Thursday, January 22, 2009

more alone than now

Crows On The Snow, A Raven On My Shoulder

with all the bars in the world
lighting neon signs inside my head
sparking the electrical discharge of memories
and the impulse to be alone like some lost limb

just walk on
just walk on

crows on the snow, a raven on my shoulder
singing songs to one another on either side of this window,
happy to be because they know better
and i believe it when a little voice says,
you never needed anyone

questions left unanswered
along with phone calls from abandoned cities
placed to this wilderness i fashioned
from a memory of snow falling in may
and the smolder of wood smoke on the wind

the last call comes again and again
in au revoirs i said but never meant,
i know now there's no way to ever know
if even one dull lover, one frail friend waited in vain
for even one moment of many building monuments to forever
after i slipped behind the shadow of foggy recollections
and a half smile hanging in the grey light of air
without wings and suddenly aware, falling at their unwashed feet

just jesus wept
just jesus wept

and i left without one tear shed,
pulled by magnets and the moon
so far around the bend, hidden
from the maddening crowd
from those i loathed, loved, fucked, fought

(god knows i couldn't have gone another round)

north toward circles where no one revolves,
sitting perfectly still somewhere in the middle distance,
poles pulling at this life from opposite ends of the earth,
at polar opposites supine and wrapped around my spine
defining me, myself and i watch with quiet detachment
the id and ego locked in a thousand yard stare,
animal brain pacing back and forth between
wanting only shelter from the tempest building
on a horizon broken by sooty pine stabs toward sky

to build a fire with to build a fire
and the books that read me like a book,
filling the library stack spaces of a mind out of time,
the literature of 5000 years ticking away in minutes
as i ponder the the bottom of maslow's pyramid

just a need
just a need

palms turned toward flame, a primitive again,
my voice in this gentle hour like some dumb tongue
speaking in tongues,
stein, rand, woolf rapping at my branch door,
unafraid, my feminine side held close by two strong arms,
my only companion, my only company

just hold on
just hold on

alone at last and dying for a drink, a smoke, a light, a love,
all on loan in a black city without buildings to block the stars'
shine upon this midnight dig, manic to bury who you knew
and make myself again from the mud that the rain
before me buried in the dirt beneath my knees,
praying for the strength to stand on my own,
listening for my maker's voice but hearing only
a thundering chorus of voices vaguely familiar,

just stand tall
just stand tall

upon this earth, all lit up and filled with laughter,
and search the dusk, the night, the dark,
the forest for the trees and climb to see myself
digging a hole straight through this globe spinning

around the bend,
seemingly slowly though so soon out of sight,
leaving only the sound of glasses raising, voices fading,
crows feet around my eyes left looking
for black wings already lifted from snow,
the shiver-chill-shudder of their absence
creeping shoulders left bare without their raven

alone at last and lost
somewhere between here and there
too far gone to begin again
too far gone to stop the end
so decide for this one moment

just slow down
just slow down

and pour from a bottle of memories
to toast the neon ghosts i've left forever
haunting, illuminating a person only the past could recognize

here's to you and to whomever i once was,
though dark was the night
beneath that lit glow, in a bar
full of other voices, other rooms
more alone than now

just with me
just with me

and crows on the snow,
a raven on my shoulder

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

the sea refuses no river

Almost Overlooked

for the sake of this,
subtract the sky

let clouds settle upon me
like slow fog descending

brushed by rain,
this skin,
forsaken for

running rivulets
lost to oceans

leaving the salt of me,
i become sky

there, then gone

Something Like Nostalgia

A feeling,
something like nostalgia,
paints a picture of a memory,

her in pointillism

a song on the radio
in and out of static,

rain on a windshield
and the rhythm of the wipers.

The memory of her


then gone,


then gone,

something like nostalgia.

photo: 'city rain' by bill sosin

never give up

Like The Waves

... like the waves,
throwing myself against the rocks


and again...

