A Breath for Brief Intervals

Pause
do not take more than you receive
spend just a moment to breathe
watch the sliding shapes shift past
for a second let down the mast
feel the wind sail alongside your shoulder
watch the tip of the fire before you see it smolder
keeping hugging her close because you know someday
you may never again hold her.
Sit on the park bench for the rest of the night
your youthful smile will still be there
but under the weight of a young adult with many a care
remember the summer sunset
because of your scattered memory you are sure to forget
gaze out at the wild field behind the house
before an opposing edifice rises to break the back of every leaf and mouse
spend each fruitful night even eating the skin
do not forget that toothy grin
for it too is part of a whole
give back what you borrowed and burn what you stole.
It will all be gone too soon
so in the meantime dance and then croon
let your voice dance in another
let your dreams bleed into your sister and brother.


A limber body called life rouses from its bed
so dry your eyes and only cry once for what you know is dead
gold weighted ships line the shore
you will send them to their paths and make them for what they're for
While pointing out places on the map
avoid the thankless trap
of letting the wind blow by
without stopping to hear its passively delightful cry.

Bard of the Dark

Burning holes through in the photos
where two portals would dip into
an upright cranium
emanate shining youth and passion
which we will all lose
gain and watch the cycle
play itself again.
Sounds and movements to bring to life
an outstretched dancing hope;
caught between ourselves and the thin membrane
that keeps our hands
from feeling what really
lies in the dark.

Tumbling Columns and Lonely Bas-Reliefs

Lay to rest the suckling baby
gnawing at history's teat
at the bed of red rocked ruins,
swept by the sand
sprawled across the continents
like a hazy blanket
that stings my eyes.
Doomed,
is the child to grow old
and crumble the statues
so delicately placed beneath its
smooth feet.
Its mother is blind,
father deaf
and his vision struck with
sights of melancholy
veins pumping round cells of passion.

Save the dangling baby!
He hangs by coarse cloth threads
from a worn Doric remnants
lost and sought by centuries of sticks in sand
and chariot cars side by side.
Or watch him fall!
Some say to not let his toothless smile
fool the eye of the moral innocence inside
for the child
(so they say)
is a dirty old man
mad and too muddled with
five thousand years of plague.

The Passionate Machine

Adjourning from the splashing oil,
burnt hands
and heavy eyes
I come to the paper to breath
rather than blow my nose.
For even though the cold has beget a cold
my lungs do not breath heavy
as now I can breath freely
with a blank sheet
to fill with the maladies
beget by a hand that shakes,
waiting for the pen to fill
its space;
even when filled
with the promise of standing rigid tomorrow
like a tree cutting its own branches
so the machine can only
sputter at its trunk
in a fit of motionless excess.

Weight of Dust

Pulsing in the back of a long chain
the weight of memory
brings me to a silence
leading my eyes
back to the pinpoint figure
standing with arms at the side.
Memory fail me now
I may plead but
streaming film of days past
leaves me pushing over
the jagged rock in front of me.
Watching a video
back and forth;
the stains of a sepia summer haze
I blush to match the warm red colors
in every sunset wherein I recall a shadow.
Comfortable on the same two feet
facing forward between the grass and
an unfortunate entanglement
I have stared straight at before.
It pleases the dust on the edges
entangling the corners of this
weightless chain
to blow off the small pieces of
the dirt left by the heat emblazoned season
Weightless maybe,
but dust does carry its own burden
when a cough pushes its way
out of my mouth and into the air.

Smoke into the Horizon

Carrying my mind off to the coast,
moss covered and shell struck
in the midst of a misty cover
bound to blanket me with a comfort
even far from my bed behind
that white creaking door.
A sweet face with little
lines that run around the edges of the eyes
may be what I need,
dreaming up dances in my mind
searching for a figure to
put into a cloud shrouded picture frame.
To amuse the idle conscious pauses
makes for melancholy that lifts
my lips and pushes
the tips of my teeth
to break forth a hissing sigh
which is sure to float away into the moonlight
like smoke into the horizon.

