You Can't Go Home Again
there was a melody
and it played so sweetly,
hovering above a childhood me
and the suggestion of Autumn air
ushered in by a sure descending dusk
of a September day slowly closing its eyes
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
Grope (for WMG)
we rise through the thrashing of our births and wade the mud-rise in our mouths
across the calendars of Winter feral cold, Spring soft cautious sublime, Summer stone lizard heat,
Autumn color forgetting almost every August, and so august we are as we climb through old bones,
propping Faberge dreams on the tips of our intentions and balance our will and our worth all at once
as we stand in the sands that were made in the time we stood dumbfounded by our own existence,
those mountains before us now beneath our feet were never as much obstacle as our uncertain selves
we rise through the thrashing of our births and wade the mud-rise in our mouths
across the calendars of Winter feral cold, Spring soft cautious sublime, Summer stone lizard heat,
Autumn color forgetting almost every August, and so august we are as we climb through old bones,
propping Faberge dreams on the tips of our intentions and balance our will and our worth all at once
as we stand in the sands that were made in the time we stood dumbfounded by our own existence,
those mountains before us now beneath our feet were never as much obstacle as our uncertain selves
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
Of Goya, Of Borges, Of Pixinguinha
through these blinds
a painted snake of light, in sections,
crawls across a shadow wall with the sun
to escape the cold of this white hot winter -
the same sun bathing colonial window boxes
across the tropics, overhead in a southern hemisphere's summer,
and I am bitten by this daydream - of Goya, of Borges, of Pixinguinha -
venom sweating sand, warm rain and cigar smoke into this February room
through these blinds
a painted snake of light, in sections,
crawls across a shadow wall with the sun
to escape the cold of this white hot winter -
the same sun bathing colonial window boxes
across the tropics, overhead in a southern hemisphere's summer,
and I am bitten by this daydream - of Goya, of Borges, of Pixinguinha -
venom sweating sand, warm rain and cigar smoke into this February room
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
Anodyne Of Air
mellifluous was the morning
no nicotine crutch hobbling
the rhythm of soft samba light
pure gesso snow falling
in 2/4 time
gray anatomy ,
a wallflower lining the horizon,
resigned
the Goya reds, yellows, pinks, greens
and even blues find favor
in this new canvas I don
dawn's sweet tones
painting possibilities
with a cardinal's song
in the cold anodyne of air
i breathe sweetly at last
mellifluous was the morning
no nicotine crutch hobbling
the rhythm of soft samba light
pure gesso snow falling
in 2/4 time
gray anatomy ,
a wallflower lining the horizon,
resigned
the Goya reds, yellows, pinks, greens
and even blues find favor
in this new canvas I don
dawn's sweet tones
painting possibilities
with a cardinal's song
in the cold anodyne of air
i breathe sweetly at last
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
Gutters
there's a parade -
there's always a parade
years piling up
against the barricades
held in a loose and tenuous grip
by a thousand failing men
turn corners
turn calendars
turn channels
and keep your memories
in technicolor if you wish,
for the nights you cannot count
are forever black and white
filled with forgotten teenage boys
turned grey by middling age
and left to clean the debris
of abandoned fanfare
littering gutters
there's a parade -
there's always a parade
years piling up
against the barricades
held in a loose and tenuous grip
by a thousand failing men
turn corners
turn calendars
turn channels
and keep your memories
in technicolor if you wish,
for the nights you cannot count
are forever black and white
filled with forgotten teenage boys
turned grey by middling age
and left to clean the debris
of abandoned fanfare
littering gutters
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
How A Heart Sings (for George Baker)
the air is rich,
warm
slow to come,
but there
hovering,
carrying comfort
to a sterile room
breathing life
into languid blood
still cold from a curious sleep
where she
ran fingers through your hair
and whispered,
not yet
the heat of her breath
still lingering across your face,
as you awake
the sun more sure
in a sky hiding her
and a waxing crescent
oh, how a heart sings
for here, for her, for now
lingering a while longer
in the timely warmth
of a winter reminded
of a coming spring
the air is rich,
warm
slow to come,
but there
hovering,
carrying comfort
to a sterile room
breathing life
into languid blood
still cold from a curious sleep
where she
ran fingers through your hair
and whispered,
not yet
the heat of her breath
still lingering across your face,
as you awake
the sun more sure
in a sky hiding her
and a waxing crescent
oh, how a heart sings
for here, for her, for now
lingering a while longer
in the timely warmth
of a winter reminded
of a coming spring
Another Canvas / new poems 2011
And Tomorrow
morning star reveals the silent, slow march of elephant years
failing grey memories sit hushed in the dull green of matted rushes
fogged dew reminds the breaking day of yesterday's clear cut choices
another new sun warms the stones above the buried cold blue of remembrance
morning star reveals the silent, slow march of elephant years
failing grey memories sit hushed in the dull green of matted rushes
fogged dew reminds the breaking day of yesterday's clear cut choices
another new sun warms the stones above the buried cold blue of remembrance
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Collapse Into Now
i hide myself inside glass and beam
of this old house
from feelings i left
to weather beyond recognition
in places of impermanence,
in pieces scattered
in paradises left wanting
but not from your love
nor from the wind's reminders
of the tender, timely shelter of your arms
but forever from
the walls i fashioned
to forget the fall
but never the collapse into now
where i am safe and warm,
secure inside a house your heart
has made a home where i can hide
inside your love from memories
of a howling, hollow rain
no architecture can forget
i hide myself inside glass and beam
