No Longer Dreaming

I've never feared the sea;
not even as it bubbled and
swirled around
my little island.


I've always seen far away lights-
signs of other islands or
reminders of ships that have past
or have yet to.


I watch the fish as they shimmer and 
dance in the cloudy water.
They seem fascinated with the delicate 
far off 
lights.


But I know better.


For I fear the lights more than the sea.

ee

There are no footprints here,

and I confess:

I do not know the way-

but the way knows me.

I'll walk a little while,

before butterflies wander

into my chest-

then I'll walk a little more.

There is no path you see.

For the seeker of new worlds

there are only magical strings

and a heart to follow their gentle tug.

The Danse Macabre

Pulling hair

knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;

slithering and gliding,

called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-

he leaps to his feet,

flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,

then-

more parchment soaked

with ink

and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

1.

There is a chill-

a window, cracked to the storm;

water falling, slanted with the rain

the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-

water and its fate;

then a wimper-

somewhere within the house

down the stairs

and in the warm, dank, darkness

the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify

ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds

white and pure, only a moment-

but the sensation lasts and lasts.

In the light, the tear-stained face-

found,

no longer sad

acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles

no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes

staring off into the storm.

The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

2.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart

declaring that one day

this being will speak without fear

again.

Every night, the same blue twilight

trying to find bearings

by moonlit highlight and starry outline

learning how to discern shadows

from the silhouettes, reality

from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;

an empty mind

and an unclenched soul-

only sweat and clammy skin haunts

as the light of what is tomorrow

comes too soon,

burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,

feeling sickness take grip.

Moments of inspiration-

flicking the nightstand light on,

hope manifests itself in the way of

barely discernible scribbling in worn,

coffee-stained journal pages;

the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable

what hope is there for the speechless heart

when every night, creativity is dashed on

dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles

about the dimly lit apartment

once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,

now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails

of a 'common' consciousness,

fighting for normalcy-

singularity

then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,

it waits beneath the bed,

amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,

waiting for the night

and another try.

Words will come.

Lemonade

Sensuality and sinister foreboding-

sensations, almost audible

through bone and blood.

Cracking and creaking,

each rib snapping into a new position

protecting and steadily compressing

that which lays inside.

Amidst all the real and imagined horror

the beating thing and it's metaphorical spot

in your mind

hurt more than bone splintering

and flesh peeling-

they call it the blues

they call it loss

they call it heartbreak.

No riff from scarred hands

can wipe away the cold sweat

that washes over in the middle

of a hot, summers night.

Sitting in a dirty, humid kitchen

knuckles white, gripping a cool glass

of foggy lemonade

swallowing greedily ice an all

deep into your soul

but only citrus steam forms

on the back of your eyeballs.

It's not for you to cure

or fight off-

close your eyes

let the deathly hands of grief

drag you into the wave

out with the tide

That same beating thing

protected by shattered bone

and raw flesh

will bring you back to dry land-

eventually.

Sustain

Protest songs, ill-defined

implying cadences uttered by the swaying and swelling

of angry crowds shouted till cords are raw,

screaming a desire for

sudden change

at all costs.

Guitars were picked and harmonica blown

to massage messages into the minds

of those that turned a deaf ear

when the issues were forced.

Banjoes and tambourines,

mandolins and steel guitars,

silenced by a black listing

when lyrics delved too deeply-

Un-American to question another man's

misguided crusade;

Un-American

to admit defeat.

Three voices of change

cast away into a void of thick air

pure, country music, questioned

for being against the murder of innocent

and the recall of loved ones-

Un-American

to come home.

A single tear brought on by an echoing chord

a flash of resent from a nerve strummed

and the hardest men given away

as their feet began to tap

A suggestion is put forward

a nudge in the right direction, to

please look up, into the burning sky

at the hard rain looming

Truths only noticed by the ones looking;

wars that cannot be won,

marches that need to be ended.

We will bring them home,

we will further question our readiness to fight

another mans war.

We will stand with eyes closed,

listening in the pouring rain,

for answers-

blowing in the wind.

Good Morning

Sharing a bed-

kids have it right;

we mucked it up.

Friendship and support,

linen forts and secret missions.

Nothing felt better than laughing,

sometimes crying;

camped out in a circle of three,

hoarding cards and ice cream.

Walks of shame were never there in the morning;

only the slip-sliding of socked feet

racing to the kitchen-

mom was making waffles.

Feelings wouldn't change when the sun came

even if you woke someone up

with a pillow to the kisser.

We adults have it wrong-

the companionship is gone;

replaced with pomp and circumstance,

lust and primeval passion.

