Denial

AGE 18 - Rural New York

I ask for the exit;
she shows me the entrance.
I ask for the stairs,
so she shows me the floor.
I ask for her heart
but she shows me her bracelet.
I ask for asylum;
she shows me the door!

She won’t shut me out, nor allow me in freely.
She won’t douse my flames, nor permit me to burn.
She won’t dry my tears, nor assume any burden.
She’ll sit and observe: as I plead, and I learn.

I ask God for peace
and He tells me of battles;
I ask God for faith,
but He leads me to doubt.
He dangles the keys
to the gates of His Heaven.
I reach — He pulls back!
All is torment without.

He won’t send His savior, won’t grant my salvation,
won’t bring me the truth… and will not tell me why.
He’ll speak of the miracles someday to happen,
apportioning saccharine reasons to try.

I asked for her friendship —
she showed me affection!
I asked for her hand;
she would not let it be.
I said I was sorry
for coming on strongly.
She said she was sorry
for having met me!

She listens to everything, understands nothing.
Her fair-weather fancies can’t stomach a foe.
She’s full of forgiveness… and rank condemnation.
Now don’t that remind ya of someone you know?


Doppelganger?

AGE 21 - Rural New York

In Heaven there’s a girl who sings sweet arias at dawn.
I saw her on a stormy night, with my Venetians drawn.
She glimmered in the lamplight: in the fresco, in my book.
I set aside my reading glasses for a clearer look.

That frock of wool could not contain her! Captions writ in Greek
caressed her creamy visage; gave her shoulder blades mystique.
Her haunch and breasts stood in proportion (as her hair stood still)
and as I gandered, night winds landed leaves upon my sill.

The eyes of that enchantress burned exceptionally brightly!
The daylit plaster (on the wall surrounding) yellowed slightly.
Thereafter, I sought Providence through sexual redemption —
the comfort of attentive limbs, and breath too sweet to mention.

Thenceforth as I should wander, all too often I mistook
at second glance, some woman for the goddess in my book.
You came upon me watching one (as evening lingered late)
then tapped my shoulder, turned me round, and promptly set me straight:

‘ Pay no attention to the singing girl atop the hill !
She’s promised to a man unknown (for know him, no one will)
yet she adores him so, and can discern his features clearly.
Her heart grows fonder in his absence: momently, and yearly.

The only thing she’ll tell you, should perchance you catch her eye,
is that she must keep true to him… then wave a vague “goodbye”
and (looking down into the dirt) depress her windblown skirt,
and pull the hem beneath the knee… to cover up her thigh. ’


Take Aim!

AGE 24 - Northern Arizona

I want to play a song for my love…
but my guitar won’t tune.

I want to play a song for myself…
but my song will not tune.

I want to play my guitar for my love…
but my love has left the room.

I burn my guitar,
and send the ashes to my love.
I stretch the strings
to make a violin.
I bow my heart,
take aim,
and fire at yours…

and boom!


Carnival Game

AGE 22 - Las Vegas

As you lose your mind, insane becomes a word
to speak of garbage men instead of smelly,
children instead of curious,
and winds instead of cool.

Whereas you saw just yesterday
a contradiction (or small double-standard)
now insanity doth tyrannize
the dignities of all who go, or stay:
who follow, or digress; who speak or moan.

The purse snatcher took reason from your arm —
that sacred property; that high accord!
Now squally tides of madness and of fire
impune the backyards of the thinker, doer,
dreamer, magnate, sycophant and squire.

Woe to its interceptor! Flailing arm
of attribution, sloughing poison clouds
incendiary to the saboteur
but harmless to the target.
Whenso the archer looses,
the bullseye returns the favor.
Roughshod, loosely-construed —
your hatred
bellows to retire.

But no ballista balks;
the more you shoot,
the more bolts burst forth from your breast!
You shake with your fist,
as you curse with your tongue:
“Fool! You’ve sent me out here to my death!”

There is no place as crazy
as home fucking home.
No one there sees you bleeding to death.


Amenable Imperator

AGE 22 - Las Vegas

Philanthro-pissed;
philanthro-jaded;
philanthro-distraught !
He found no satisfunction
in the Shilohs he had sought.

