The Cardboard Night

  I am happy here—

  Content.

  Slowly,

  I see lazy shadows

  Swaying on the feet of laughing dancers

  Silhouetted by a warmer, floating sun.

  What gentleman is this

  Who locked my madhouse door

  And bade me well?

  The Blue Spider

  The blue spider

  Crawling languidly

  Up my face

  Stops to divide itself.

  Two halves

  Piercing my skin,

  Entering my brain;

  Rejoining—communion

  Of body and spirit;

  Weaving a monument

  In my mind.

  A silk ladder hangs

  From my mouth

  Allowing the blue spider

  Freedom of passage

  To and from my thoughts

  Trapped

  Helpless within its web—

  Waiting for the blue

  Spider

  To return.

  A Thousand Tomorrows

  I have borne

  A thousand tomorrows

  And I feel no different.

  I have stumbled

  To kiss sweet soil.

  My passion made mud.

  I have heard

  A haunting echo

  Fading into void.

  My hands

  Have clasped your throat.

  My mouth

  Has sucked your venom.

  I have swallowed your malady

  And I suffer no wounds.

  Still, my cross bears down

  Under each sunrise

  Until I taste Christ—

  Out-stretched,

  Dreading resurrection.

  I Have No Story

  I have no story but my undoing—

  A spirit help captive by confusion.

  I am singular vanishing—

  Take no thought

  But for yourself.

  Live, my love, that I may subside.

  No longer a part

  But lost in the whole of creation,

  I will weep/caress

  The callus of my failure

  Under loosened shackles—

  Such joy in the prospect of choosing

  My own chains.

  The Waiting Chair

  The waiting chair,

  Poised forever,

  Is holding me tonight.

  I collapse

  On apathetic cushion—

  Confusion singing softly.

  Searching,

  I picture pretend—

  Pushing deeper into the chair.

  This world spins

  Endlessly beneath me—

  Numbing my mind;

  Poisoning my sex.

  I become desperately

  Nothing.

  A Death Sentence

  Birth is a death sentence.

  Life is the waiting—

  The fear of an inevitable end

  To my existence.

  Pull me from her womb—

  Inject me with the disease

  Of my sentence.

  Chain me with knowledge—

  Refuse to pardon the crime of my birth.

  I appeal this incarceration—

  My being was not premeditated.

  My Angel

  “Be brief,” my angel requested.

  My voice would not utter…

  ”Hurry!”

  I could not.

  Did I even know what I wanted?

  My angel, reveling in speech,

  Quotes,

  “Time’s cylinder is vast

  And there are people dying

  More quickly than yourself.

  You find me and play the fool;

  I refuse your silence!”

  And my angel ascended—

  Adverting its eyes,

  Acknowledging some distant plea.

  My Demon

  My demon came to me

  And I held its cactus hand.

  “Where shall we go?” I asked.

  My demon only smiled.

  “I know! We will climb a mountain

  And pretend the world.”

  My demon only smiled.

  I dragged it through the air,

  Pulled it closer to me,

  And whispered,

  “Which fire should I quench?”

  My demon, smiling, answered,

  “I but follow you.”

  Yet I Knew

  Withered—you found me.

  A redundant, silent pulsing—

  Flawless and lifeless,

  Unable to alleviate hope.

  Cradled thick within

  The flowering

  Whirlpool of belief,

  I’d gathered faith

  You could not see.

  I had gathered guilt

  You would not ignore.

  You’d begged me run

  Yet I knew

  You would never follow.

  Gathering Time

  So, you alone gather time—

  Stacking second upon second;

  Building but a minute.

  And you alone doubt truth—

  Stepping lightly on mind’s mist;

  Sealing lies with perfect persuasion.

  Is it you

  Who convinced the seasons change

  While sitting in quiet contemplation

  Or are you as I?

  —A figure fool

  Watching your shadow dance

  Across dust and rock colliding—

  Merging with darkness

  As you wonder when you ceased

  Being center of the everything.

  Until I Laugh

  Shaking…Shaking…Shaking,

  Yellow sin.

  I will dress naked today

  And travel ugly through the laughter.

  I shiver disease from my eyes

  And I promise change

  As I fear death at night,

  But know not what to say,

  To do, to think.

  Jesus, tell me that I live.

  Look at your child—

  Arrogant and stupid.

  My God, frighten me

  Until I laugh.

  The Push

  Welcome to my hour—

  The extinction of thought

  A garbled hell

  Shelled and sovereign—

  Waking

  This is a gift?

