Sore Eyes, Shut.

We are nothing, in the end,

but echos in a room greater than we 

had once thought

a room filled, by large, with

the murmurings of doubt-

but what wonderful sounds we can leave!

shouts of ecstasy reverberating like 

the fluttering of a bird's wings,

startled and hurdling itself 

into the sky

or the sound of our own inner peace;

a sound like deafening stillness broken 

by a single drop falling

from the moist ceiling of a limestone 

cathedral into 

an immense 

underground 

pool.

We spend lifetimes sending out cries of pain,

sobbing to higher beings,

screaming at inanimate objects,

or staring

silent

through dry, red eyes at

the blur of humanity

silence is not true peace

but neither is the outcome

of bloody lungs,

snapped vocal cords

and voices lost.

If we can be anything than let us be

a whisper of encouragement

respect 

and love

echoing forever

and ever

in the wind.

To You.

I want to talk to you

I want to see you smile,

grimace

or cry;

but as it is

I'll never truly know

that you'll hear what I'm saying.

I'll never be able to see your face

sitting at this breakfast table

and there's not much chance

that our eyes will meet

through the dancing haze

of a bonfire.

I'll reach out

a little voice in the dark

a match thrown into the night sky

hoping to light the candle resting

in your cupped hands;

just enough light for you to take another step

just enough for you to take another breath

just enough.

My soul will forever be yours

and though my words may yellow on the page

and the epitaph above my grave

will succumb to the wind and rain,

I'll be as a light snowfall

clinging to your lashes

and you'll hear me as the fluttering pages

of an old book left open in a warm breeze.

I'll never feel your heartbeat

or see any joy in your smile

and you'll never watch my chest

rise and fall as I sleep

or see my eyes flutter open

when the morning trickles

through lace curtains

and warms my face-

but my hand will always be in yours

and my words will swirl through your mind;

each chord singing out

comforting as best they can

caressing as sweetly

and lighting another step-

always one more.

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.

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear

but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;

what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass

its breath rising and falling on the pane.

I want to write messages of love and joy,

hearts and initials in the condensation;

but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface

my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

then,

for a moment,

I feel the warmth of another hand

and I look up to see the figure

reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand

and a consciousness placing it there

but something in me is still wary;

could this thing

be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?

forming false hopes?

Another Drop of Red into the Sand

1.
This marble face
is cracking
too strong not to feel

hundreds take pictures
posing with the figure
deep in thought;
hanging off it's limbs
unaware of the
squirming
just below the surface

So long, it has been
since warm steel
worked on soft stone;
love impressed
into the wild,
veined rock

It now sits
it's stoic visage
staring off beyond
all that we can know
feeling the warmth of the sun
and the cool wind
slowly grinding it
back to nature.

2.
Worn and out of tune
the mandolin strums
from an equally weary stool
such a distant feeling
hearing the music of a faraway country
conjuring thoughts of dark cafes
and cobbled paths by a Mediterranean sea

lights dance in the water and in my mind
bouncing baubles, hanging like
tea lamps from rocking trees
a light wind blows through my thoughts
and brings my mind back
to what my eyes have been resting upon

a simple man, playing a song;
all the while, the light clinking of cups
coming to rest on saucers
smooths the ears passage
between music.

3.
Hardened flesh
grinding into wound steel
and bronze;
blood finds its way out
marking the passage of indiscernible
fingers on six vibrating strings

tears flow from self-inflicted wounds
chords of melancholy memory
wrapping about a body;
a warm blanket of
a cold past

one hand grows numb;
the other, it's fingertips
beginning to ache
growth by the death
of tissue

a person sits in the center of a room
making ripples in the air
and feeling them as they reflect back
bouncing off of keepsakes
and bare walls

hands rest on smooth, cool wood
and the vibration dissipates into
the dark corners of the room;
the tears dry into salt
and the instrument is placed back in it's case.

