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Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls
chipped away by the wind;
cobwebs align them
like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in a broken window,
gathering in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic)
My eyes seek out the sermon,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
(beneath nick and scratch)
as light needles the shade,
breathes new fire over candles,
measures the weight in these empty rows,
breaths that haven't ceased being prayer.
Shaping CloudsThe sky is always a fixture over oceans,
another cliched postcard;
this is a place where the only distance is upward,
and I lose myself in the memory of shapes
as if your foam fluked tide
stretched as high as it could
and decided to stay.
A horse's gallop
is slowed through the blue
before a piece of his snout breaks off
and drifts away;
as the sun sinks
into the depth and contrast--
heaven over the clothes line,
and corrugated metal,
I realize no one ever mentions clouds in a sunset;
only their absence in a clear sky,
where the light spreads thin into nothing,
and no one notices
lest it be over oceans.
Observing SilhouettesTheirs is still,
arms linked in the face of a sky--
overexposure and time
unlike the the herd
that comes together, and comes apart,
the brief romp of a pair of wings,
the crane's arch to the pond,
the strand on the down of a feather
that knows how to be alone again,
the leaf, the blade of grass.
To Earth, The Parts Of YouAt oceans I feel the sulfur of your hand
spinning shadows into shoals
your allotropic breath
in the sky
going every which way--
bones shifting in your axis,
I feel the indifference of your breath
shifting along tree tops,
the age of you
there are crowds to be heard--
protests and rallying cries.
I want to climb to the highest point of your horizon--
closed like a lid,
away from the beating heart of you
coaxing me to lie upon the ground
Unopened LettersPulled ribbons
fall around the ephemera
like disbanded sails.
I knock around with envelopes,
too close to discern
a shape in the ink
like scrawled twigs
drawn from the slow,
lost to the grip
And yet the kettle on the stove
because we need it to remain the same,
even if in novelty--
like the doddering, ghost
of an old hand,
gesturing for time to slow.
The Stubbornness Of Homethe canopy
parts from its roof,
to the sky
with no memory of blue,
the tired wave length
sinking into the brown and gray
that can no longer hold its red;
in the last heavy wind;
the distended metal
shoved upon the beach,
with the memory
of its place in the world.
Veil Tail GoldfishAs the vein
runs through the fine
you have the light by which you glide,
the current that moves beneath you;
fragments of lamp lapped up
in the shadows of a room
while my feet try to pick apart a pace
in the metronome of
day to day
whose time has all but buried the satellite
of where I need to go
between bits of brick and mortar
and so I leave the window open
the memory heavy in a lifting curtain
as this room sits like a sunken ship
in the waltz of light and turning earth.
I curl up in the womb of it,
leaving the sky as my glass,
feeling the heaviness of Heaven's eye.
IntegerI tried to think of colors,
or a place that would embody a poem
one day, in the event that I lose
the chance for words;
a tree seemed too simple,
but a worthy candidate
as the forest thinned its limbs
to the sun
like futile arms
in the sighs of future buildings.
And then it was too complex,
and green sufficed,
or maybe blue, or whatever color
broke out into the sky.
I tried to walk without a beat,
and summon what feeds
on every bit of youth it could get
from our bodies
like water to a desert-fiend;
tried to think
of what a minuend would be
if not the razor backed edge
of a number,
but the crumbling of cells
piece by piece to the elements
of time as it sorts infinities,
and I am nothing but the breath
that escapes me.
EveI remember when time was time,
when Eve fell into the sea, eyes burning--
her great arm unraveling from the night.
Her breath made its way into
the path of sun.
She became the long road, arriving;
for me the cradle of Winter,
a quilt of windows and hills.
It was a beginning.
She walked with me,
our pace measured in the length of buildings
as she sighed into the wood, textures,
and the joints of stairs.
I almost remember when the thick oak of doors
only ran beneath my fingers
long enough to explore.
This was a beginning too,
and I know that it was here that time began to bleed,
and Eve died young.
Today thoughts almost seem to
in the melted snow of windows,
falling away into Spring.
I watch the spaces emerge in the fence,
the transparency of glass.
Her vision now rests in the pool of sun upon my floor.
She is almost better suited without a form,
as shoveled roads and time wait for me to carry on,
the world cracking beneath an unforgiving sun,
nails rusting in
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
You Will PayI can taste the fear upon you:
The cold sweat in your palms,
The eyes that dart at shadows,
And the lips that are forced into a tightened smile.
You wait beneath the blankets,
Shivering each night as the anxiety rises.
You gasp at the slightest sounds and quiver...
For you are afraid of the curse that comes.
In your mind you see what you have done to me.
You watched as you ripped my tongue
And stole the very voice from my soul!
But even if I am without a body,
Even if I can no longer hold a knife to your throat.
Fear alone is enough for me to silence you,
And I will NEVER allow you to be heard!
To The HeroesJustice?
I'm not sure you know what that means.
To you the very word of "justice" suggests that:
Those who do not comply are simply targets to be broken.
Those who do not agree with you, must always be denied.
Those who have the greatest freedom are chained and made to kneel.
And those who choose to fight are labeled 'incarnates of evil'.
Doesn't it all sound a little familiar?
I think it does...
So tell me, oh great hero,
Having fought monsters like me for so many years...
How does it feel to have finally become one?
MazeLost within myself
Looking for a way out
This cannot end like this
Trapped in my own mind
A maze with no exit
I keep running and running
But I always end up
In the same place where I began
Inner DemonI harbour a monster,
It lingers deep within.
It wants to escape me,
To tear free from my skin.
It gnaws at my insides,
And hopes that I'll give in.
It works hard to tempt me,
To lead me into sin.
It wants me to suffer
To feel its wretched sting.
But I stand true and strong,
I will not let it win.
The nights are the hardest,
In bed I pray and sing
To the Lord God above
To rid me of this thing.
But instead it remains,
My monster still within.
RustThe dwelling rust
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Red Light ReduxHaving a truck
Paint me red
Is the strangest feeling
I’ve ever felt.
I’ve seen myself melt away
Like a mid-summer’s ice cream
While my personality screams
To be noticed. Every wall that once
Stood between me and reality
I am finally free.
Until they strapped me down
And sewed back my hands to my head.
My heart to my mouth.
My legs to the earth.
The taste of freedom
Rests gently on my tongue,
And I’ve been trying
To no avail.
CompresenceThe specter pivots
in the straight-jacket of an untempered wind.
My fingers trace the back of another hand
in half wakefullness;
the silence has grown a body
to lie beside me
in all of its moldy breath
as the house begins to breathe
from its fissures.
The leaves in the garden are a thousand pleading hands
running across the hem of some archangel's gown.
Street lights plunge from their posts
onto the asphalt.
I will remember tomorrow
as if it were a dream,
yet the ground will spill with it,
as if death entangled itself with life
in the confusion of a wind,
and I lie half submerged
between an eternity
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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