There's no room for the dog

and the morning coffee outweighs a morning kiss.

How does it all get better?

How do we reclaim the days of innocence?

You don't, you make due-

so skip the coffee;

go for the kiss

and make waffles.

Rain, Desire, Adventure, and Love

1.
Rain has fallen silently in the night.
it has come and gone, whisked
from my windowpane,
by a swift wind
and now some distant desert country is
suddenly moist and cool.

I am unaware of this
save a small feeling of content
in the back of my head,
the remnants of rainfall on my path
and the prevailing wind.

But the rain is due for another show
and along this trail the wind changes once more
darkening the skies
like cocoa powder dropped into
the pearlescence of milk.

The air is dancing about me-
harsh bits of pebble
skittering along a red rock road
and the distant barking of an unsheltered
dog scratching at a back door.

Storms breed unease in many
but this day, this moment, I'm smiling
for the cool moisture drawn from
the swaying trees is licking at my face
and the warmth of drink still remains
tucked inside of my coat.

2.
A cigarette glows
and the Countess reclines further
into the
soft
red
leather.

She is staring through you
her gaze is blazing with
greater fire than the smoking thing
in her lips
and you feel the heat slowly moving
from your head to toe.

On cue, a silver tray floats in
and the smell of single malt libation
wafts from a set of crystal,
clinking slightly as it's set
halfway
across
the room.

Your eyes never break gaze
as you stroll towards your life preserver
hoping that with the slug
you'll manage to remain afloat
in her stormy eyes.

After you've downed the third
you make your way to the arm of her chair
pulling out your own brand and
as you set it in your lips
a lighter snaps on just below
her face is
glowing,
staring.

Pausing to see her face
in the lighters flickering light
you are made aware of every hair
on the back of your neck
man overboard.

3.
He sits in a rich velvet chair
surrounded by the blue haze of pipe smoke
and the walls lined with books, are barely visible.

The gentile whir of a phonograph in the corer
announces it's journey to the next song and
as the silence breaks,
filled with the gentile scraping of strings,
he settles into the next, worn, page.

Despite his plush perch of velvet
and the delicacy of the music
his eyes are wide with horror;
sweat dots his brow, and his fingertips
are white grasping the binding.

The smoke, books and chair
are nothing to him now as he
flashes down the Amazon river
spear and darts blurring by his pith.

The natives are restless.

4.
Hundreds gather
swaying to the swing of a big band
high heels dart by, spats embrace shined shoes and
legs rush in and out of a great club.
Conversation is growing thicker than the london fog
just outside.

The brass section is waving,
great golden instruments glinting
in the light of a stunning crystal chandelier
casting it's rainbow of color across the hall;
the smell of champagne
hangs in the air.

In the middle of the floor
a single white dinner coat and
a captivating, red gown float in small circles
drawing the eyes of the high society crowd
their slander slows
and only the gasping of lonely hearts is heard.

They two are separate, unaware of the room
dancing on a private plane;
her face is still,
her gaze is fixed
and her smile is all the music he needs.
The light dims and a soft spotlight is upon them;
casting a moon-like glow,
highlighting their love.

The band has fallen silent,
no notes could compliment
and any great solo would be lost
for only deaf ears remain.

The couple dips and trots,
spins and tightly embraces
and, when the music in their hearts comes to an end
they each bow
and walk off
hand in hand.

The Corner Stool

1.
Unmistakable;
the business end
of a Lucky Strike
glowing from the back
of a hazy room.

Sitting before a ghost band
a hep beat floats back
entangled in the
musicians smoke

The music pauses
and the grey thickens
thoughts of the outside
the next step
an adult life

A hand shoots upward
and drinks are served
cool, fresh amnesia
ice cubes still clinking

The band resumes
it's set.

2.
Walking inside
the thick air hits you
like a hard kiss
a hiss
of steam
from your ears
bodies jiving
sliding as the cymbal
cries into the crowd
loud are the horns
calling the snare
to bear on your soul
sweat pours
their minds must be
lost
not
yours
cool drink sizzles
mingles with sweat
on your
lips
hips wander near
eyes like ice
twice cooling
your soul.

You emerge
changed.

3.
Walking along to the sound of a clarinet
skipping over the cracks
to the snare
heels, percussion
the wind whipping your coat
dancing in the air
fingers tapping at your sides
mirroring the gentile
flow of piano keys
then the whirlwind fades back
just the clarinet
a dragging match
a sizzle
and footsteps
echo
down
the
street.

