Tag Archives: escape

Summer In Color

A young woman, my crush, walks barefoot.

We are in the woods behind the subdivision

we’re she’s lived for years, and I’ve just come to.

It the first warmth of spring, like the sun might stay,

and the flowers are budding, the grass sprouting,

and the leaves coming back, giving modesty to the trees.

She knows a secret place, on a trail she’s worn down

with her feet in hiking boots, or bare in sunny warmth,

the trail to her heart, still pure and free and so very wild.

Over a hill, and down into a grotto and a waterfall,

a deep bowl carved out by the endless waters,

a secret place to swim and baptize yourself in innocence.

She takes off her tank top and cut off shorts,

revealing the swimsuit she wears beneath.

It is blue and white, one piece, summer in color.

I take off my shirt, already wearing my trunks.

She takes my hand in hers and leads me to the water.

The sun is soft. The sky is blue. We are separate from the world.

Our breaths catch in the cold water, and we go under,

into the ancient waters, into the font of unspoiled time,

pure but with blood on it’s claws, free but sharp of tooth.

And we raise above and she is now a mermaid, a spirit

of the unfound places, the dream of which I run towards,

in the emptiness of my days, the darkness of my thoughts.

And she wraps her arms around me and we entwine,

and I stroke her cheek and we kiss, weightless and cold,

and the sun looks away in honor of the moment.

She carries me down to the endless waters,

the stars in the depths, the moon in her melancholy heart,

and this moment will make we with wonder and loss

forevermore. Forevermore.

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Sleight of Hand

A young and beautiful French girl,

dark hair, pale skin, big, brown eyes.

Glamourous dress, white and black,

looking beatifically from a magazine.

The Amtrak train moves on and on

towards Baltimore, then New York.

Dim and muted blue of the sunrise;

I can look at the picture, not words.

Another picture, ivory white swimsuit

as she swims in a clear swimming pool.

Long dark hair behind her, the night

being blown back by the morning sun.

I carry my few clothes, notebooks,

paperbacks and phone in a duffel.

Wear simple pants, t-shirt, ball cap.

I am plain in appearance, bland, even.

The sun is rising, hot golden light in

a cold and uncomfortable train car.

I look at the French girl, sleight of hand,

whether God or sex, we want escape.

A Mermaid Is Bright and Free

On the rock I watched the sea.

A mermaid is bright and free.

A mermaid has immortality.

Once, I was like the one on shore.

Saw every lover as paradise and whore.

I am not like those anymore.

In the light of the harvest moon.

I drew my own blood to write the rune.

I grew a mermaid’s tale, swam into the lagoon.

No more desire, I am one with all the ocean.

I have light and dreams and pure emotion.

Only to the depths and light do I give devotion.

On the rock, I dive into the crisp, clear water.

I am not a lover, I am the deep’s treasured daughter.

I am light and I am free, not a man’s profit to barter.

Impatient For The Stars

Daisie sits on a swing in a small park

just off the two lane highway,

somewhere in Kansas.

We’re on vacation, finally, heading

to Northern California, to Mt Shasta,

and the ships in the air.

I sit on the swing beside her and we

pass a huge plastic cup of fast food iced tea

back and forth between us.

There’s a splinter in her heart tonight,

and I don’t know how to soothe her.

We’re chasing something beyond this world.

The park is as tired as a resigned sigh,

and the swings and jungle gyms and spring animals

have seen better days. Still children happily play here.

The sky is so huge it could swallow us, like God swallows

the universe in his eye, and we may stay until the stars come,

so we could look out on the night through God’s eye.

A long way to go to get where angels or demons or

otherworldly beings make sense of this restlessness

and unquiet, this desire to escape flesh and gravity.

Out of tea, she places the empty cup by her feet,

and we look up at the sky, impatient for the stars,

for the voice that quiets the terror and dislocation.

The Thorns They Must Share

Out in the California desert, they hid.

The man. The woman. The lonely kid.

An old abandoned mansion. Old grace.

Came to rest, to escape, in this old place.

A nymph living in the dried up river bed.

In the kid’s ear at night, cold, sweet said

“The end comes a thief, comes unspoken.

The desert is just a sigh in a laugh broken.”

The man, the woman, not Adam, or Eve,

children of men, unquenchable fire believe,

trying to rebuild Eden in hard, cracked soil.

But this world of men, of hope, always spoil.

The owl, predator and abductor, in cold suns

calls down the mice for the devils it never outruns.

