Quite a Bit of Confusion Concerning the Night Without You

21 Jul

In the gloaming we sit on the porch.
The ghosts of bottles reach out
capturing the last of the sun
as the ground eats it. The forest
grows dark. Twigs point like
twisted bone fingers scaring
the last of the eating birds
away.

I roll two cigarettes slowly. I
reach out towards the distant
sunset. I hand Buck one as he
looks up from his notebook-
which contains the notes of
salvation for tomorrow’s
sermon. Voices yell inside
the kitchen, or maybe it
is the TV- that blue glass
teat someone suckles on
inside.

He talks to me of water
monsters, destroyers,
white mountain veils and
light bearers as messengers
of God. I reach out and
light his cigarette, and
light mine- a peacable
burning like the sun
weighed and divided
ashes scattered in
Babylon.

I listen to the metal
laughter of my watch
holding it up to my
ear. I look through
the window spying
dead blackandwhite
people. I wonder what
secrets their shadows
hold on the otherside
of time and that
thick
glass.

Dark trees argue
against a colored
sky as bats swoop
down and down in
the gold pink
sky cloud mountains
I could climb, and
Buck punctuates his
talk of-
Zealots,
Samaritans,
a place of troops,
gifts to Jehovah,
anointed rivers,
and a man
of the dart-
with his own
clouds.

I take the ring of
my finger and
send the bottle’s
crown tumbling
down in grace down
with the remnants
of the burnt ones-
burnt faces whom
God will strengthen-
yeah that’s what
he says. And I
make notes in my
my mind of the
whispers of trees
A crow flies on
the horizon as
John the neighbor’s
dog barks- maybe
later he’ll come over
and drink the last
of the good beer.

Though if John comes
he’ll talk about working
on old engines, and his
time out at sea. I’ve
got something else on
my mind. I wish you
weren’t watching the
crows groom themselves
behind your eyes
recovering.

Buck is talking about
Mattathias Hasmoneas slaying
a fellow jew attempting
a pagan sacrifice at the
altar in Modein when I
see John strolling
over with stories of
bannana boat suicides behind
his eyes.

Buck is talking
about the birds of heaven as
they shake hands. And I
say farewell to this fine
hot evening, but I am on
the verge of a bright insight
spinning my last coins and
swallowing the last of my
beer.

*Written for Poetics over at dVerse Poets Pub.

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Dazed, Afraid to Begin

17 Jul

The general crooked
his finger with a great
pity, but he knew he
must waste no time.

The actress heard him.
Why not try another pinch
She thought wasting
Time.

The writer blocked-
there was no tie binding
him- he’ll never let
the right words go.

The prophet looked them
all over to see. One
thing was negative,
but the other was not.
They all looked at him.

The world can’t
go on this way-
that would hardly suit
my book, the writer decided
on language after seeing
the bleeding blind man
on the streets- that was a
positive sign- of the times.

Everything is a joke-
Either inside or outside.
All is possible, but they all
believe alike about the bear.
She was a good woman- the
secret things which destroy them-
he knows.

Let me introduce you to my
husband. We are not talking
anymore, the actress whispers.

Each troop a mark, the general
laughspeaks.

You think I want to be shot?
You who would shoot
your own mother.
Where do you plan to sleep?
The blind prophet screams
blood in the streets.

It just doesn’t make sense-
another sending of Satan.
Had Death ever gone on
strike before? What is money
to anyone? And the actress
has become a mystified
panhandler.

The general shook his head-
Please do not remove this-
what a singular thing!

The prophet crooked his
Finger- that’s not the same-
It may be more useful now.
Would everyone die with him?
It turned out they never would.
Some say there are two now-
the rumors come running. His
blood boils in every way for
the beautiful girls over the cliff.
It is best that she goes now. Last
night she slept with him- it is clear.

Why didn’t you do it? the
General asks the writer.
Something passed amongst
us, and you were born to die,
the writer types away his
response.

The Dogs of Heaven

17 Jul

I’ve seen the electric
snakes and the human
tigers- sometimes they
become electric tigers
and human snakes- but
only at times. Always
plowing the streets like
rockets and stray lithers.

I sit here and suffer from
a perpetual self professed
desire to be unhappy born
out of meretricious catharses
constantly brought on by the
transient world, or is it the
ambient world? Either way it
is the world at large that does
this- not the world in parts of
summum bonum.

And. I’ve been kissed by the
lovely dolphin maidens- that
some say come from the sea.
I’m not sure if the latter is true,
but I do know their nettle kisses
sting me feeling like a hundred
thousand pin pricks on my lips.
They take some of me, and leave
me in return bruises and whispers
of games of chance played
against the dogs of heaven.

Note: Written as part of the OpenLinkNight over at dVerse Poets Pub

Castles Burning in the Sky

16 Jul

Crazy colors,
across the courtyard,
temporal mirrors
full of rusty murmurs,
and futility. Under a
brilliant light on
a tall pole clever
smoke intoxication
keeps you going.

A ride in back-
deeper penetration
curtain spark flesh
nimble moons in
darkness between
warm wet play. Taste
flower blossom garden
green dreams nodding
mutely. Stars bring the
black fieldsky to life
above night castles-
spaces left open
waiting for a response.
Lace under fingers
falling to dust.

Clear wonderful
introspection-
scrolling lines
and curves make
us think we are
not caged- shifting
light cascades-
a soft radiance
of fire arouses
wholeness-
falling flute
breath- beautiful
skin fire
ablaze like
dream castles
set aflame by
your breath,
and in your
brain first
winter’s
burning snow
enchantment
everlasting-
bonfire hearts
everaglow-
forever
immaculate
cohesion.

