Monday, December 27, 2010

The Lament of Paravenia

I strip down to the flesh,
tarnished milky white by winter's oily hands.
Only seasons ago I was bronze.

My linens lax by the basin
with the fidelity of a dead dog,
shrouded in soot and ash.
At first, the faucet sputters, though
the room soon floods with steam
at the basin's christening.
I shiver, and contemplate washing away the past.

The tap freshly pulled, water cascades
from a cupped palm above.
My appendages limp, and my complexion
rosed like steel in a furnace.
An intrusive thumping of a dove beating
against the fogged window
agonizes my heartbeat with counter-rhythms.
The single pane cracks in fragile frigid air.
The shower shuts off. I dry, descend the stairs
with nothing clean to clothe myself in.
The bitter tiles swindle the warmth from my sole.
I woodlessly try to stoke the stove

as flat black as my skin is cream,
but weathered dreams misplace my ruddiness.
I shined only seasons before—

before desires came gnawing through walls,
shredding insulation for their nests
discreetly just out of reach.
They bring the frost in with them,
and I cannot get the fire lit.
Their reminiscent tracks mock my eyes
that have never seen their fruition.

Yet through their opening
the dove gets in, bruised on foot,
with blooded wings, and betwixt his beak a twig.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Said the Flower to the Bee,

I’d’ve not crimsoned
were you in truth: pollen thief,
lulled by your sweet hum.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Autumn Shadows

is where I sit,
long before this great red oak tree.
This great scarlet oak -
poised with health, a sturdy spine.
Its leaves green. No, yellow.
No. Red.

Its branches erect,
each longing its fleeting bird.
Its bark like the grooves of my mouth
absent of her tongue.
Its roots dive deep
- six feet deep -
breaking the birch boundries
of my lover's grave.
It sucks and slurps
her decomposition. nutrients.
Now she is fertile. Only to him.

Through his roots, up his trunk,
spewing through his branches
into his leaves.
His envious leaves.
No, yellow.
No. Red.

In a waste, his demeaning leaves
spat to my face.
Shotgun. Scatter. to the ground.
Where they lie's where I shall die
in the cast of his scarlet shadow's sound.

Here where I sat long before
his roots took place, waiting
for my love to break down.

Monday, March 1, 2010


A man who is arrogant & unwilling to
change will never get past his own perceptions
of what life he thinks should be.
Like clockwork events will turn (one
after another) strangers will run linear
time will regress sdrawkcab and
Life will follow patterns of illogical
fallacies. A man who is arrogantandunwilling-
tochange will never experience art,
and with art:
that we exhaustively employ to tell one
another how "one" feels (but one is always
alone or else it would be two or quite possibly
three (except for eleven which has the
company of one but both are ones and both are
really dead on the inside)) Feeling was never
about 10g!5†!c5 and the never
explain can Life's Irraticacies of arrogancy man,
or dead who and he remain will holds.
and a man who is arrogant & unwilling
to change may live as eleven, but will die as one.

A Sonnet out of Verse (like the rest of life...

portrayed so perfectly balenced well-proportioned
whatever makes the quickest buck
Still Passion exists lop-sided,
also in quick pants of normal breaths.
We do pluck plain ordinary breaths from the recesses of our mind)
is a metaphor for all that is right pure
holy in the pen in the hand blessed by the
poet in all the truth he sights.
Searching through each countless bag of infinite
bland -- diamonds in the ruff: heartache,
cheer, freedom, love, hate, death.
All which we have been through celebrations
(and of the like), tearful; Sufferings, never
more clear. Like Michael the Arch's words,
the poet's pen will strike.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Garden.

"Son, I've had a flower or two
in my day, and let me tell you. It's not
all about Fragrence & Beauty; there are
a few things all flowers need:
warm climate & fresh air are quite beneficial,
ample lighting & clean water essential,
but what really does the trick is rich soil."
Now salt is a natural mineral,
and fire -- a good source of heat but also
light. Everyone knows organisms "run on"
caffeineandelectrolytes. And I think I read once
that chlorophyll converts smog into oxygen.
All things considered, I think I'm pretty
set (on dreaming the rest of my life of a flower
its obsessive scents & the way its silken
pedals feel between my callused fingers
as I pluck them from its crown).

[If as humans we do love,]

If as humans we do love,
then as we love, we most certainly worry
(what is eddie thinking what is isabel doing).
And what good is worrying if it is not rooted
in some sort of fear?
Fear inevitably leads to doubt.
and Doubt is the sole friend of sep
eration (who is more than kissing cousins
with isolation) of which their
condemned child is Suffering.
Suffering grows up only to become Pain (even
though when he was a little child, he dreamt
of being Hope), and Pain's masterpiece is his
crystalis, formed from his own blood. One day
(when he emerges), it will be as Death and he
will flutter away on his Monetesque wings.

[I fell in love with Oblivia.]

I fell in love with Oblivia.
She didn't get it, and so she never
really appreciated it - all the little things
I'd do for her write
her words hum her tunes(.) so
nothing ever happens how I think they
should happen is God letting me rescue
dearsweetprecious from a herd of
elephants she neither sees nor hears and
she should have ended(.) things would
be better if she ended but then we
wouldn't have her discreet smile songs
sung when no one is
around look in her eyes that takes
my breaths and turns them into
little hills in the country side that
make me excited to love her as I
did the first time that I saw her
nude for everything that she is(.)


My love no longer comes around
in dreams ebb more than they flow
and today, hurdles are bigger than they
built them back then. I climbed
Mt. ever rest once, all-day. Everyday.
I'm so low i can't do it. It starts raining
pornography running off overflowing
graves washing up dead man's bones.
Where blinking lights are speeding
backwards, silence sticks out
like a sore thumb. This is where
our souls don't fly; our minds
eaten like sardines in a crushed tin box.
Our hearts don't pound.
My eyes opened and I am blissfully alone.
My love no longer comes around,
and I eagerly prick my fingers with needles waiting to feel.