Real and Imagined.

 

Better to break bones than to endure the loss of perceived love. 

Better to bleed internally to keep warm than to seek out comfort in another at the risk of feeling too vulnerable.

Better to die quickly than endure the memory of lost things.

What a way to live, to feel as though you should be gone already. 

Why am I taking up this space, rather than...

Why am I here when they are not?

Why was his voice, a voice of calm, clarity, vision, love, and compassion gone

and I'm still here. 

Why was his voice, one of crazed humor and fearless wit, gone from this world 

and I'm still here. 

Why will my family be taken from me slowly, in front of my eyes

and I will still be here to endure it ("if I'm lucky," they say...)

It's hard to be grateful for a time yet to be spent when all I can think of is the pain of future lashes.

I want to be grateful and present and standing in a glass pool with no ripples, 

but my mind is always far away and I am standing in the middle of an angry sea.

Elephant Graveyard

When I was young, I learned that 

there is a place 

where elephants go to die.

As a boy 

I thought that this was sad;

but now, as welcome grey 

wanders around my ears,

I have realized-

I don't think that they went there

knowing 

that they would expire-

but more like that man 

who climbed a very high mountain-

he,

and they, 

went

to live.

Sometimes I forget why. 

Why I'm walking

stumbling,

clawing, and

dying for an idea that even I sometimes question.

I'm doing it to live

and that's enough for now.

--------------

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Walk-In

Some things don't stay in your closet-

hitching rides on old baseball caps

and long, moth eaten winter coats.

Those bones were thought to have turned to dust

long ago

swept away by broom or

that they had floated away,

through old walls, down dark stairways

and into a fiery furnace

deep

deep

below.

In truth, many do;

disappearing into the sea of time,

taken away grain by grain

with each mornings tide

however,

most remains,

the ones most foul and

most telling-

the ones shoved furthest away:

creep about in the shadows

waiting silently

and steadily;

breathlessly

and hungrily,

watching-

So when you sit at the head of the family table

you won't wonder why everyone is staring;

you'll feel the skeleton fingers running though your hair-

for no closet is deep enough.

Grotesqueish

Mortality as an art form-

exploring the art of death

as a memento moray

and as a curiosity.

Thoughts of jumping,

cutting,

swallowing

and letting light into one's own mind.

Bashing in the cats scull,

shooting a squirrel off of a fence or

flying through the guardrail

tires still spinning in the still air.

The dead are a touchy lot

their remnants always causing intrigue

but the living always take the blame for bad taste

Considering the beauty of the rosy still waters

surrounding Marat in his tub,

or the pickled shark of Mr. Hirst.

Morbid curiosity.

An artists folly.

A Simple Portrait

Cinnamon.

Dark chocolate.

The smell of rosemary in butter and lemon juice.

Steinbeck,

Hornby,

Gaiman,

Austen,

Thompson and

Kerouac.

Rainy days;

muggy nights.

Black and White Photos;

packages in the mail;

hand written letters.

High heels and lace;

Johnny Walker whiskey;

cash to burn.

Blue eyes.

Wavy Hair.

Warm Smiles.

The smell of a Hotel.

Being barefoot on carpet.

Boots on the Beach.

Love in my heart.

Tears on my cheeks.

Tired hands.

Dylan,

Cooke,

Johnson,

Baez and

Seeger.

St. Vincent Millay and

Collins.

Sanding wood;

brushing away sawdust with an old brush.

Smelling the nape of her neck;

the feeling before you've kissed for the first time.

Hands gliding like kites out of car windows

Hearts on Sleeves;

Squinted eyes to the sun.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

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.

Eastern Shore

Hands slipping from cotton and leather

sliding along old knotted wood

creaking in the breeze.

The ocean stands in the distance

grey, impending, but oddly silent;

its violent waves falling on deaf shores.

The seabirds are little more than kites, hanging there above;

even their fluttering feathers and open beaks

lack their usual light hearted revelry.

This happy place is now more like a fortress, perched on the edge of the world

and I am small, standing at its gates

the cold air stinging my narrowed eyes,

and the water beginning to lap at my feet.

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.

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.

Not yet through the woods, let alone over the mountain.

1.
Cold porcelain stained and solitary.
For the last hour it has been constantly raided;
it's contents carefully removed then refilled.
I worship at its lip, and give thanks.
For without its offering of warm liquid,
I would never last through the night.

2.
Memories still punish my soul.
The same thoughts that breed anger and resent
are the best bits of my history.
I am better for recounting them
and yet my mind lashes me;
leaving deep wounds on my back.
Do I enjoy the punishment? the Suffering?
Repeating the reel of yesterday,
a worn home movie of a violent past.
It hardens my resolve, mistakes not to be repeated;
each time the movie plays I see more hope,
flashes between the frames.

3.
Anti-coagulant shoved into an already hemorrhaging heart
breeds more than heartburn and ulcers.
Blindsided by a warm past waiting for closure,
not a snake but a subconscious looming in the tall-grass.
I'm out of tears, for once they do not come so easily
there is more pain from the lack of emotion.
The water that was once under the bridge
is drowning me.

4.
We need to be knocked about,
we need to break and bleed.
There is no lesson in idling.
There are no calluses from daydreams,
only well-honed regret and atrophy.
There is temptation in avoiding the world;
escaping the stress and strain.
With smooth, soft hands comes naivete.

5.
To heal is to welcome the salty tide;
memories washing over open sores.
In and out, euphoria and burning agony
tears accompanying all sensations.
The sores become scars and pock marks;
the sea hardens your flesh.
With time the scars fade from your eyes
but they always remain on your soul.

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.

Cheeky

1.
Laying in the grass
staring up at the many constellations
named after glorious tales
goddesses, battles
and Native American rituals;
they are signs of fallen heroes
points of light that carried sailors home
and yet all I do is sit
thinking of the patterns of moles
on past lovers backs;
I feel a rain dance coming on.

2.
Solitude is not solace.
Solitude should be tolerated;
appreciated in small doses
and praised for its restful ways
but never accepted as the norm
never allowed to stay long
for to share one's thoughts is joy
to have them accepted and appreciated is love
and love is solace.

3.
The feeling of approaching sleep is comforting;
the confirmation that I'm still alive
and the realization of the stricken hour.
The air itself seems to become lazy
and despite the shielding of carved glass,
my eyes have been bombarded enough.
It is then, by way of shuffling feet
I find cool tiles, and introduce grinder to beans
and grounds to steaming water;
the smell of stimulant, fills the room.
Wide eyes and racing blood,
more confirmation of my humanity.

4.
A turntable moves my fingers better.
Television steals my gaze,
the radio asks for money
and people need too much attention.
The crackles of a record put me into a trance
sharpening my imagination
tuning out the vacuum.
Flipping the vinyl every few songs
is a necessary break;
a chance to stretch and pour a new cup.
Keeping all of my actions personal and tactile.
So there I sit,
listening,
typing,
turning,
pouring
and repeating.

5.
Poetry is nonsense
it's just a jumble;
some broken sentences
wandering about
a vague, florid mess.
Poetry is literary misdirection;
a word-smith's slight of hand.
Veiling a lack of structure
with pretty words;
there's never a point.
Moreover, you will be poor
and will have no following;
you're images are easily forgotten,
plagiarized in greater works
Write a novel they said,
people get novels.

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.