gardens

words
can’t make a notion
true
or less opaque
if–
of any worthwhile
depth
most thoughts
of consequence
are best
understood
in the unrehearsed honesty
of abstraction
best heard
in the echo-hollow
lingering
between us
most souls
are best
known
in the dark soil
of our silent gardens

lavender flowers

the bible
would have been more
interesting
had we been told
whom, it was–
that jesus was fucking
tho the fables’ lessons
would fail us
falling (further) into question
if one, above others, were chosen
tho it’s also true enough
that love, chooses us
for its desert cross
I wrote a squalid poem
one lonely evening
for the poor, divine bastard
aye, for all of us
tho I’d omitted
the lavender flowers
I’d seen–
blooms swaying
in the sweltering winds’
thirsty infinity
hopeful
and
defiant

daydream

you come to me, love
at these quiet times
kaleidoscope colors
leaves falling
into the wet darkness
then laying still
evening’s solitude
reminds
aren’t we beautiful
walking, together?
the cafe-sidewalk
memories spinning
anyone watching
can plainly see
our love’s
perfection
and then
an intruder
arrives
with his hand
on your leg
and more–
smiles, laughter
and wine
in vino veritas
and I am reminded
that I am
the intruder
in this daydream
my love
so, it ends

promise

To see only his eyes, black and narrow, without any shine, any reflection, from outside, nor within, you wouldn’t know if he were alive, or waxen. We were high on mescaline, and I watched Leo change from nothing, to something, a dark King, and then back to nothing, but colored blood-red this time. At least that was what I thought I’d seen. His brother was there with us as well, in the second floor square-building apartment, one of the invisible people, and I still can’t remember his face; I couldn’t remember it if I was staring right at it. His mother lived there too, some nights, but I’d never seen her, to forget. I thought on it later, stumbling home amid and between the owl-screech, puddle-ripple street-people. Someone had named him, ‘Leonard’. Someone had held him, daydreamed in yellow sunbeams of all the possibility he held, a whispered hope to escape the aching-gray suffocation of this place, and then someone– had forgotten their promise.

misconstrued

the whole
of the trouble
the entirety–
of the conundrum
is that all has been written
poetry, scrawled with a crow’s quill
dipped, scooped, and swirled
in black-blood bent-dagger wounds
each poem, an eleven-rose bouquet
gifted–
the whole
of the trouble
the entirety–
of our pounding-drum conundrum
is that all has been written
the bleeding riddles, unsolved
whistle-fool summer-moon serenades
the words to which, mostly forgotten
left to memory’s
falling-leaf malfeasance
crisp, and spinning
wind-strewn
misconstrued

shithead

This time last year, I had no costume to wear to the party. I found a spare toilet seat I had laying around in the garage, wondering for a moment why I would have such an item kept as a spare, but just for a moment, and then unwrapped its plastic and put it on. The seat rested on my shoulders with my head poking out of the hole. A dark stocking with knots tied in it graced my cranium, and I wrote, ‘out of order’ on the front of a white shirt made to look like a sign.

All evening, glisten-bosom women in purple-sparkle masks and snug, black dresses called me, ‘shithead’, and they brought me more drinks.

“Hey shithead! Want another drink?” they’d say, and I’d answer, drunk and smiling, the bowl-seat wobbling on my shoulders.

three words

What a burden for three words to carry–
on their starved, rib-shown backs
rust-iron stones, chipped, dented, and squared
rock-slide rubble remnants
tucked, and jammed
into every frayed

and bursting

blue-denim pocket
the buts, the pointed condition(s)
the held memories, the indignation(s)
What a burden for three words to carry–
Is it any wonder
the words often falter?
Is it any wonder
lover(s)?

gilded-glimmer exile

“It was before the train accident, when my husband died..”

She went on to tell a different story, one that had nothing to do with her husband. I half-listened, watching to see the silouhette memories of him walking beside her, reflecting in shining, mosquito-pond pupils, neither deep nor shallow, but teeming. She quickly drowned the few held remembrances of him in the black water, again, as she kept on talking, the valediction of her words pounding forward, riding rusty steel wheels toward sunset’s gilded-glimmer exile.

Late December

“I’ll be back in town in late December. I’ve got to stop by to see you. You’ve been so much help.”

Her voice over the phone carried her decades, each a splintered-wood ship tossing on blue-waves’ ebbing persistence. Hoarse and smoky, she insisted.

She told me her daughter worked at the corner bar in town. All I had to do was to mention her name– and my drinks would be free.

“How old are you?” she asked, a question which was fifty questions, but really just one, and not the question asked.

I had to think on it.