Complacent sea,
the lumincessant
moon shall bear the hex-
agonal shadow of her wain cart,
high in circumplex.

Now get thee out
of thy canoe,
and wave thy understance
at the entire consternation
of Incredulence !


The Tome

AGE 22 - Las Vegas

I wrote a book because I was dying
and filled it with regret.
I wrote of the good life I knew I’d been missing,
while missing the life I had left.

The light shone upon me from high above,
at high noon, from one-hundred-eighty
degrees fellsius! While the rest of the time
I was left to fumble blindly,
pen and pad within that darkness
beneath the dark.

My disappointment needed polish, so I wrote
a list of cautionary tales: a list of trappings,
like the trap directly overhead
the great pit at the top of the world, into which
I had stumbled while nearing its peak.

The tome was minted by My Entrails’ Press,
an imprint of Ambition Publishing —
my final breath blown lazily upon
the spine, to be a stickler for the leaves.

The dedication read: To all dysfunctional,
defunct, dying or lost — especially
the living dead… who live but in the past,
and eat the bark of wisdom’s sacred tree.

Powerless to fight my life’s war, but entreating
all posterity for leave to die,
I passed along my only living copy
to a dear friend, with a dearer moustache —
Max Brod, CPA — for consecration
twixt the fireproof walls of some deep archive,
situated at the conflux point
of polar waves of pilgrims.

Dearest Pilgrims:

Fret not to uncover all the details
of my rout, and turn the heavy pages
boldly, but pray never turn them backwards!
Never turn more than one at a time.
Read once and only once, then go to baste
in Resignation — also known as Egypt —
where the sacred sun shall bronze your skin
and leave you armored up for new attrition.

But first… pray never falter to return
the tome to its right shelf (beneath the gaze
of shelf-gods), in that indestructible place —
you sought it there, and there it must remain —
the Library of Alexandria!
.


I Wrote This

AGE 23 - Las Vegas

I wrote this because I was dying!
I filled every page with regret:
described all the life I’d been missing;
missed out on the life I had left.
A cautionary tale, list of pitfalls —
most purply, the prominent pit
where I was laid limbless and bleeding.
The sun came to visit each noon.
At other times, fumbling through cowardice,
I wrote in the dark with my wounds.

I blew my last breath in the binding,
to make all the pages adhere.
I smeared my own guts on the cover,
no alien menace to dread!
Apart from paroxysmal torsion,
I hadn’t made love all that year.
This forge of my entrails (the grimoire)
contained unchecked errors. (It’s true!)
The inscription read: All yew retchid…
this won’s deduhcaytid to yew.

Though I never rose to occasions,
or fought my life’s battles with vigor,
my final collapse gave me passion!
My broken heart couldn’t be bigger.
My dear friend Max Brod, take this volume;
deposit it someplace secure:
Alexandria, or Bayt al-Hikmah;
a storehouse with fireproof walls.
Let pilgrims who read it discover
what happens to MAN, when he FALLS !
.


_______________________________
CONTENT WARNING: This poem gets very morbid.
_______________________________


Treblinka

AGE 21 - Las Vegas

It sounds like a happy place to the hopeful passenger,
with calloused hands from what was asked of her
at abecedarian haunts with scowling names:
Auschwitz, Belzec, Chabatz, Dachau… enough!
She knows her ABCs.

The feast to spread before her shall be all
mother’s milk-tenderized prime rib au jus —
in cacophonous, homophonic cant
(panlingual panoramic panoply) —
with juice of jugular, to help it stick.

Mauve-crested goblets risen; brown horizons;
relinquished gold upon the sulphurous ground.
The travelogue lists sites of pure catharsis!
“L'Chaim! Willkommen in der hallowed town.”

Chagall has painted shtetls twice as bad,
which bend you out of shape until you fly.
It’s breezy there — with nightlife, and night-cries!
Where skinless flesh engenders sinless flesh,
delusions of carnality subside.

Then tourniquets and scalpels keep the beat
as stagelights circle installation art.
This flaming ex upon some map of cloth
divides the dotted lines delivering man,
and burns away the blemishes as marked.

Jouissance abates; a Karabiner handle
cracks her skull, vacates her ego like
all rumble-rotored hemostatic boxcars
sparkle… with their promise to affright!