... like the waves,

photo: 'waves against rocks' by Herdis Maria Siegert

get in the ring

Runes From A Cachinnating Pugilist

In the ring and on the ropes
But still bobbing, jabbing, weaving

Laughing in the face of
Black eyes,
Boxed ears,
Split lips

This cachinnating pugilist
Spitting blood,
Spilling guts,
Sparring runes

Photograph by: Michael Brennan/Corbis

in search of lost time

Where The Days Go When They Are Done

lost in thought,
hanging from ceilings,
climbing up walls,
crawling across floorboards

in search of lost time,
i stumble upon a room within a room,
where the days go when they are done

there amidst the cobwebs of wasted hours,
a closet full of broken promises
along with things i meant to say to you

sincere apologies and whispered sweet nothings
weathered beyond all reason, encrusted in the silence of rust

so i sit still
lost in thought
in this room within a room,
in a rocking chair
carved from the hollow wood of regrets,
well aware but still wondering
where the days go when they are done

Sunday, January 4, 2009

the march of time

Soldier On

Soldier on I tell myself

You made it through the worst of it

Tired in the wake of the struggle

To lift my eyes, greet the dawn, say goodbye

To start again


Not so much in reflection

More in stupor

Stultified by the lives I've already led

The first day of summer boyhood summers one after another
The chaos of coming of age like the recoil of a rifle startling
The wilderness of insecurity swallowing time with no accounting
The seasons spent in vineyards rife with love and wine-soaked dreams
The lived-in years of great expectations and grim realities

Stupified I survived it all

Staring out this window at a world frozen for the moment

Not wishing my life away anymore or pining for the past

Willing but not ready to soldier on

Knowing the march of time will take me


Saturday, January 3, 2009

almost scandinavian

Cold Ghosts

The sky shimmers that certain blue above a field of snow
Three crows circle without a sound below a low slung sun
There then gone gusts of wind ski and surf whitecap drifts
Here inside a warm house the sudden icy draft of memory
Her winterlong apparitions persist to haunt his nordic heart
He suffers her cold ghosts in shivers stoic, almost scandinavian

memory boxes

More Reminders Than Momentos

rooting through the cramped attic spaces of my mind
filled with memory boxes i have carried with me,

finding a curled postcard here,
a wooden nickle keepsake there
to pocket for some almost poem
or just the warmth of recollection,

more reminders than mementos, that this life is more
than just children building snowmen in the rain

Friday, January 2, 2009

for per petterson

Out Stealing Horses

we could be out stealing horses,
but instead we harness our days
to a song for staying in

slow notes unfolding across endless open fields
outside these winter hung windows

inside safe and sound
we watch, we wait

eyes half closed
and dreaming
of july's symphony of heat and light

as we languish here
amidst december's children
holding fast to a lullaby
and the reins of rocking horses

inspired by the novel
'out stealing horses' by per petterson

from Azalea to Zinnia

Lasting Impressions

Press these flowers I picked for you
Between the pages of the book I have yet to write.
Let their bloom perfume pulp fictions
In place of long left rotting though novel ideas,
Buried like bulbs beneath the dead leaf prose of autumn.
Let their petals print an indelible description
Of a femme fatale looking through frosted windows
For a figure planting plots in the grey of winter gardens,
So come spring and the start of new chapters,
The forget-me-nots trapped between pages
Still waiting to be written, now long forgotten,
Will give way to new bouquets from loving hands
Of wildflowers waiting to be found in fields
Along with words from a book of promises for you
Authored over a lifetime of lasting impressions.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

in orbit, around her

A Jealous Venus

gripping the moon,
leverage is everything
when climbing the stars

my one hand waving free,

for her a hoist
to break loose
from gravity

solar wind blowing through her hair
distant starlight catching her eyes

even an ever-expanding, bible black universe
cannot contain her heavenly beauty

a jealous venus spins away beyond our sight
seeing the sun has begun to revolve around my love