  These slopes

  Have become too steep

  The water too shallow—

  I fail to understand

  The one reflection I have seen

  My fingers fail me—

  I have found a lower level

  Of destruction where face

  Down is safer when waiting

  For the push to continue

  And the poison takes hold

  The Mirror

  Cover your face! I am fed up with its pointless patterns of grins and smirks. I’d like to smash your face to pieces and spend my time re-staking your countenance.—A new face with scars and tear tracks—honesty and hauntingly melodic eyes; blood-shot and thirsty. I would make you into so much more than just another worthless reflection.

  A Proven Passage

  Are all my heroes in Hell;—

  Regretting time’s perpetual reminder

  Of the ancients’ white-washed faces,

  Or are they just an idea,

  A film in the making,

  To transcend the truth of evil?

  But December has already claimed you.

  The love and the lust

  Disconnect godhead.—We

  Callused observers forming lines;

  Marching past your plastic silence—

  We’ll greet you with a proven passage:

  Happy birthday and good-bye.

  Song Of Sorrow

  Sorrow kissed her last lover
then followed south to the sea. She found the sand and asked if it had been crying. “No,” the sand replied, “we’re drowning. The sea steals us from the wind to hide her secrets. We must perish so the sea can keep her dignity.”

  Sorrow removed her clothes and lay shallow in the sea. “Can you feel me?” she asked. The sea laughed, pulled sand from under Sorrow and answered, “I gave birth to this world. I knew you before you were. It is I who should ask, ‘can you feel me?’.” Sorrow rose to her knees, wondering if the sea would steal her. “Should you drown,” the sea continued, “I would cover you with sand to bury another of my regrets.”

  Sorrow backed away from the waves and called to the wind, “Cover me with sand that I may taunt the sea.” The sea crashed, scraped sand to her belly and roared, “Sorrow, you fool, I will gladly destroy you!” Sorrow stood motionless, allowing the sea to rise against her. “At last, you will be no more,” swelled the sea as Sorrow threw off her arms and became beauty.

  Weather Vane

  A rooster on a weather vane

  Is laughing at me

  What does he see

  What does he know

  He spins and he is not afraid

  I believe the wind had jaded him

  How else can he stand so still

  Armageddon

  The last sounding of time—

  Trumpets,

  Horse hooves,

  Flapping wings,

  Battle cries

  And goddamns.

  I didn’t see the sky split

  Or feel the westward wind.

  In fact, I noticed no change.

  Underneath Sails Of Midnight

  Underneath sails of midnight,

  We quietly cursed the rain.

  Our heaven twisted—drowning

  The useless voice of reason.

  We had prayed the sun stop.

  We had called—

  Named ourselves god and I,

  Noting but a face

  Scattered inward,

  Knew you not.

  I tried to recall

  Simpler times—broken

  Autumn winds dividing the clarity

  Of a turned back.

  —Some supple hand reaching for you;

  Hoping to reveal, recognize a lost friend—

  Though my vision had melted;

  Causing your identity to remain

  Restlessly forgotten.

  A Small Stone

  A small stone fell

  Beyond the mountain range—

  The valley trembled with fear.

  Who dares wake a slumbering monster?

  I lifted my head—catching a glimpse

  Of God’s pale hand descending.

  Death’s stare staggered across my bed

  As I counted God’s fingers—

  The same as mine;

  Able to make a fist!

  Come God,

  Let us pound the earth—

  Make death stand still!

  But the stone lay silent—swallowed

  By a vast mountain.

  Come God,

  Let us pour wrath upon the valley—

  Guide my hand in battle!

  But the hand of God was old and tired—

  Needed elsewhere

  To support his weary head.

  The Hollow God

  Whom shall I say

  This aged god is—

  A spectacle coughing madly

  Like the fire-breathers

  He danced with

  Forming barriers of illusion

  Fooling even himself

  Whom shall I say

  His mirror reflects—

  A familiar shadow

  Of proven existence hanging

  Heavily around his fear

  Whom shall I say

  I am

  When the hollow God

  Mimics my every move

  The Soil Is Growing

  I know, my shining idiot!

  I claim your translation.

  The soil is growing—

  I am not so small!

  It is the soil that dwarfs me—

  Nothing can stand against the soil!

  My body begs to return

  To its earthen form;

  Engulf civilization.

  Soon, dear body,

  You will join the dust—

  Become larger

  Than my mind would allow.

  Steeped In Barnyard

  Steeped in barnyard,

  I wadded wide-eyed—

  My soul caressing the primitive.

  Determined, I scaled barbed wire

  To pillage the wooded other.