Butterfly Net

AGE 31 - Las Vegas

In days ago of opium and absinthe,
chasing rabbits with a butterfly net,
I came upon a forest made of maya
overgrown with weeds of etiquette.

I asked the stately cat-owl stationed thither:
“Wherefore sow such weeds of etiquette?”

The gryphon stirred from sleep, and laughed her biddance:
“Wander, wander to thine heart’s content…
but seek no hutch of knowledge for thy trouble!
Whether sown or scattered, weeds grow yet.
No bastion on a jurisdiction’s boundary
dareth taunt the wilderness. Forget!”

To ply her counsel — seeking out a cowlstaff
grip or portal, thus the pith to circumvent —
I reached into my sack, and swiftly brandished
daggers for my plan of argument.

The rabbits vanished in the cove of chaos.
Shakti watched, with rapturous content!

Audacity dooms heroes, but true heathens
neither core nor conduit present,
and thus the sacred Well of Stupefaction,
watertight, emits no odium scent!
The Valley of the Shadow of Reluctance
homilizes not by accident.

Chimerical, I bade the massive guardian
some decisive evidence present.
That coward, coating mountains in her sooth soot,
unfurled her mawkish maw… and yawned to let
her vast, oblique beast belly come from shadow,
through that cheerless channel of dissent.

“Pernicious caitiff, enter and dissolve!”
Her voice, acidic, echoed from the depth.
“The bold abase themselves before the ancient:
prostrate, yet desirous of ascent.
Nor play agnostic, nor beset with crude
attrition, any contest of content.”

The question strangled by a stolen answer
runs at mammoths with a butterfly net,
and martial (with authorities in conflux)
no Weatherby doth grip, nor outcry let —
and seeks to profit well by this politeness,
lest its quarry flee the pointed edge!

I’d dropped my instrument! The forest floor
showed needles, but no semblance of regret.
Disarmed, I smiled and bade my looming captor
ne’er my virtuous designs forget,
nor perchance smite the unassuming owner
of a purely verbal bayonet.

“You fool, upon the brink of rank ingestion:
my baneful maw commiserateth yet
with affectations of discovered liars,
loath to allocute their true intent.
For thine dissimulation, thou art saved
by gods of absinthe, bathos, brine and sweat!

Now go — and speak my mercy to the valley —
imbecile, philologist and wretch!”

I set aside my passion for the essence,
satisfied my tongue to represent,
and ran! My footprints scattered cross the age
of opium, by her master’s coy assent.


Spokes

AGE 30 - Las Vegas

Verse 1:

You never paid attention, so you never told a lie.
The first time you were with him, you just laughed and made him cry.
And only in the basement did you ever draw him near,
but he was understanding when you chalked it up to fear.

The first week, you kept purchasing his stories ’bout his dad.
The second week you sold them back — and made him want it bad!
The third, you started warning: Not if he was incomplete.
By Tuesday he had straightened every toenail on his feet.

Chorus 1:

All lovers are evasive, just like Lucy in the sky,
and if you have conditions you can tell, but I won’t pry.
And should you choose to trade your “love” for something you can feel,
beware the heavy grinding of the spokes along the wheel!

Verse 2:

He never made a promise, so he wouldn’t disappoint.
He said you were a benefit of hangin’ round the joint.
He showed you all his battle scars, and looked just like Kuwait,
except for the emergence of that child on Bishopsgate!

The first year he took photographs of every bruise you bore.
The second year he hung them — while you covered at the door.
The third you finally took a stand, and hooked yourself on scorn.
By January second there was no one round to warn.

Chorus 2:

All lovers are evasive, just like Lucys in the skies,
and though you seek exception you anticipate new lies,
but every time you trade this “love” for something new to feel,
you’re tested by the violence of the spokes along the wheel!

Coda:

Them spokes…
them spokes…
them spokes…
them spokes…

them spokes!


L.A. Lobotomy (early draft)

AGE 29 - Rural Nevada

I met you before all the ruckus.
You said I was ugly, but harmless.
I said you were cute, but annoying.
You said I was gripping, but cloying.
I asked, “Shall we rally a set?”
You coquetted me, cross the net.
We quit when it started to rain.
The contest dilated my brain.

