Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Burnt Offerings

Sometimes addiction mimics ritual and superstition,
invisible world of smoke's wispy curls
and chemical receptors that suck in like nectar
the silent substances controlling our world.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

hearing you

your little voice swung,
hung from my neck,
like a tiny precious stone.
remote as a star,
bright as a beacon,
your love closed the distance
at the speed of a blink
from afar.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Gom Jabbar

Oh, pain.
The pain.
Holding your hand in the gom jabar
hurts--does not harm.
It begins to burn.
We're well beyond thresholds now
and into endurance.
Learning the difference between
desiring a thing
and reaching to grasp it:
is it the pain or the fear
that kills the mind?

Friday, July 23, 2010

Jewels

jewels placed in cave-mouth

crushed as the roof collapses;

sweet juice of berries


Saturday, July 17, 2010

Musings from a Twelve Hour Day

I. Shadow

Evicted from my mind,
standing outside,
I look in and see myself
doing things I'd rather
not be
  

II. Persona

No girlfriend, but a letter
from the mormons
waiting for me at home,
heathen and reality confused
in my mind and ears,
I toil in the crucible of my derision
until the last sinking sun's rays
submerge themselves
in the dark sea of night


III. Unconscious

that aquariumarine sky
bulging big and wide from my glass bowl
bejeweled with rings and a crescent;
I wheel and whir beneath it like a machine

until it stops--

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Killer Bees

angry insects buzz in ears and pockets;
eager to deliver messages of peace or of anger,
of love or of business,
of care or of loss.

with unfolded wings they speak discretely,
unfalteringly flattened deliverance
condensing signals. they dance
and wave over the distances,

they signal the hive on our behalf
to save us from having to go
all the way back there ourselves,
when we're busy far afield.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Stares

She looks with searching eyes
far afield, another place;
she stares through time at pain's own face

Lifecycles, Icicles

The past comes washing back to me
like waves of fear and pain.
Its rivulets wash over me,
irregular as rain.

It rattles me as loudly
as it might a roof of tin,
freezing my emotions soundly
as it turns to ice within.

It takes some time to thaw me.
once the freeze is gone;
the heat but slowly gnaws me,
and I but slowly warm.

Arboriculture

Starting small, saplings, seedlings
subjected young to human plans dreaming,
boxed and hemmed in ways and streets
cut and pruned our ways to meet.
With long years unplanned they rise,
growing higher, girthing wide;
one day outgrow our old designs,
life their own roots take in stride,
our malformed plans to cast aside

Backup

Backup beeps
advancing, construction,
hinder my appreciation
of the feel of wind
and the smell of berries.   

Distant cars
talk over the sound of wind
and song of crickets
but could almost be
mistaken for water.

I save this poem
on my cell phone
and go back in the office

Night

I used to wait for night to come, wait for her to settle down:
in the bones of all the creatures when the chilly air surrounds.

As surely as the setting sun, as certain as the grave she'd come,
daily I'd be waiting  for the nightly visitation of her dark embrace,

the dark to hide my face. I'd go eager to her, lost inside I'd contemplate.
 like a scrape with death, she touched me every night;

Just a scrape to give me fright, she drove me mad but left me feeling right,
thrilled me, blessed me with her deep insight, deep and dark and black as blight,

still she's calling, my dear night; deaf, i call back without sight,
lost without my pleading lady, blind without a leading light

Coldhome, Fishhome

I thought the dark cold waters looked dangerous enough to freeze in,
a blue deep out of night and no better illuminated,
death under cover of water as certain as death under cover of darkness.
But there atop the churn of waves: white sails float aloft,
the only whitecap to be called savior.
As the day fades, day grades in paling shades,
I'm brought back to warmth and the world.
Looking back from exhausted shoreside waterlog
on the sawtooth-hazard rows of sunsoaked waves,
I think: how beautiful a place to make my watery grave,
lifeless home away from home and shore and breath and shame.