  Final dreams are laid upon this side;

  A beginning of the road leading—

  Following nature’s pull.

  But my cautious footing was shaken

  By a single turned root.

  It’s the game—

  I had opened the pasture;

  Declared the nostrils flare.

  I had commanded the world watch

  As stood erect—confused—

  Realizing I had become the hunted.

  Now, allowing my knuckles drag,

  I turn to climb a tree

  And fill one gloriously hopeless page.

  Here Is The Madness

  Here is the madness.

  Here’s the silence—

  Squeezing language into a scream.

  I want retribution.

  I want your soul.

  This is the hand you do not see.

  The sky will tell you…

  Useless is this endeavor—

  I’ve nothing to say,

  Nothing to feel,

  Nothing to show—

  Goddamn your completion.

  My Pilgrimage Has Ended

  My pilgrimage has ended

  And wisdom’s drunk relics

  Offer no return

  As time folds itself—

  Stretching a sullen shade

  Of weary complacency

  Over the huddled holy

  Savoring simple desires—

  Repeating remembered prayers

  That dissolve

  Against the stone ears

  Of what was life—

  Was a silent sky

  Gently brushing the earth—

  Clearing my path

  But my pilgrimage has ended—

  I want to go home

  Through The Forest

  A child once followed an old man into the forest. The old man did not notice the child for some time. When he did, he was alarmed and asked the child, “How did you get here?”

  “I have been following you,” answered the child.

  The old man seemed annoyed. “Why would anyone follow me into the forest? Do you mean me harm? Are you going to rob me?”

  “No sir. I wish you no ill. I only want to learn the best way to pass through the forest, and I supposed that an elderly man, such as you, would have learned the best way.”

  The old man smiled at the child’s assumption and congratulated him on thinking through the matter with such logic. “Come, my child, follow me and I will show you the only way to pass through this forest.”

  As they walked, the child asked the old man many questions about the trees and birds and the adventures the old man must surely have had in the forest, but the old man said nothing.

  Finally, after hearing enough of the child’s prattle, the old man said, “It is true that these trees have given me shade and the birds have sweetly woven a new song in my heart, but the forest holds more than trees and birds, for wolves also roam these woods with fierce hunger in their bellies. And you shall not live to find any way through the forest if you meet a wolf.

  The old man stopped walking and bent down to where his face was level with the child’s face. Sternly, the old man pressed his right forefinger to his lips and hissed, “Shhh!”

  As they resumed walking, the now frightened child gra
bbed hold of the old man’s hand. At first, the old man tried to shake loose of the child’s grip but then decide that it was a small price to pay for silence.

  Mosquito Wings

  Of all the times

  Spent alone;

  Of all the rain, rumbling, rambling—

  Circles of circus clowns—

  Mad make-up and weary smiles.

  Of all the thoughts,

  Random and lonesome;

  Of all and all,

  There is this that I cling to—

  The sound of a mosquito’s wings

  Fluttering in indecision.

  Holding My Heart

  And it has come to this—

  You holding my heart like a sickness

  And me not knowing where to find you.

  I give up!

  Take your prize;

  Grow into this concession;

  Disappear with the fire of my youth

  And my will to continue.

  You have withstood my best fight,

  My desperation and existence—

  Hail to the victor.

  Emasculated

  Beneath my infections

  And imperfections,

  You hold me scarred—

  Wishing to extinguish the tongue

  Of love licking my sores;

  Leaving its brimstone secretion.

  I cannot fool myself

  Into believing.

  Into accepting;

  Into alone.

  Never were you so close—

  Never defined

  In the absence of myth.

  And it feels obscene

  To be un-forgiven;

  To be unavoidable;

  To be unmistakably

  Loathed by myself.

  Who Dared Stand

  Who dared stand and roar

  The world into form

  What frightful force

  Framed the spheres—

  Set into motion

  The jealous sea

  What maddening thoughts

  First escaped

  Into the void—

  Truly it is God

  I don’t understand

  Beggar’s Hand

  Who will greet the horse—

  Who will ride unashamed

  On wings of distaste;

  Bludgeon my wine soaked lust,

  And stop the world with a mask?

  Who will touch the distance

  Of my eyes sunk red

  Into a cigarette—

  Who will hold the beggar’s hand?

  The Shape Of Poison

  Your longing sticks in the back of my throat

  As I cry out past my scars

  And attempts at a healing

  I so desperately want to crumple

  Your longing into a ball—

  Hold it wet in my hands

  The shape of poison,

  The methane and the faint;