I asked if you wanted to hang.
You said you resented my slang,
but — if I desired — we could drink.
The barstools were placid and pink.
You told me the silence was boring,
then led me outside — it was pouring!
We danced in the furious rain.
Your kiss numbed the edge of my brain.

That night, at a charity party,
I snatched you from Prof. Moriarty.
You said, if I sought your attention,
we’d best make a covert ascension.
You covered one nostril... and snorted!
The sound was erotic and sordid.
“You scared, boy? It’s only cocaine.”
Your drugs burned a hole in my brain.

Hotel rooms are haunted by lovers.
I lay with you, under the covers.
You asked if I wanted a push.
I said I just wanted to touch.
You chuckled… and flaunted my feelings.
I traced all the cracks in the ceiling.
You lifted your bag and champagne;
your egress bisected my brain.

Your girlfriends both said they were sorry.
Brigitta put down her Atari;
Alicia dressed down, to command.
She trailed in fine heel-marks of sand.
The orgy was pleasant, but taxing.
One carried a candle… for waxing!
One lashed cross the bed on a chain.
Your orderlies sutured my brain.

The fool, who is keen for adventure,
ought seek not his heart to indenture.
I knew this right from the beginning,
yet stagger: mind emptied, and spinning!
Now, once more alone in the cold,
no vessel remains for to hold
my ardor — your warmth to retain.
The want burns a hole in my brain.
.


L.A. Lobotomy (final draft)

AGE 44 - THE VOID

I met you before all the ruckus.
You said I was ugly, but harmless.
I said you were cute but annoying.
You said I was gripping. But cloying.

I asked: “Shall we rally a set?”
You coquetted me, cross the net.
We quit when you mimicked a sprain.
The contest dilated my brain.

I asked if you wanted to hang.
You said you resented my slang,
but — if I desired — we could drink!
The barstools were placid and pink.

You told me the silence was boring,
then led me outside. It was pouring!
We danced in the furious rain.
Your kiss numbed the edge of my brain.

That night, at a charity party,
my idiolect became arty.
You said if I wanted attention,
we’d best seek the stairs — and ascension!

You covered one nostril and snorted.
The sound was erotic, and sordid!
“You scared, boy? It’s only cocaine.”
Your drugs burned a hole in my brain.

Hotel rooms are haunted by lovers!
I lay with you, under the covers.
You asked if I wanted a push;
I said I just wanted to touch.

You chuckled, and flaunted my feelings.
I traced all the cracks in the ceiling.
You lifted your bag and champagne.
Your egress bisected my brain.

Your girlfriends were ever so sorry.
Brigitta put down her Atari.
Alicia got dressed to command:
as sharp as stilettos — through sand!

The orgy was pleasant. But taxing.
One carried a candle, for waxing!
One lashed cross the bed on a chain.
Your orderlies sutured my brain.

The fool, who is keen for adventure,
ought seek not his wit to indenture.
Though heedful straight from the beginning:
I’m hollowed-out, staggered, and spinning!

Through parking lots — callow, and cold —
no vehicle serves to unfold
my summons, your heart to arraign.
The hurt burns a hole in my brain.
.


Splash Corps

AGE 30 - Las Vegas

Verse 1:

The bad man. He did a poor job.
Now, Brandon. We need a shortstop.

We need a doorknob.
We need a fast car.
We need a sure job.
We need a flash card.
We need a bell jar.
We need a class war.
We need the drug czar
to break the noise floor.

We’re only half-sure.
We’re only half-bored.
We like the wax wings.
We dig the Splash Corps!

Verse 2:

Serandon. The light is half-gone.
Abandon… your spade and dig on!

It’s only half-right.
We’re only half-wrong.
I’ll please the roadies.
You’ll play the brass gong.
I’ll get the nose job.
We’ll have the real fun!
You’ll do the damage.
I’ll bring the rations.

Like worms in cabbage,
we’ll hit the dance floor.
Now, Charlie Babbage
has joined the Splash Corps.

Coda:

I can’t imagine…
I can’t imagine…


American Cipher (early draft)

AGE 29 - Rural Nevada

Never means maybe, maybe means yes
and avoiding the subject means no.
It butters our bread, and it milks all the cows,
and it hastens the cotton to grow.
When we have employed it to solve all our problems,
there’s nothing we’ll seek yet to know.
We’ll burn down the stables, and race with our tractors,
and toss out our seeds with the hoe.