To Be Struck, the Branch Marred by Lightning

A day tips the scales,
is the fat baby in the hand of the doctor
who says to the pressed white sheet mother
"The little one is certainly big
for his age, now is he not?"
when pockets are empty and those long stares
are gone and its as if the mirror
has been shattered to leave a beautiful
scattered scene across waning
numbers on the calendar, clock,
receipt, computer,
dream.
Yet off in the world,
some pin point dot
far from the torn flesh
and blood tipped glass
a young man laughs with his hands
raised in the naked, liberated air.
His days are the sum of only
a present push in the brain,
some sudden sense or passion that pushes
one along from one memory to the next ,
to a pleasant forgetfulness.

When the lights turn off
(closing time is coming soon,
always approaching!)
and the crowd has gone home
(they must have homes,
surely they must!)
when the bottles are dry
(the mouths are vacuums,
heated slimy vacuums!)
he will know this
better than before;
but no need to tap him on the shoulder
as he stands on his stool.
No need to let him fall while
he stands so tall and glorious,
for it is a sight to see
even while on the
glass covered pavement.

Stained Night Sound

Hey long shot-gone to shit- green pools
come take me to swoon,
dance in swaying melodies
the constant sting of beat
bouncing between my toes.
"Bite my nails and look in the eyes
close that mouth and hold the
heart back in your chest!"
My,
how the sidewalk's cracks have grown
to calls and sighs that
pass by me like
a gentle zephyr's promise;
all bathed in the other Greek fire
of lines and staffs
perched against strings and
gently pressed lips.

Wondrous Nothing

Branching veins stretching under elastic skin
to fit the external cause
that the blood sees best
for the cold months ahead.
Fluttering into the wind and across
the canvas all paint onto
is the hair that yearns to
lie between warm sheets
amongst two firm and delicate hands.
Outstretched legs lead further to
a path unseen.
No, it is not an uncertainty marred road
rather a beautiful nothing
that may find itself
crossing across
a love tinged sound
in November-stung ears.

World's End

Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.

Into the Shining Sky

Walking in search for no voice in particular,
staring at brick pavement and observing
how my feet lift alongside my legs.
Steam drifts from the cup on the bench,
as the book drapes its covers
alongside sun crisp hands.
I look into the shining sky
even though the clouds are gone.
Though my two eyes squint as I gaze upward,
I find it all the more jubilant
to see through golden light.
Fumbling through crumpled papers
to have a laugh at how lines and stanzas
faces, falls, seasons, sounds and lost thoughts
all blur into a single sentiment
which carries itself on my back
whether I dare to turn around or not.

Imbibing the Relativity

Yelling at the face of the moon;
seeing clarity in the beauty of
a thick haze that backs up against the wall.
Frigid night is all the more reason to be warm,
the jacket against arms gives pleasure
to set the hard cotton over the sofa.
The moon yells back as feet fall against carpet
and a nod gives affirmation
that we are all sharing the night sky.
From a bear's grasp,
drinking from the same glowing cup
spilling our senses onto ourselves.

On the Moon, the World Saw Its Shadow

Wash the sorrow stained eyes
with a glimmer of light in a gaze;
the messages of long thought lost bottles
have landed on sparkling shores
and the reader knows
that a lingering voice
gazes at the stars,
listening for an answer in the twilight.
May the message of bottled up burdens
ring true into the night
and fall onto ears
as a beautiful howl for hope.

Still Tongue

Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.

Autumn Notes

To try and push back the autumn air is no goal of mine. Summer air always is thick with revelry and a madness that sticks to the sweat; now that the days are cooling and the wind swirls through crackling leaves, a haze of familiarity and passion bathes in a cool river of melancholy that aims to calm the burgeoning senses that run through a young body and mind. Again, this becoming sense of romantic intrigue covers my thoughts over with warmth and delight. I wrestle with my romance though, fiddling with delicate fingers and tinkering with my own predictions for tomorrow. Nevertheless, I still smile knowing that my head will lay on fair shoulders soon again. Down the town streets I'm found, watching the clouds as I consciously catch the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement.

She holds open the door,
both walk up past the convenience store
minding the four swaying hands
feeding off of passion's demands.
Town street lights
glowing fuzz of those nights
now with a body pressed against hips
ever nearing desire and gentle lips.
Hear comes youth swelling
conscious taking all thoughts, buying and selling.
Leaving with a touch and fulfilled sentiment,
time has been youthfully spent
under the glory of dark clouds
and without cover of charcoal shrouds.