Dreaming of My Shady Rock

1.
Searching a world
of advice;
throwing my arms up,
begging for clarity.
Guidance comes.
It flows uninterrupted
constantly luring me
in the wrong directions
buying and selling my
emotions on a public
market.
Fighting to put a
dollar sign
on my sanity.
Filth is all the response
that I receive.
But as I wrap my arms about me
and begin to weep;
the air whispers:
You
Will
Remain.

2.
Contemplating
the bones in one's head;
the skull as a whole
just underneath
moist tissue.
Always balancing
a fishbowl of brains
on your spine.
Beer, scotch and
the occasional tequila
sloshing about
the fatty mass.
Young mothers,
disgruntled ex's
and violent, pulsating music
batting it about.
Antiquated theories,
archaic practices,
and egotistical educators
trying to pry in.
You're hoping for the best
when walking down
a simple set of
stairs.

3.
Looking for gray
despising the signs of youth.
We all sit in the a hell
of assumption
uncultured
immature.
I can do nothing
but wait for time
and the wind
to break me down
till I resemble
the voice I emit.
I suppose then I can
find comfort
in being pegged
as
out of touch.

4.
I love the caress of changing shadows
wandering over my body
while this car drives down
a windy road.
Canyon after canyon,
a soft stream flowing beside
the hard black ground
reminding me of old movies.
I want to call this scene a wrap
and lay on the smooth stones
listening to the water
it's lazy trickle
lulling me to rest.
Then off again
out onto the open plains;
always dreaming
of my shady
rock.

5.
I hate hearing
that men
lack the ability to love

She told me that men
think that love is cute
and useless;
that sex is the only gain
we have in mind.
We are desperately clinging
to the playtime
of our youth
keeping
the same
destructive behaviors.
Blowing up
our sisters doll
and wondering why
she's crying.

I cry.
I cry when she's
not there.
I cry when her scent
walks by
years later.
I sob when her skin isn't
against mine;
and I break down
when I'm
assumed to be stone.

I love.
I will love.
I have loved.
I've given my soul
in search of
love.
It was
blown into shards.

and she wondered
why
I was crying.

Untitled

To be bored with the workings of the heart is to be dead
and those who declare themselves unamused
are naive.
Pain and happiness are not so far apart;
emotion not so childish.
A shriveled existence of cowering from your soul
is not an option; my words are powerful
because I am aware of myself.
They will grow because I refuse
to look away.

I Need Some Air

1.
The first conversation;
thinking of longevity,
feeding off of desire.
We spoke of a passion for words,
the delicate imagery of candles
and a love of generations past.
Each taking turns leaning over the table
lips meeting as a sign of approval.
I miss that version, It was perfect;
in that moment we were destined
it was decided beyond me.
The world around was a blur.
Time has passed, feelings have changed
and the nuances are lost;
but I remember enough,
to weep.

2.
Young love is disgusting,
there is no honor among the the coming of age.
Hands held and cast away, promises whispered
and broken.
Windows fogged, and innocence
abused.
On the rare occasion when seriousness,
true care, and honesty linger;
the world beyond is discovered.
Maturity has not yet been attained
and the lust for deeper meaning outweighs
such saccharine notions.

3.
Regret is honesty.
You could have done better,
you could have changed.
Maybe you would have kept your job,
lost some weight or stayed out of jail.
Maybe she would be here.
It is said that if you do your best
then there is nothing to regret.
I respectfully disagree.
You don't know your limits
so everyday,
you're failing.
Acknowledge that you
are nothing but a speck
and the world
will be wide open
Regret is honesty.

4.
One thought
one slip
and I'm falling
like some alcoholic
touching gin to their lips.
I need pictures, conversation
but it all leads to destruction
sobbing and headache.
Such a calm evening
until I think of her
then my face tightens
and my vision blurs.
This must end;
I'm the only one
still here.

5.
I hate myself for feeling;
loss dominates my body
just below the surface.
I have brave faces and
a desire for quick love;
nothing will quench me.
She's gone off with another
and another and another;
I am buried in the paperwork
of her new dating life,
a cold case, never to be reopened.
I never wanted another.

6.
A vacation in heaven
wandering through the snow
sharing an old high school bed.
Dusty Poe books and class projects,
younger faces framed,
braces and purple hair.
A warm family, scrabble
and the mountains, god the mountains!
We took trips to the local bar
with mounted animals
and a worn dance-floor.
Second and third Christmases
spent in a double wide
and a snow covered chalet.
The family was wonderful
beyond my dreams.
It was heaven
and now the thought of all that
takes me to hell.

I can't stop looking over my shoulder.