“We horde the seed and the blossom, second life.

We take your children and changelings fill your wife.”

The man, the woman, are not free in the dry plains.

There are not coming fires or angry, cleansing rains.

The saucers, the angels, demons and God we’re there.

The poison was in the hope, in the clean, harsh air.

The wolf, the child of Satan, scorns stray dog, bare teeth,

The stray runs into the night, the wolf’s domain, to grief.

“Hey young one.” The strays says. “God’s children burn now.

But there’s a pinprick of sweetness when you make the vow.”

The lonely kid looks to the city. Hides a magazine with a girl so pretty.

The wolf chases the stray around the sky, and us, whom angels pity.

The girl has long dark locks, soft eyes, and her body is pale and bare.

The angel sees the rocks soil where love blooms, what thorns it must share.

All The Boys Are Gone

A young and pretty French girl, in her blue and white swimsuit,

walks upon the beach, her light brown hair a little shaggy,

that shortly ago was a playful pixie cut.

The holiday season is over, but it’s still warm, still bright,

and she imagines she will see mermaids again, out in the waves,

know that all the ignorant eyes are gone.

That all the boys are gone.

Still cigarette butts in the sand, and a soda can half-buried,

people not caring. A million years ago no people existed, to take

and to sully, and to claim as their own.

The mermaids were here though, as they always have been, outside of time,

and a girl’s broken heart, like hers. A mermaid, with dark hair, sparkling tales,

waves to her from the breakers.

She waves, all the boys are gone.

The mermaids are eternal and outside of time, like the hulking black bunkers,

from a war that never ended, just down the coast. Skulls of a demon that burrows

in brains and flesh, always hungry, always finding willing hosts.

She walks into the water, lukewarm and swallowing, and swims out to the mermaid,

her sister and friend, who knew here, when she was free and innocent, and the terror

was in shadows and not in the light.

The mermaid has come for her, all the boys are gone.

Calling The Name of the Stars

Daisie is asleep upstairs on the couch,
wrapped in the pale blue, flowery comforter,
hopefully dreaming of beautiful things
beyond this broken world.
I try to put into to words, tools so
obtuse and transitory, the feelings
I have for her, my closest friend,
and the solace we’ve carved out here.
Head stills swims from the wine we shared
as we sat on the roof, calling the names of
the stars, and talking about all that was
going to come to be, hoping we’ve escaped pain.
Morning comes, and I give her that soft
and swallowing comforter, the biggest, fluffiest
pillow, and tell her to sleep well, to dream well,
as the sun came up, and we had no where to be.
In the downstairs room, my little office for writing
and her treasure and knick knacks to come today
for her bedroom on the third floor, with the window
that welcomes the sun every morning.
Been through hell, been swallowed by the beast,
but we’ve put miles and distance between those days,
and time, and we’ve found a solace in this house,
on a quiet street, and in each other, true and sacred friends.
May our world begin again. May we be wild children again.

A Sigh Of Shrouds

Cara and I were camping in the forest;

by a clear and roaring stream we set up camp.

The dark night and cold, grey morning misty,

the leaves and grass, the air, our faces, damp.

She bathed naked in the stream, the sun away,

hiding it’s face, like God would, behind grey clouds.

The waters were cold, but they carried away her sins,

and she was naked in spirit, clean, not a sigh of shrouds.

At night, through the mesh of the uncovered tent roof,

she lay her head on my shoulder, and we watches stars crawl

across the night sky, clear and whole, with the cities far away.

Even in the sky, angels hide their breaths behind an illuminated shawl.

But after she is asleep, curled into a ball, muttering as she dreams,

filled with wonders I’d not yet found or accepted in grace,

I sat by the campfire. Like Mercury, only my face has light and warmth.

This strange season a whisper, heard only in such a quiet, lonely place.

So High, So Bright


 

A Place of Dark Magic

November.

Hair blue as her eyes.

Weight of her.

Soft, fluffy parka.

Vespa ride to the park.

Skeletal trees.

Cold, clear creek.

Roar on the overpass.

We smoke cigarettes.

We drink wine.

She shivers.

She pulls her jacket tight.

Night is falling. Stars come.

Wine is poor man’s infatuation.

Cigarettes are bitter almonds.

We sit in swings.

We talk of paradise.

I miss the weight of her.

I wish we could ride to paradise.

Or a place of dark magic.

I drop her off.

We hug. We shiver. We hope.

November may stay this year.

Hope a pimped out whore.

Hope may beat it all yet.