And as spring comes, and warmth grows, maybe good can win.

Soft music, with it’s sorrows, bitter sweetness, plays on headphones.

Maybe I can be a prince, even in a kingdom of spite and military drones.

 

 

Late Afternoon Rain

We sit in the shelter in the public park, waiting out the late afternoon rain.

We scavenged an old acoustic guitar, and you play it now, songs of such pain.

The world ended, and we’re moving until we find a place welcoming for us.

Over in the ditch by the road, a vehicle wrecked; no children out of that bus.

 

Army surplus jackets, worn jeans, our old hiking boots, supplies in rucksacks.

Just you and me, the end seen coming, but went on with The Devil at our backs.

Psalms you sing, sorrows and loves, the hurt of loss, the hope of a place so safe.

A place to begin again, have something good, as we chase away the death wraith.

 

The rain may come down until the light is gone, and we’ll sleep in this shelter.

Animals or men, or just insects, the weapons of opportunists from the last smelter.

We cleve to one another, hoping for a place safe again, as the world has been broken.

The “I love you” you speak to me on waking, is the holiest and most blessed ones spoken.

 

 

Her and You and I

No apocalypse. No being taken up into the clouds.

No ending and judging and justice.

Just us here, today, in this world.

Day in, day out, minor prophets

standing against the darkness and blood.

 

The wars come and the wars go.

The tyrants rise and fall, rise and fall.

Ordinary people make their lives,

lives that can be so easily swept away.

No ending of it until all of our race is gone.

 

Minor prophets, her and I and you.

Fight against the dark. Be the light.

What peace and love and shelter can

be won from this ever breaking world.

It’s all we have. It’s all there is.

She Climbed The Tree And Would Not Come Down

She climbed the tree and would not come down.

She didn’t want her satin dress or her bright crown.

She wanted to be close to an ancient and living thing.

The sun on her face, to dream under the sky, to sing.

 

Father, exasperated but tender, called to her to come.

She looked at a dragon in a white cloud, her total sum.

“Come down, be with us.” Father said, holding out his hands.

She sighed. Too soon it’d be over, her taking on a wedding band.

 

The dragon, pale and pearl, slid across blue June sky, untroubled.

Almost an hour in these soft shaded branches, punishment doubled.

An ant crawled over her hand, tickling her, and she watched it, intent.

She did not want to be a princess. Of being a girl she wouldn’t repent.

Communion

I came back from the war in the full bloom of spring.

My lover lost, I wore on a leather cord the golden ring

I planned to give her, when this was over, life without sting.

 

Her parents buried her in the backyard, still torn up from shells,

A little wooden cross, whitewashed, around which grew blue bells.

Life grew from death and blood, this was the chapter and verse it tells.

 

The blue bells grew around the pear tree, where me and her played,

the little Eden as big as the universe, in that pure place no one has stayed,

and the war came and all was laid waste, and all human flesh greedily weighed.

 

The spring before she was cut down, a blue bell picked from the tawny field,

and thrown into a fire, to burn for no reason, but to violence flesh must yield.

Her body laid beneath the pear tree, nourishing it, as with time, some life healed.

 

Weeping, broken, I pluck a pear from the tree, supple and ripe, and sweet and cool.

I bite into it, a communion with her, with what remains, and what defies Satan’s rule.

Her body nourishes this tree, and her memory nourishes me, pushes back what is cruel.