1.
How did I get in this place? All in good fun I suppose.
A night spend drowsily wandering over her body
tasting her soul, and eventually collapsing beside her.
I throw the sheets to the side, stinking of sweat; it's quiet.
Only the sound of an oscillating fan making its rounds,
a chill moves across my face, ruffling my hair.
I hear her shuffling about the bathroom and I sigh.
I remember taking comfort in that sound
the sound of someone else getting ready for work.
I would sit there, a bit foggy waiting for my goodbye kiss
and collapsing back into sheets that still smelled of her.
But this is different and I will get no goodbye,
a nod and wink on the way out
at best.
It's all in good fun.

2.
I remember thinking;
"Hot Chocolate wasn't a good idea."
Bleary eyed I stood there
hot water in one hand, a packet of mint cocoa in the other.
looming over a glass mug, sobbing.
The last time there was powder in this mug
I was in different company.
I can't help it, I can't avoid it.
We picked them out, a sign of prosperity,
choosing things together; making a home.
I should like to think of childhood moments
with grilled cheese in front of the hearth.
I had marshmallows in those days.
Now the little floating clouds remind me
of trips to the store, so she could have them in her mug;
I wanted it to be perfect; I was a fool.
After a bit of blinking through steam,
I finish pouring my cup. Let out a groan and a sigh.
Thoughts that remind us of happy times, should not delay
a good cup of warm cocoa.

3.
The taste of smoke and whiskey lingers in the back of my throat.
A heavy, thankful sigh as I pull into my spot and walk upstairs.
My voice is gone, there's smeared lipstick everywhere;
where do I find the energy to do all this?
I walk into the dim apartment and flick the light on
the bulb flashes briefly and leaves me drenched in darkness.
Blue light from the moon outlines a figure looming;
sleep is staring at me
naked in the corner of the room
I'm oddly aroused

4.
I hope my mind cares for me when I'm not watching.
Shoveling bad memories from huge piles
into the smokestacks of my soul
like the engine-room from a colossal steam ship
making my screws flutter faster through a murky sea.
I want to plow through giant waves of grief
and break any ice that threatens my course.
My confidence is grievously aware of my mortality,
my body has no life raft;
I am my own safety measure.
I'm just getting over my fear of drowning
in the vastness of it all.

5.
I'm supposed to write for the fat lady
but her song is, and should be, the last thing on my mind.
I miss the comforts of the past,
I can't seem to forget all that.
Standing here, out on the blustery corner,
a crossroads where the former meets the latter
I am in the now, the present.
My life is turning onto a new path
and the new beginning should be drawing my eye.
Yet here I stand, motionless,
squinting down my former course,
what would have been.
All I knew is still on that street, moving ahead.
I'm looking for more sadness I suppose,
thanking the stars, I have poor eyesight.
I wrap my coat about me and make the turn,
constantly looking over my shoulder.
I will never learn.

Basics.

1.
Living your life to the fullest
will suck any thick skin off of your bones
but there is no life in avoiding broken glass.
Walk down the center of the road
skip, following the dashed line.
Hear the horns of the contented masses
cursing your radical behavior as they sit
fat and complacent;
safe in their cars.

2
A craft spent writing your heart on a wall
will leave you with no mystery
people will know who you are and what you are.
The greater damage though, is to lie
inflicting fiction upon someone;
telling them that you are a shining soul,
good at heart and smart as a whip.
I'm not that good,
I never was and I'm content with that.
I will never be what they want me to be,
I will be a window, a lens with no correction.
A man who writes to empty his heart of grief.

3
A whimsical umbrella saunters down the street
making a funny little void in the rain;
a heavy stream runs from a jagged tear.
Perfectly good I suppose; blocking the majority,
but a sad sight none-the-less.
Like a beaten old soul, still just getting by
it's held proudly; a possession of worth and use
but when the tear runs wider and the pride is lost
its usefulness will come to an end;
one day.

4.
Maturity never comes in handy.
always coming entirely too late
always showing up
after the fact.
We're always unprepared.
Constantly thinking of the past;
what could have been done.
Then you begin to realize
that not knowing,
is where you want to be.
living from moment to moment
floating through the haze
making the best of what you have.
It's been said I think,
You need to be lost
before you find yourself.

Spreading Ribs

1.
Cutting off a dead limb
saves the body.
Cutting out a dead heart
doesn't save the soul.
To live a life without a heart
is condemnation.
I have lived thorough love
and hidden my scars
but I cannot be afraid
of more spilled blood.

