Election

The world is falling at my feet

Funny how the pieces look like skin,
leprous from a dying man; the disease
of boils that is the human condition.

The rain is like acid on my face

spit from the bile ducts of angry men,
thrown into the pit, dumb and blind,
and told to stand and make decisions.

No good can come of this

abandoning our better instincts for a bandage
called guile, adult babies sucking pacifiers
filled with opiates, attempting to deny impotence.

Lunatics are falling at my feet

screaming incoherent; oracles quick copy
all their meaningless utterances, selling
them to postulates as dogma truth.

The populace simpers and slobbers at their feet

grateful for the release, the numbing sensation
as the drugs take over, the stasis calm that comes
from the panacea of no longer having to think.

Dying Alive

Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb, waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.

We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes, our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".

And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.

My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.

You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:

"I think I'm dying".

I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,

"Honey, we all die sometime".

Goodbye

Swimming amniotic, already
learning impermanence,
digits splayed in defiant wave,
precursor of goodbye.

They come and go, a human
classroom where everything
is taught by fist to chin;
we mouth the words in painful
recitation, stumbling on goodbye.

And when we fail the yearly tests,
consigned to corners wearing the dunce's
cap, the cuckold's horns and wattles,
traces of fingers on our arms and faces,
we suffer the sing song litany of goodbye.

Sneak through alleyways, along bright corridors
where people pray to sun, denying the dark
passages where losers run to say goodbye.

Warehouses of thrown away humanity,
shuffling, hands outstretched in mournful
calamity, trapped detention, shamble
gaited zombies searching for goodbye.

And I am the arrogant student, philosopher
of the dark arts, pins and needles and tiny dolls,
extracting vengeance for the word goodbye.

What We're Taught/What We Learn

We pass on the dogma of the ages.

Benevolent gods bestowing gifts
on obedient souls, concepts of
Heaven and Hell for good little boys
and girls who keep their panties
clean and don't shit where they eat.

We pass on the execution of morales

Please don't look behind the curtain,
there's only a non-descript shooting
his way through his veins and arteries;
giggling maniac lost in mists and mirrors
smiling down on innocents tomorrow in
immaculate long sleeved shirt.

We pass on what they taught us.

Slinking down alleys, and knocking
on back doors, aliases used to get what
we need, one book for company, another
in a key locked box, never mix the bright
gold keys, hide one in an unknown crevasse

and never, NEVER get caught.....

Construct

Time is a construct, seeming intelligent,
marked by decay and atrophy, the shortest
distance between two differing vantage points.

Measured as the distance of an angel's
wing span, divided by the stretch of
an invisible God, ticking off the birth
and death of stars, a million orbits
'round the nucleus of an atom.

Subtract the devils on a pin's thin head,
the square root of sands forced through
the glass, the miles of souls laid brow to
toe 'til they reach the end of celestial journeys.

And time is a construct , a meaningless measure.


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Fair Weather

Sun's slivers peek through the brightening canopy

and puddles turn to Lilliputian lakes.
Flower shake water from their hard,
cool baths, strectching, catching rays
to dry their rain drenched leaves.

She still sees blackening horizons.

There will be no blue skies here, only
the far off thunder of the next accusation,
lighting flashes of insinuation, ever-growing
lists of things she could have, should have,

did not do.

This is not the season of the fair weather,
rather the dark hours of his verging
dis-content, when absense of the pocket
jingle bodes ominous tides in coming days.

She tiptoes round her clear sky lover

noticing cataracts clouding eyes, navigating rocks
as rancor surges rapid in his monsoon orbs.
He adored her in the rosy dawn of Sprintime
meadows, heady kisses stolen in a blissful moment
cornicopia ever full and spilling out upon the table.

Throwing seed away while others planted

leaving fields fallow in the Summer's heat;
remnants of the Autumn harvest bent and sickened
like the ever shrinking larde behind pantry doors.
But still he twirled her, dancing 'neat the soltice
night, whispering assurances under spells of July moon.

And now she is his reason and his damning blame

His summer sunshine smile shrinks in this land of rain...

Shoes

(This is not about Donald Trump, Lindsay Lohan, The Excomony, Barak Obama, or Paris Hilton.)


I stuffed them with newspapers

the local edition and the New York
Times, and when that wouldn't do I tried
the Daily Mirror, having heard it made
the optimum fodder for situations such as these.