Ouvroir De Litterature Potentielle: Two Poems

15 Jul

for Raymond Queneau

One:

Or only one after the other?
Us,
a virgin was in fact the
mother of the Christ,
voyaging out altogether
recently while staying.

Rivers (I’ve seen some
rivers in foreign
countries) of time
because the world was
full of men at
sundown predisposed
to something of
character.

I recognized a woman
by the softness of
her lips, into a
barborous patois-
remove- return home
for the disheveled
embraces, drinking,
everyone and the
earth like us and
whose face happened
to be on a level
with ours.

Listen to you. It
got late, I watch
the caterpillars.

Two:

I thought about numbers
a great deal- the
memories each one
before she could move.
It reduces me to tears
quicker than anything
else in time.

Referred to as his
aquarium- a bedroom-
though to cleave the
very constellations
there was nothing to
stop me from constantly
being unpleasant:
under return in three
days.

Roar with laughter
because elicit information
from events would unfold
in the workmen’s peaceful-
purporting to have met me
at some function or
another- original of
these adventures take
place at night,
truth to what we’ve
heard?

A terrain with the act
in which a body
exceeds.

Note: this poem was created in response to a prompt at dVerse- Poets Pub

A Smile of Petals Stroking Handfuls of Sleep

13 Jul

You are sitting open
down huddling on the
Sun
under a fur tree.
Silently you carry spring
limp roots sprouting
stroking bluets
singwishstarworms.
Yes we touch.

I perceive eyes
close/shut.
Heaving breath
equals all the
beautifully frail
sleeping people
touching
trembling.
My soul
forever
understands
the rain.

Poems, Questions & Prayers

12 Jul

Is there a deeper
resounding truth?
My electric flute
sense seems to
say yes.

My womb introspection
of strange fairytales and
falling curtains full of
sparks brings on a
delicate and almost
impercetible fatigue.

A bottomless confusion
is born within me brought
on by pattern intoxication.
Staring at paintings by old
Dutch masters arouse a
deep and often hidden
silence which dissolves
almost instantly in water.

I am left with a voracious
fantasy emptied of all
hunger and left with an
acute thirst.

I am stagnation brought
to life. Trembling under
the caresses in a garden
of always savage flowers.
My suffering becomes
transparent.

My ecstacy one of rusty
flesh like a leaf floating
that is suddenly sunk
by a piano tongue
under stainedglass moons.

I stand here raising my
hands to the sky
begging
praying
for pure absolution
polishing the hibernating
jewels in my mind.

I look into a mirror
labyrinth, and cerebral
fires burn bright
forming constellations
of words and spaces
in between them.
For now I am done.

Note: this poem about poetry was written based on prompting at dVerse- the Poet’s Pub

Severed Head Exhilaration Blues

11 Jul

Trying to put myself
together
like calendars
and sex-
listening to the
songs of fallen
leaves-
the beginning of
the symphony of
ice
white flower
blossom snow.
Skycandles explode
in my head.

In her hand
she holds a bag
of smokedance.
I want to say
no, teeth
pressed
together
fighting with
the words.

She sits there
and stares
her body
beckoning to me
silently
like deadriver
lights, that
smile
full of hiding
breathless
whispers.

No one really
knows but try
to understand
she is the
goddess of
sunny sleaze,
and it is her
sweet wet
blossom
season.

I am ripped
up by
her
magic
wild red
laughter
which
begins the
dirge.

All the towns
have their
hands pointing
towards
doomdrowning
in liquid
cemeteries.

I fall into
purple
fairy slumber
dreaming of
buried flowers
a firebomb
somnambulist.

Crestfallen Train Wreck Rider

10 Jul

*Note: This poem was pulled out of the past to introduce myself to a new group of poets at dVerse Poet’s Pub as part of their OpenLinkNight.

Lobotomy joy bop bodies
in an ashcan dancehaze
with peels of neongiggle
gibberish unshaven
wild detectives
on the roadside
snatch the fairies
right up.

They lounge in the highway
blues with chained electricity,
and roaring basement alchemy
poured slowly into wineglasses.
Locomotives shiver on by
dragging their lightning swords.
Click click click cameras
capture the shame of whoring
hotel delights and harpsichords
floating in whiskey.

A weeping telepathic archangel
stands on the corner with filthy
vibrating stanzas in his hands-
full of screaming
horrors,
volcanoes,
radiate with moans.
Tenements shudder,
and hospitals grow children.

The pavement is hungry for
motorcyclists & drunk firetruck
tears. I scribble a postcard of
waitresses, boxcars and a broken
saxophone to my dead Grandfather
across the bridge of gloaming
streetlight incantations,
and police cars
wails.

A ping pong visionary plays
railway skull hypnotist tricks
among the broken and butchered
bottles. Alcohol womb of the midnight
sun and gas station hallucinations.
The salvation of a dollar and rooftop
tragedies blur by as illuminated
riverferris wheels dance and spin
toward the heavens above me.

Candlelight Nightsong

7 Jul

A little wild ray of light
from the dying summer moon
that runs blue through
splendid cities abandoned.
Each and every skull is
pierced with light and
slowly floating away.

As campers we find
our shadow s
leap ing
in the foliage
the golden river glowmurs
our feet outstretched
submerged
feeling the sand.

Angels divine
by the light of
their halo s
as lightning
dangerous ly
strikes.

Lips feel like
streetlights
our fingers
intertwined
like bountiful
bird s nesting-
careless divination
amongst the wild
starlight loveplay-
waiting for a
blueblossom
morning as the
stars all
meltfadeaway.

With dreamy candle eyes
we fall asleep as the
stars float above awake.
And new horizons always
have a face, and the
willows rustle in the
wingflight of a
mockingbird’s
nightsongs.