Never means maybe, maybe means yes
and avoiding the subject means no.
There’s been no more splendid discovery since
the new musical scale, fee-fi-fo!
While going to war, it’s a GIANT advantage;
our enemies shake, head-to-toe!
We’ll take down the Union Jack from all their cities,
and hoist up the new Union Joe.

Never means maybe, maybe means yes
and avoiding the subject means no.
When socially-graceful men opt for denial,
they cover their cards — not to show.
If there’s any chance that it may be abandoned,
they act like their plan’s not a go.
Should worse come to worst, they’ll no longer be present
when friends discontinue to glow.

Never means maybe, maybe means yes
and avoiding the subject means no.
It’s perfect for smoothing the difficult bumps
on the road to acceptance, you know?
Remember this code, and remember it well;
simple statements quite simply won’t do.
“Call me tomorrow” means “...if I’m not busy” ;
“I can’t” means “I shall not, for you.”
.


American Cipher (final draft)

AGE 42 - THE VOID

Never means maybe,
maybe means yes,
and avoiding_the_subject means no.

It butters our bread, and it milks all the cows
and it hastens the cotton to grow.
When we have abused it to fix all our problems,
there’s nothing we’ll seek yet to know.
Let’s burn down the stables, and race with our tractors
and toss out the seeds and the hoe!

Never means maybe.
Maybe means yes!
and - avoiding the subject - means no.

No fresh innovation has proven more noble,
since the solfege of fee, fi and fo!
When fighting a war, it’s a giant advantage!
You Britons shall ~ quake ~ head to toe.
We’ll lower the Union Jack from all your flagpoles,
and hoist up the new Union Joe!

Ne-ver means may-be...
may-be means yes...
and a-void-ing the sub-ject means no.

When men of fine character decline to help,
they permit no declension to show.
That all expectation be nipped in the bud,
they conceal every card that they hold…
and hold for a promise each whispered intention,
that ne’er may they waken controlled!

“Never” means [maybe],
“maybe” means [yes]
and AvoidingTheSubject means [nay] !

You learned it from mom, then you taught it to me.
Now I cipher each word that I say.
So listen — ye fools — and remember this well:
all our candor collapsed and withdrew...
and “call me tomorrow” means [ ... if I’m not busy ] ;
“I can’t” means [ ... at least not for you! ]
.


Smile

AGE 30 - Las Vegas

Chorus 1:

You gotta smile. Until that smile fades away.
You gotta run. Until the highway dissolves.
If you observe… you never know what you’ll see,
until your eyes start to ache — and then it’s all left to you!

You gotta pray. Instead of taking your stand.
You gotta throw. Until those sevens back down.
You gotta take. With Appolonian hands.
And when you lie in your grave, we’ll just pretend it’s a hall.

Chorus 2:

If you observe... then all the butterflies dance.
If you rejoice… then all the barristers laugh!
If you desire… then all the vines choke the path,
and if you try to hold on, the bars will turn into blades.

When you control… you’re just controlling yourself.
When you collapse… you’ll dream of spiritual health.
But when you sing… then all those hounds go to Hell,
and you can set down your flowers on the bench in the hall.

Chorus 3:

You gotta smile. Until that smile fades away.
You gotta teach. Until the words don’t combine.
When you relax… you’ll drink the grapes from the trees,
until the blood of a Jew can fill your glass up again!

You gotta pray. Until there’s no place to stand.
You gotta roll. Until you’re snakebit and blind.
You gotta crawl. Until your bones turn to sand.
And when you lie in your grave, we’ll just pretend it’s a hall.


Naked on Laundry Day

AGE 29 - Southern Florida

Naked on laundry day,
separating my whites and colors
like a racist fire marshal.
Kick! Trip. Slip.
On the linoleum:
the basket spills a fractal ounce
of her lipstick.

I should have sprung for just one extra rinse —
to clean my past, instead of irrigate
Mojave —
billed at an astronomical rate
to stretch out the expense progressively,
into brackets more rich with every dousing.