His name was flashing in the headlines
incredible feats of daring do, moving
mountains with the power of his voice.
He spoke softly and enemies dropped
their weapons, loudly and they felt ashamed.

Guiding the tribes with a wave of his hand,
factual lies in pliant ears, give them just
a little truth and it can't hurt them; they
threw flowers, kissed his size 18 feet,
lips blackened but unbelievably satisfied.

His legend grew with every news bite, hyperbole
run rampant on the printed page, words falling
over themselves in their search for superlatives;
people bowing and scraping as a means of closeness.

When I could not read one more word of it, I packed
paper down deep in the toes, finding it still strangely
uncomfortable; toes slapping with each careful step,
my gait stilted like a brain damaged clown.

It will be very hard to fill these shoes.


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The Innocents

(This is not about Obamacare, Wall Street, Human Rights, Fidel Castro, Or Hugo Chavez)

This is not the soldier

here in this plastic bag holding
a piece here, another there,
tossed into Hefty, stuffed in a
flag draped furniture box, sent
home so Mom and Dad might
have something to remember.

Buried in a sea of crosses, Stars
of David and myriad gods, man-made
holy arms to hold that which cannot
be held, wilting flowers, dying like
the blush of youth, sacrificed for useless
causes, for we never remember this one
fact; they died so that no one else had to.

But we send them back again and again

human lives too short for history,
which will always repeat

as long as there are still innocents born.


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The Fall

How was I to know?

He told me he was driving
to the mountains; a short
climb to breath clear air and
revel in the change of seasons.

He said how he loved the brilliant
colors; he waxed melancholy
at the coming of the chill, that lonely
feeling when the year approaches end.

There were cliffs where you could
touch the eagles, he said; a place
to leave it all behind, soar like falcon
flight when you felt your life adrift.

"Will you take a lunch?" I asked.

Replying that he wouldn't need one,
he waved, and took off down the driveway,
(I waved right back, unconcerned)
not knowing I'd replay the Fall
in Technocolor slo-mo until end of days,

for how was I to know?


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Look Back Running

Was I ever that young?

We loved as if we had forever,
danced lithe bodies through
the torid nights; kisses that
left dark wounds of sex and
the thrill of unmet violence,
loved like that was all there was.

We ate rough noodles that tasted
like golden silk, drank cheap wine
as if ambrosia, washed the sheets every
day, all we owned, dank with flesh heat
and the perfume of pugeant pheronomes.

And the more we aged the less we had.

No free nights while the wind blew chill
but hot with human furnace, just fine foods
too easilly gotten that melted in our mouths,
forgotten, stumbling in, full of cellared vintage,
but empty with still nagging cares, acquisitons
hung on busy walls, and we worried about the keeping,

Apart but dreaming of our brilliant selves,
porcelein dolls in the blinding light of love
and passion, racing through timeless
years now not nearly so endless.
And we stare so at the relentless clock hands;

were we ever that young?

And will we ever be again?

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When You're Insane

When you're insane
everyday is new, and the voices
keep you company, speaking
in tongues you understand,
insights imported into compartments
of the mind; a sense of wonder

follows you, carries you. You leave
reality far behind, entering a world
of finger colors and pupil touch, smelling
words as delicate bouquets, blood nail
written on invisible walls, fascination
with red drop saliva flowing on a clear page.

And you grab clouds, squeeze them dry;
paint by numbers grass and flowers, seen
in integers, x never equals what they say it does.

But you know the answer

and the answer is whatever you say,
a consensus of many, and one; you
were born undone, and you like it this way

because real can be so boring....



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Evolution

There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.

There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.

But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.

She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.

"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."

But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.

The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.


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Evolution

There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.

There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.

But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.

She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.

"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."

But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.

The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.


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Frost

I'm counting down the days

glimpses at the calendar bring dismay,
the wheel turning, turning againt my head
as grindstone to the chaff. I think I've heard
it said that it will end in fire, but reconsider, Mr.
Frost, that is NOT what anyone would desire.

Being so right at mending fences, and other
matters of the heart, I've stopped in your woods
countless times, always deciding to move on. But
now I've stumbled upon relentless heat, layer upon
layer burning away, a 16 month stay of execution.

But I think I've found an very 'nice' solution.