Growth by the death of tissue.

4.
Tonguing dry lips.
The wind is unrelenting
but on the horizon, this desert
becomes grassland.

Always on the horizon.

A thousand pairs of eyes
have seen this view-
Prosper; just beyond.

No spyglass can bring it to you
only blood and tears.

outstretched arms;
accepting

another defiance
another drop of red into the sand

another step.

Olive Oil and Talking Myself to Bed

1.
There it is
in the steaming wine sauté
meandering about the room
dancing with herbs
and spices

it's hopping about
in tiny oil splatters
and dripping artfully
onto clean
white
plates

it's in the sound of
carbon steel meeting
moist wood
a knife writing it's name
in each item
a pan sealing
it's locked within
the
moist
warmth

it's in the glistening
salad leaves
red and green;

floating in soups
wound deeply in the
knot of angel pasta
floating up from the
boiling water.

but mostly it's
in the heart and hands
of the chef

a gift of love
for the stomach
and soul.


2.
A strange thing it is
that tears should be warm
a tea brewed within your heart
and poured in celebration
of love and loss;

more like blood
than water.

A beautiful release
a punctual headache
removing glasses
rubbing the bridge of
your nose;
acknowledging
something beyond
that annoying
"upper lip" phrase.

Allowing not the wallow
but the wrapping of a blanket
letting yourself
feel
completely.



3.
Listing little lies
great intention
lacking gusto
Toilets
waste-bins
dishes;
the kitchen floor
never submitting to
hands and knees.

Always such important things
running about in a whirling mind;
plenty of time to do all that
later.

though,
just as company arrives,
a great desire consumes -
a need to do
the laundry.

Stuffed this and that sitting
on porcelain platters
can't distract fully
from the thumping
of the washing machine
and the constant clatter
of scrubbing dishes

the vacuum comes out
met with a dirty look from
the TV viewers
and the mop is shunned;
apparently some people need
the bathroom open
no questions asked

the chores end

there is nothing left
but to sit and talk;
but the world seems too still
and the conversation is
not enough to hold attention

eyes darting about the room
looking for imperfection
distraction
purpose beyond a simple chat.

Hours pass
baseball games
action movies
dirty jokes
listening to one's mind
wandering.

then the company leaves

the room falls silent

and you're left wondering
where did the time go?
You're ready to give in
let go
enjoy

instead
you fall back;
staring at the ceiling
for hours.


4.
Daydreams of conversations
yet to be uttered -
the future.
Yet in the night
dreams of nothing;
a darkness plain and unnatural
stays fixed all about
my eyes

Where are the space journeys
sea voyages
castle walls
and cobbled streets?

The void consumes me
and sleep itself becomes a symbol
a cause
of unrest.

What use is there in dreams
when the greatest adventures
and epic loves
are wrapped in cloth
and paper?

The hero
isn't you
those lovers
don't love you
and you certainly aren't
an angel
floating above the world
written below

Looking for similarities
and meaning in fiction
is a messy business
the covers of a book
will never contain more
than the covers
of your own bed.

So the attempt is made
each night
to drift off with
a new tide

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.

Snare and Piano

1.
Cold Glass
tints of green and
brown
Sleepy eyes staring
at glossy wood.
Put your feet up
on the
rail;
relax.

Looking up,
checking the
mirror
amidst a crowd
you feel
safe.

Spin around
meeting the smiles
of a thousand
unknown
possibilities-
friends;
lovers.

Another round
another laugh
tapping the oak
a coaster
slapped down
cold
sweet
and sour.


2.
Keep fighting
the inkling
to be
a silent
observer.

Make a joke;
smile into the eyes
of a
beautiful
woman
or be a bastard
make an impression
start a fight
or
drown
within
yourself.

Sometimes
you need to be
your own
inspiration.
Make your
own
scene.

3.
Blue light
comes for
me.

The night
abandons.

The sun is
hot
on my trail.