2.
Happiness is not unreachable,
love is not so high on its pillar;
but the ladder I carry is too short.
My life must be donated to that cause
I must grow, stretch and reach.
I must attain sanity,
or content in disillusionment.

3.
I was told that a writer needs moors
a place to go for inspiration
someplace with history, perhaps death.
That same person provided the inspiration
and the death of bits of my soul.
She is my moor, she is my cold wind
as romantic as she is desolate.
I don't need fog, I have her scorn.

4.
I want to fall in love
I want to look away from experience;
reminders of hate and anger.
It wont end in tears and headache.
I won’t have to slowly walk my things out of ‘our’ apartment
and I won’t leave my favorite chair behind.
Perhaps this time it will work
and we will share our hearts
coveting nothing but our time.

5.
I will remain open,
letting the daggers in.
I will not flinch when they come.
I will stand allowing the world
to wash over me.
If my eyes are closed nothing is gained,
I will hope for love;
I will accept pain.

A Brief Window.

Introverted thought
breeds hatred of self.
I care outwardly, internally;
and those that resent me
I pretend to disdain.
I will cry for them
and they will forget me.
I am words,
a curious bunch of thought
but as a doctor delivers news of death,
I am unfeeling
yet devastated.
I am conflict,
unresolved.

Downtown, then back home.

1.
A man on a crate
a weathered guitar
notes whining out.
There is beauty in his voice
not of a hardened soul
but of a man that will never suffer
the constraints
of another man's chains.
down the lane there are speakers
and crowds looming
around brightly dressed performers
screaming of love lost.
Here on the corner
the man sings
pure.

2.
Looking into an everyday portal,
parked on the side of the road,
wondering what could be
on the other side.
Glorious visions of luxury
a grandiose lifestyle;
or simply,
a life apart.
Beyond that reflection
lies a seat
empty
and cold.

3.
Glass, paper, metal and wood.
A collection of material things
close to my heart.
Silently stacked on shelves
a thousand eyes have moved over,
hands have held,
caressed and thumbed through.
Lips have touched some,
and hearts were made to flutter.
They do not define me
but they often comfort me
They will outlast me.

Love and Journalism

1.
Glimpses of love are better,
wandering in and out,
viewing from afar.
Hearing of romance
and genuine contentment.
Clumsy hands
don't work well with butterflies

2.
Watching joy wander about in a glass box
Slowly sucking in its last bits of life.
To break the glass would be selfish,
to watch it suffer is agonizing.
Someday the glass will melt on its own
and I will breathe the same air.

3.
A notion comes to the end and
slapping the platen back into place
I begin again.
I wish I could have heard
a press room full of sound,
a typewritten cacophony.
Watching the paper work its way out
looking like corn hurriedly eaten at a fair
moving steadily across the roller
and eventually hearing the intermittent bell
of a line completed.
The gentle click of keys in a coffee shop
is far from this delight;
an audible storm of words
whizzing about,
making their way onto a page.
Where has the romance of journalism gone?
Quiet writers exploiting from behind lattes,
outspoken ones splattered on television.
I wish I was there when papers landed on corners
wrapped in twine.
A frenzy of nickles flew from eager hands,
and people wept
until the next edition.

Looking through windows is a curious hobby.

1.
Falling down
A nightmare
slow enough to feel the fear
of an approaching doom
miles to go
clouds obscuring the way.
I wish to be
on the platform again
happily unaware
of my own discontent
never questioning my safety
high above harm.

2.
Contentment
is dangerous
it leads to complacency
lethargy follows
then atrophy.
Being discontent
as a writer
is allowing the same fate.
Sitting alone,
working towards a transparent goal
all the while
your legs are rotting.

3.
Walking down the street
as I never do,
I came upon a fast food joint
and sat within
wondering why
I felt so tired.
I ordered a meal
onion rings
a burger
and tacos.

4.
What a lackluster moment
when the night becomes the dawn
the romance and mystery are lost
sitting here in stretched pajamas
wondering how holes have formed
on such docile clothing
An empty tea cup sits beside me
a brown ring inside.

Running Errands

I strongly dislike
people who tell me not to use
the word "hate".

I love tinted glass bottles
undetermined liquids
sodas from the orient
from the middle east
meat hanging
hand-tied twine
smells of freshly sliced peppers
the flying droplets off chopped lettuce
landing on warm cheeks
The smell of fresh bread
in the back of my nose.
a family jokes behind the counter
working together
supporting a business
loving.

How can a memory kill you?
By becoming a splinter
A shard of rotten wood
slowly pressing through
flesh, bone and soul.
You can't outrun a demon
that lies within you.