They yearn for Old GloryAnd at the ember of a beacon, her story, her emblem razed and former to glory's prone. Prominence, she raised by an arm and lambent glow. She sluice for their hordes and athirst gait that pressed upon her. Their endless attain, where freedom coursed and ended in flame.Of promise earned. Like destiny, yearned; where a dream is brazen, still And the way it had shone.
Faith around her FingerThe hollow, perfect circle.A ladies perceptionmoldingher influential sphereand my will to consolidateher finger-blinding likemadness won't remember. I sank into my chestpounding regresslyto still my heartlike thedeepest drum.I cast wearily, and fecklessuponwrath so recklessas a kiss without warning deceit,lashed outfrom its hollow mask like the cruelestfeatureis a foolshe had leadand a taste of his desire.
Global-Eyed-Nation Surveillance and world order. My ipseity.
The Winter Balladclaiming theskywas alabaster mist'sof many cloudsnowgathered graywhere wintertoiledatheavens frayfelled anearthO're frozenfearfrom silkenmeshes to flurryfro'and gelidshanksthatweather cold an icy browfor whettedtearsand solstice weptinto theiryears
Love is a Memory I am the callus over your feme sole, where once we bed as lions. vestigial voracious our nostalgic clash that battle breath and sleuth for each lunguncastrated, like airwaswroth and desperate.
Sunlight and Torpid Bliss.Carless nature. Pessimistic ofalabaster columns,tinctured into azures gradation and penumbra façades.Thoughtless as wings to strumthe vocal air,nor whim of its limbs.I care not about darkness aged onto the grass;Not for all the quiet hoursof a greyand thoughtless, memory.
UnawareWhen you are two and five and tenyou are unaware ––of the cactus in the windowsill,how, fragile, each quill bendsand breaks and falls apart.––Twelve years later, on a Tuesday,you dream about a boywho bumps his headon an iron slate and you wakein a cold sweat.You are twelve when you arealways bumping shoulders.Twenty-two years of Thursday.There is nothing at all.And you wonder (andyou wonder why)each time you wake.The cactus in the window bleedswith you when you bump it.No one ever mentionedfrightened things bite.So you have always been unaware.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the KnightWhose armor shines so bright.Give me the Knight,Whose armor is dull and broken.Whose horse is weary,Whose heart is heavy.Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,For that dragon has done nothing,And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,But wants to free the dragon,Who does not wish to marry her savior--Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,Who wants to live and to learn.For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,But to see the world and live in the light.Do not give me the evil dragon,Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.No, give me the dragon who is weary,Who longs for the freedom of the sky,Whose leg is burdened with chains,And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,Lest h
SaturdayWe slept on the floor when you drank.– Like worried puppiestoo small to reach the bed,and sat with our backs to the wallby the bathroom while you showered,we hid car keys,and telephones.Peering over ledges,I watched your listless eyeswander to windowsthinking of your mother and marriage,toes curled around the coffee table corner,and we begged you to sleep.Zach cleaned the sinks,the rugs and the ashtrays,capped the bottles and placed themhigh on the shelves.You woke to cartoons,a headache, a freshpack of cigarettes. –We never talked on Sunday mornings.
Oaki knew a girl once,with an oak heart and guarded hands(gloved from touch)but sheuncrossed her ankles,let naked fingertipstouch well-read lips, andher heart kind of turnedinto ash.i miss that girl,with the oak heart -she was tougher.
Garden of DelightsMy garden of delights,infested with such pretty, twisted things,mandrake root and toadstoolsand glistering ravens' wings.I planted belladona,such a melancholy crop,and grew poison ivy in blistered vines -a haven in the bogs.Skullcap grew amongst the weeds,its slithering, slivered, ragged leavesa home to noxious wormsand mealy nettle-bugs.I gathered withered poppies,a delicious apertif,and brewed brackish tea from bagworm seedsand garnished it with slugs.Brambles thrived between the stones -the hedges overblown with ash and boneto welcome all my guests,who hunched and huddled in the dampcovered up with dark and dank,they bobbed and hung their withered headsand supped on wolfbane tea and griddle-thorns.How nice to know they all are dead!
negativeI feel like a doubleexposure –transparent emotionshashed one on top of theother. It’s confusing to look at, isn’t it? I feel confused.Two of the same face atdifferent angles,too many limbsto count –this picture of meisn’t fit for humaneyes.
soft as waterthis is the funeralwhere grey ash spreads & in the air, a traffic of kites stream across the horizon,on firethe ash of sails, ghostly non existent,sails set wide, slicing across the Hudson riverthe water heals itselfrescinding wounds, sowing back together the places where edges meet, and we become soft as waterdoves sow the horizon thus, weaving through the kites on fire& the lovers on fireand the burns and burns and ink stainson quiet carpetseverything became a silent memory buried under gravesin the cemetery sails bloom in deathly renaissance.overpopulation expands exponentially underground, in empty spaces(between the sand, rivers, dust storms)waves recede and seagulls echounspoken sadnessand the shivering saline sea is roughunquenched, tumultuous.(baring our naked spines against the asphaltof the shore, the seagulls soaring echomore truth than we'll ever know)they know about:recessions, receding shorelines and horizons,and men retreating within,
you can't have it allBut you can have eating wild grapes and their skin like beetle wingscocooned in bruises. You can have swings that go so high you kicka hole in the clouds. You can have chickens following you through the front doorand the cat’s gift to say, Look, I am taking care of you.You can have happiness, but tempered asyour first taste of wine when you hid your puckering facebecause you were eight years old and dangerous.You can have a touch you blush for, ferret hands dancing,small and terrifying and knowledgable.You can have an aspiration of “us” held on one stool leg, darting breaths butnever admitting to dreams, to a stew of practicality.You can talk to her, sometimes,and even mean something.You can have the book you stole after she stumbled,and “that” word sank into your hands. You can’t cure cancer,but you can have two sets of spoons in the same sinkalthough she’s only touched the one you lent her,the one you didn’t expe
A White Wedding Your flowing gown ofWhite Lies.