I got W-7s to fill, and FTAs
on DWPs, and twenty fucking points
on my license to keep within her heart.
I got summons for busking on Church Street,
and for holding mass downtown.
I got the blues.

Retiring sweatpants with a sunken string,
I wish there were Novitra for the id.
I know I’ll never find another pair
to reenact the comfort they conferred.
Imposter Comfort sits upon the high rack:
seamy, scratchy, keen to rub it in.

The prima donna of swans, in imitation leather,
unsullied by the boy within his sheath,
will drink O’Doul’s until the wells run dry
unless I meet her momently, to busk
some epilepsy down on Dorsal Street.

The linty filter smells more fresh than I —
who fret to lose near so as much as stall,
and thus court both reprieve from all encumbrance
and diversion, as the chambers spin.

A turnstile token tumbles from a pocket;
dandruff crests the jingle of my hair.
The basket plays Siddhartha with the carpet,
pouring rice and burning sacred threads.

“Om purnamadah purnamidam purnat...”
Why therefore did she discover him?
And what misjoinder did the cruel event
correct? Why am I disjunct from her stain?

Why do I bother fussing with the dryer
when I could build a clothesline all the way
from my broad balcony, unto the porch
of their fond union — scrolling garments ‘cross
like banners, palettes swapped from set to set?
(The hitboxes too small to fill the shape.)
If I could learn to code, I could endure
the entropy of all to yet remain.

Once, Hitler loved a kitten in a park
in wheezy old Vienna. The Danube
washed clean the scent of gunpowder, where dwarves
baked loaves and set a place for every heart.

The totem pole is too abstruse to stand!
It’s modeled out of dark matter, and matter
subject to accelerate unchecked.
And so we craft our idols from caprices,
stack them vertically, and glue them down
where everything lies soundless in the morgue
to stigmatize the shape of the supreme.

Far deeper in the basket I discover
cloying, come-stained boxers. I’d forgot
the turpitude and utter trepidation
woven into just one faerie girl,
who promised that she cared so much she’d ford
the river of my inconvenient throbbing
want, to reach those distant florid banks!

I hit the bottom: lined with holey socks.


Silver Dreams

AGE 29 - Southern Florida

Verse 1:

Thornton Dial was lost in Crawley;
asked the trash collector, Charlie:
“Is there anything left here, to see?”
Skated down the chocolate mountain;
knocked old Jack into a crevasse;
smashed his nose upon a blank TV.

Chorus 1:

Silver dreams won’t bend or break you.
Press those steady footsteps forward;
point your toes into the mystery!
Silver.
Pull the anchor; light the pilot.
Anyone can be a sailor,
when the waves are rolled in silver dreams!

Verse 2:

Eloise asked Honest Abel,
in the line director’s stable:
“Is there any hope for Illinois?”
When they made it, fast and pretty,
all the statues broke their eyelids.
“I could be the girl, and you the boy.”

Chorus 2:

Silver dreams won’t run your license.
Cross your fingers, count to zero;
drive a sports car ‘cross the balcony!
Silver.
Toss a pebble at the guard dog.
Any key can fool the locksmith,
when the mansion’s decked in silver dreams!

Verse 3:

If I flew just like Richthofen,
then I’d sneeze into a coffin:
“Never speak to girls, in smoky bars.”
In the photograph, we’re smiling
where the pavement burns graffiti;
city hall’s undressed… to show its scars!

Chorus 3:

Silver dreams won’t keep you honest.
Wear the locket when you want to;
change your Facebook status to bereaved!
Silver.
Feed a penny to the cyclone.
Anyone can write a love song,
when the meaning’s only in their dreams!

Coda:

Their…
silver dreams of finally landing
pride and agency, and standing…
only to redress some silver lord!

We’ve been ignored.
Now it’s our turn!
OUR… SILVER… TURN!!


Parting Words

AGE 17 - Rural New York

I nearly cry, knowing tonight
that it will soon be morrow…
and yet I’m saved from tears. Your sight
extinguishes my sorrow!

Your promise — whispered deeply, love —
that we shall meet once more…
is all my heart is thinking of,
and all my pulse is for.

And though I know that time and tide
mash mountains into sea…
with just your promise by my side,
they’ll never frighten me!