My shoulders turn at the very mention, and if all beings
follow, our intentions will be clear, a distinct chill in the air;
stear love inward, and the cold rush of hate without. For
then I have no doubt the world will have to end with ice.

So smoke if you've got 'em, drink to excess, freeze those
anxious tears hard on your face in glacial expression,

and the icy glaze of depression will suffice.



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Paralax

I don't know who I am.

Am I the naive newborn,
dropped head first into chaos
and tasked to learn some unknown
lesson? A journey that will take
a lifetime(s), each birth another
question on an endless quiz?

I don't know where I am.

Each universe a fragment of our soul
passing through the menbrane of time,
time coalescing into different suns
until we come together in a blaze of light.

Am I merely another seeker of the ultimate?

Then I will reach my hands through corporeal
tissue, tearing out the fragile soul; grow
it in a petri dish, flung far into parallax view

And maybe then I'll find the answers.

The Voices

This is the voice of sadness

following me through these dirty streets
the smell of contagion ripe in my nostrils,
discordant music rifling through my brain;
it finds a spot to sink claws into, and rips away.

All the time this presence fills me with
incredible fluids, leaking out faulty
tear ducts with dogged tenacity, but
never enough to set me free. Dark
laughter presses down on me; there
is nothing funny about this camel's weight.

This is the voice of contention

screaming in the brightest sun of things
I might have, should have, couldn't have done;
black/white, up/down, until my mind is a
sideways bump that people drive over way too fast.

Something bursts inside my ear, this is the sound of freedom;
banishment of the voices, in slashing motions I
cut them down, warn them off, this war has got to end.
So I push them roughly, hard, out of my way

They might come back tommorrow, but oh, no, not today....


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A Dream of Home

You cannot go home again

unless you open up your brain,
memory spilling out onto once empty
streets, ghosts calling out your name,
smiles stamped on synapses. Sidewalks
unfurl like a tongue come out to play,
leading to the sandbox, swings, and childish games.

But nothing ever is the same;

Flowers wilted on the stem, pictures
somehow moved within the homesite,
gnarly trunks where saplings use to be.
Voices speaking within tunnel vision;
the myopia of the years turning
everything to sepia colored photographs

For what is this thing called 'Home" anyway?

The years rain down like chalk dust,
sawdust from the desk on which you carved
your name, your lessons never really learned;
all you do is grasp thin air where once a loved
one stood. All you can do today is mourn, and yearn.

And age will see you missing people more and more.


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Pyschiatria

Don't bother looking it up

I know what it is. You'll discover
all the words of mania, the process
of neuroses, a slight dash of phrenia,
perhaps. Add a phobia and let it brew;

I'm sure I'll make a fine stew.

If you find me bouncing in the halls
there is no need to get a pad, I've seen
the writings on the wall, and some
of them are good, and others bad.

Then there are some who find me rather mad

but I would never find my madness sin;
it is a way of coping in an insane world,
and crazy's just a way of fitting in.


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Dancing

You were a new tune
played on an old victrola;
tinny, hard to understand,
(but I gave it a 75, it was easy to dance to).

You took my hand (and stepped on my feet)
leaving footprints on my soul
that followed me around; asking
"Where is the music? Where IS it?"

but I never found the song.

I listened to so many stations
spinning the dial manically;
DJ's touting miracle drugs
guaranteed to ease the pain

and they never did.

I tried to dance but never
learned the steps, looked into
eyes but never found the way,
burned with sweat but never
loved the deed, unsatisfied

I took my loneliness to bed

while the notes would dance around
my head. I heard them in the whispers
on the street, I searched for them
in everyone I'd meet. until my steps
would finally drum the beat of someone
walking down the wide expanse who

whistled in my ear familiar notes
that told a tale of understanding
pain, you smiled, and took my hand;

and then we danced again.

140

There are no secrets left in this world.

The naive tell it all,
whowhatwhenwherehow and with whom,
TMI in 140 characters or less.

Hooray for the age of (non)sense

Little birds Tweeting for crumbs,
mobile phone pics of each and
every twig, piece of string put
out as theory while the eggs fry alone.

Keep your sunny side up

while your bridges are built
on social sites, one virus
scan away from being rode over

by the mouse that roars.

Forgive me if I don't say
what I had for breakfast today.
I find it all (a)waste anyway;
you just end up red in the face,
forever flushed. I keep my secrets
in a delicate retrieval system...

It's called MY BRAIN.