Plotless Violence

who's the author in my life?
seemed he'd been there all along:
pen cutting careful as a knife
to outline and define
the goodness and the strife,
the borders and bound'ry lines,
the direction I drive,
each lesson learned right or wrong.

seeing no plot develop,
no mind there behind the scenes,
I realize my frustration:
taking the pen, turn it knife
blade like on my desperation
and murder it bloody,
finally hitting the mark
of my war upon it.

thought there was a plot,
thought a climax would come,
but nothing happened
to satisfy the story;
now I dance among the entrails
of my dead desires,
taunting dignity with
my macabre mockery.


(from September)

Arctic Sea

at surface level
little's to be seen
peaking thru the waves,
but going deeper more is found;
time and attention's reward
firmer knowledge of what waits beneath,
surface tension and bright reflections
are transposed, replaced with respect
and something darker, murky as the depths,
never seen but glimpsed, known, navigated
gingerly around, the mass at play more
than mere white specks of the whole
scattered in a sea often cold,
where passing encounters
could become disasters
for what's not known:
or just be passed,
not noticed

Consoling Me

It's okay to feel this way for now:
it feels like pain, it falls like rain,
but makes it right somehow.

Sometimes maybe life might hurt like hell;
the melancholy swallows you,
though in the end it's well.

Don't let the emptiness get to you:
everyone feels it now and then,
and every time it ends.

I fight the loneliness here tonight,
it pervades me without a cause;
but later I'll feel right.

The cold might permeate my soul,
today I'll thaw my body out;
someday I'll fill the hole.

the fact of our love
exists without thinking it's so

the fact we're together,
though it's no romance, will show

the fact that it's so
is shared only by virtue of pain

though we say no,
it's in spite of a yes we abstain

in peace a piece

in peace

in this moment
in the window

I am free
completely
paused from thought

for now no work
gazing down
from sixth floor
window view

watching walking
workers wander
rummage food
in modern numbers
modern style

flocking inward
by color race creed
national origin
style of dress
by thought unmolested
now unbiased

other times
might displease my
own tastes
now unjudging
see gaily ungainly
gaits and paces

all shapes and colors
and all sizes
my eyes discern
no imagined evil
moving in anything

from my perch
sixth window
sensing seeing all
this moment perfect

ephemeral enlightened
entirely
until I'm freed

from this window
from this moment

a piece

gone on, gathered, engorged

goose gone on

to warmer shores

from misty mountain pond

like a squirrel
gathered store of nuts

like a bird
knows where each one lies

like a goose

that laid a golden nest egg

like a bear
thick, fattened,
engorged for winter sleep

fact of her

the fact of her body

leaves me wondering under her clothes;

the fact of her mind

makes the rest of mine unopposed

to the fact of her lips,

open to mine and drawing so close;

the fact of her heart

leaves me heavy inside, but so light;

the fact she'll depart

makes me mourn just a little each night.

dog day lake (from Oct 4)

no dog to walk
around this lake:
my legs won't make
it all that way.
can't run to warm
wind-chilled bones
or to escape
out of doors
without a car;

tho' it's not far,
wind and sun to take,
drove a car,
left poison wake,
and in this place
more traffic passes:


noise pervades,
no peace is had
from engines, breaks.
the water laps
manmade edges,
now disarrayed
in reeds like hedges;

a green lake
of green shores,
surrounded
on all sides
by streets, cars,
fancy houses
and throngs of
moving bodies.


it's good enough for the trees
so it's good enough for me
but when they chose it was it better?
if they could, would they up and leave?

Life, the Universe and Perfection (this is if only)

This is life:
you meet someone amazing,
and they're all used up.
you're too late;
their pain's always in the past.
it's all perfect,
but for one fatal flaw.

Loving you makes me want to cry.
though I don't, know I could,
if only/only if...

this is the universe:
the timing's just off,
you just miss the train.
progress is hindered,
our history repeats itself.
life is left forlorn,
huddling in unknown corners.

Knowing makes me want to vomit,
but I can't, must be strong,
only if/if only...

This is perfection:
a dream you have once,
only to be cut short, abrupt.
high aspirations
your fingers can't quite grasp
just an idea in the mind,
never allowed to realize.

Wanting makes me think it's useless,
when it's lost, brings sorrow.
If only/only if...

This is sorrow:
If only...
Only if...

Desperation Sense

desperation sense,
barely visible like distant
foggy headlights,
clinging dearly as dying
ivy on a highway sound wall;

as if a weed, crops up elsewhere
if stamped out,
can't be killed if the root still lives.
Desperate taproot, deep,
anchors into my existence,

creature of need
creature of hate
creature of want
creature of ration

in life I'm seeking
a balanced, steady path;
but raging still through
thick forest brush,
cut another swath