I write in modes I’ve rarely used:
so pressing; so romantic.
The “love” my pen has oft’ abused —
and discharged as semantic —

now bids me plead, however trite,
to not be left alone tonight.
Tomorrow’s just a threat
we’d best ignore… and huddle tight!


Forever, Tonight

AGE 17 - Rural New York

Fusing passions warm the room;
sight, sound, touch, smell and taste make right!
Dual angels — in harmony — cantillate song,
leaving nevers and maybes forever, tonight.

This dance (though fine) is meant for dogs and bitches,
for sense alone can never dictate pleasure.
To taste the wine of irises (for nectar)
is to have what’s yours… in proper measure.

As the whole appeareth singular:
one moment’s rapture, superceding sorrow
shows, despite its disconnection from
the tendrils of eternity,
the fallacy of tomorrow.

I ask for boundless bliss.
She answers, with a kiss!
.


In the Beginning

AGE 44 - THE VOID

As fusing passions heat the room,
the senses kindle: soft, and bright.
Two guardian angels keep blazoning thread
from our nevers and maybes, all sutured together
for temporal Flags of Forever, tonight.
See them cantillate distance, and modulate mirth
to the frequencies of our surrender, tonight?

Is this the half-step of the bitch and dog?
This tango-touch, that propositions pleasure
come? That heart-communion’s consummation —
sweeter than the Music of the Spheres,
and sanctimonious beyond all measure —
come? To bless the sweat of our embrace?
To wind this harmony of sow and hog?

Your nervous answer fast and right
comes: “As the opus sounds through every note,
these moments levitate above our sorrow.
Though forged merely of Temporal Crust,
they’ll bring us the inflections of our youth;
the terra firma underneath our trust...
then fracture, into fault lines for tomorrow.”

Too human, thus impelled by instincts crude,
convenient remonstrations brought to farrow:
we hold each other close, but look afar.
Our vessels docked, the trek remains for us.

To anchor this fond union, we’ll require
an overlay to fit upon our lust!
It’s shrined atop a hill, beneath a star;
our vessels docked, the journey’s up to us.
.


For Julie

AGE 17 - Rural New York

A summer’s day yields wonders, yes!
A walk within the orchard, beneath the clouds,
through which rays trespass in astutest aim
to aid me in this vision I pursue!
By such illumination I behold
your gracious form, soft cheeks and hair of gold.

Diffuse upon your face, The Sunlight laughs,
roars: “She depends on me, but not on you!”
and shades the surface of thy nymphic form,
and buttresses what I shall never own
with satisfaction just to keep it warm.
This supplicant just suffers… till it’s gone.

No single passion (in its ambience)
may dwarf the shine of Heaven, when imposed
beneath the ink of rotoscopic skies,
so prone to pale… or greenen in their fear!
No hand remains to stock the piggy bank,
on days so culpatory and severe.

Nocturne arrives, and supervises laxly
that I fancy freely through the eve —
with freshly-budding humors of the heart,
and all my swollen ardor to assert —
till all my heart’s devotion, you receive.

When Phosphoros his burning censure shrieks,
such caustic light through yonder window breaks!


Oneiromanticism {Reimagining of Sleepwalker}

AGE 17 - Rural New York

Although the pixie dust is fake
it is of this I do partake,
so though I dream, I feel awake.
No nobler hunger can one slake
than that to feast upon the magic
of the angel bread of tragic
sensual allure, revealing
deacons kissing, lovers kneeling —
where the scent of sublimity
is hard to whiff, but plain to see.
Me, I would far rather be sold
on whispers of venereal gold.

The wish to dream — and not complain —
is little answered by our pain.
Although the bareback Mountie rides,
he sees love coming from both sides,
when he attends to the complaint
of one who’s wed a tainted saint!
So as I stand, atop my hill,
I’m coerced to believe it, still —
that if she’d only LET ME IN…
and fear no folly, and no sin…
the voices in our heads would melt!
A common language would be felt.
.


Oneiromanticism (final draft)

AGE 44 - THE VOID

Although the PIXIE DUST is fake,
I do believe; I do partake.
Thought yet I DREAM, I feel AWAKE!
No duty finer feels, to shirk
than that of falling for the MAGIC
of the ANGEL BREAD of tragic
sensual allure, revealing
synesthetic lovers kneeling
where PUNGENT sublimity
turns odorless… but plain to see.

I’d sooner rouse, than stay controlled
by sulky silk’s VENEREAL gold!

The instinct never to complain
may CRYSTALLIZE in abject pain!
A bareback Mountie deftly rides,
his BURDEN mixed between the sides,
as patiently he hears complaints —
from brides of BRUTES; from TWISTED saints —
and every scuffle he attends
becomes a means, to SCIENT ends.

As here I sit, atop my hill,
I’m SADDLED with belief that STILL
if only she could LET ME IN
and love this sinner for his sin:
the VOICES in our heads would fuse;
a common language we could prove
and PARSE, before the rising sun!
The West is lost; the best’s to come!
.


Sleepwalker (first draft)

AGE 16 - Rural New York

When I dream, I’m awake…
and I try to make the magic work.
But the magic is everything
except for what I thought it was.

And wishing isn’t worth the pain
if the magic doesn’t come from both sides,
but dreaming will prevail —
and I believe it!

She speaks my language,
yet in a thousand tongues…
and with a passion
high above me,
by design.

I wish that I could know her,
yet I know
that if she’d only let me in…
then all the voices in our heads would melt —
and there would be no language,
only dreams coming true.
.


Sleepwalker (final draft)

AGE 44 - THE VOID

When I DREAM, I’m awake
and try to make the magic work,
but the magic is at all times everything
except for what I think it ought to be…
and listening, I make out all the life:
especially the part
that never was.

She speaks my language, but
in a thousand tongues. And
with a PASSION far past
my design!

I wish that I might know her,
yet I KNOW
I’d fit within that space
between her lines.
And if she’d only
LET ME IN to there,
I’d learn it twice —
to feel from the inside.

Then all the voices in our heads would melt,
and every word DISSOLVE within its frame —
the WALLS of the containment of the truth;
the TRUTH about the dream that I became —
and language cease.
.


Infatuation {alternate version of Sleepwalker}

AGE 17 - Rural New York

Many a wondrous and dreary day I’ve spent
seeking aesthetic truth or tautologous beauty,
lifting high the shiny, archaic grail
filled with enlightenment, dregs and all,
poured by a lady in a black dress
(buxom with substance, pale with reservation)
hiding her wings to share them with me later.
Revelations: her flight, her sympathy, her song.
Yet as one layer of a dream begets the next,
in disproving this lie, one deceives.
I digress.

And my phantom muse summons me back,
with ambivalent gestures, to nowhere, or perchance
to that Daedalean landmass
comprised of mists, behind the battlements
where foothold is taken against perdition.
I pour my heart out onto paper, and she
(inspiration or deterrent, muse or Musetta)
dismisses it with analgesic indifference —
or partiality to the trivial, perhaps —
all the while angelically hovering above
the ostentatious world.

I adore her, envy her, pity her, swoon,
absorb some resonance, file bankruptcy:
while ambiance and mechanical emotion
radiate from the lonely pianist, sitting
in the corner and romanticizing
quintessential love.
.


Infatutation (final draft)

AGE 44 - THE VOID

Many a wondrous and dreary day I’ve spent
seeking aesthetic truth or tautologous beauty,
lifting high the bright archaic grail
filled with enlightenment (its dregs, and all)
poured by a lady in a silken dress
(buxom with substance; pale with reticence)
who hides her wings, to show them sometime later.

Could I instill within me
her sympathy and song…
to such a deep delight ‘twould lose me,
and each vain illusion soon be gone!
But I digress.

And then the phantom muse entices me
with beckonings ambivalent,
to nowhere — or perhaps
that Daedalean beachhead
hewn of mist,
behind the battlements, where all resistance
offered unto rot is happily
accepted.

I scrawl my heart onto the page, and she —
muse or Musetta; to inspire, deter —
erases it! Impartial anesthesia
makes me partial to the trivial.
Her wings sprout, and she soars so high above
the ostentatious world.

I praise her, pity her, then shun her.
Swoon.
Drink all her resonance, and file
for bankruptcy…
while ambient-but-mechanistic waves
emotionally swell forth from the hand
of the club pianist, who lonelily
sits in the corner
to romanticize
quintessences
of love
for one more night.
.