of this old house
from feelings i left
to weather beyond recognition
in places of impermanence,
in pieces scattered
in paradises left wanting
but not from your love
nor from the wind's reminders
of the tender, timely shelter of your arms
but forever from
the walls i fashioned
to forget the fall
but never the collapse into now
where i am safe and warm,
secure inside a house your heart
has made a home where i can hide
inside your love from memories
of a howling, hollow rain
no architecture can forget
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Topophilia
we were here
i'm sure of it
smoke on our shoulders
sun in our throats
we sang
swaying with the trees
glimmering teeth smiling
the western sky holding us one last time
so laugh with me
look for the lost years hitchhiking back roads
the maps we burned will never tell our secrets
forgotten promises still ride the wind somewhere unseen
listen closely to the water we are
the erosion of all memories but one
we were here
i'm sure of it
we were here
i'm sure of it
smoke on our shoulders
sun in our throats
we sang
swaying with the trees
glimmering teeth smiling
the western sky holding us one last time
so laugh with me
look for the lost years hitchhiking back roads
the maps we burned will never tell our secrets
forgotten promises still ride the wind somewhere unseen
listen closely to the water we are
the erosion of all memories but one
we were here
i'm sure of it
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Waking A Saint
those old ghosts
still slip beneath my skin,
suck warmth from my blood,
marrow from my bones
i vomit,
i shit,
i spit
shake again and again,
trying to break their will
to wander my thoughts
where they undermine my memories
of a sun too swollen to set,
that still sheds light upon a heart
beating back specters of sadness
lurking in the shadows of a soul,
warming blue hands caught in the grip
of a world without hope still haunting
the skeletal remains of a broken
but still breathing man expelling
demons through the condensation
of his breath upon cold ghosts,
waking a saint to hold the flame
of his spirit up in the face of their dead wind
those old ghosts
still slip beneath my skin,
suck warmth from my blood,
marrow from my bones
i vomit,
i shit,
i spit
shake again and again,
trying to break their will
to wander my thoughts
where they undermine my memories
of a sun too swollen to set,
that still sheds light upon a heart
beating back specters of sadness
lurking in the shadows of a soul,
warming blue hands caught in the grip
of a world without hope still haunting
the skeletal remains of a broken
but still breathing man expelling
demons through the condensation
of his breath upon cold ghosts,
waking a saint to hold the flame
of his spirit up in the face of their dead wind
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
The Dust In Our Hearts
we slip away
from one another
out an open window
through a door ajar
our footprints
are erased by weather
over an open field
under a sky aloft
and we are left with
rain on our faces
sun in our eyes
wind in our heads
to wander crooked streets, unmarked paths
hoping gravity will take leave of our feet
to realize dreams of flight
and our fancy to go home again
knowing all to well in our waking state
that we are bound to walk alone
these failing, furtive memory lanes
where our ghosts remain, remind,
remember the way it really was
not the way we wish
well before we slip away
from one another
long after our footprints
are erased by weather
leaving only
rain on our faces
sun in our eyes
wind in our heads
the dust in our hearts
slipping through our hands
we slip away
from one another
out an open window
through a door ajar
our footprints
are erased by weather
over an open field
under a sky aloft
and we are left with
rain on our faces
sun in our eyes
wind in our heads
to wander crooked streets, unmarked paths
hoping gravity will take leave of our feet
to realize dreams of flight
and our fancy to go home again
knowing all to well in our waking state
that we are bound to walk alone
these failing, furtive memory lanes
where our ghosts remain, remind,
remember the way it really was
not the way we wish
well before we slip away
from one another
long after our footprints
are erased by weather
leaving only
rain on our faces
sun in our eyes
wind in our heads
the dust in our hearts
slipping through our hands
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Leaves Tremble
these days
even the autumn leaves tremble
indiscernibly at first
but as the brittle night breaks
against dawn's stone light
the shudder of dew betrays
the slightest of movements
to an unfolding eastern sky
safe between cotton barricades
we ride out fall's first frost
listening closely to the sighs
of once flush foliage's soft capitulation
as we steel ourselves
for the winter we know
is waiting with His still breath
beneath the rustle of dead leaves
carpeting nearly forgotten summer lawns
and so to save
the memory of once lingering heat
we bury our love
under our dreams still rife
with the colour of spring
and prepare to sleep away
the days where even decay
forgets its own mortality
these days
even the autumn leaves tremble
indiscernibly at first
but as the brittle night breaks
against dawn's stone light
the shudder of dew betrays
the slightest of movements
to an unfolding eastern sky
safe between cotton barricades
we ride out fall's first frost
listening closely to the sighs
of once flush foliage's soft capitulation
as we steel ourselves
for the winter we know
is waiting with His still breath
beneath the rustle of dead leaves
carpeting nearly forgotten summer lawns
and so to save
the memory of once lingering heat
we bury our love
under our dreams still rife
with the colour of spring
and prepare to sleep away
the days where even decay
forgets its own mortality
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
A Strange Boat
from a house above a weathered bluff
i wave goodbye to the days that i have lost
sitting here perched upon the edge of the world -
piano notes like little clouds of almost melody
drift over me like sotto voce apparitions,
their grey voices barely audible in the din of dim lamp light -
brothers and sisters in exile, dead memories
of decades that have come and gone, failing me,
leaving only their vaguely familiar fingers' braille sting upon my neck -
trains pass in darkness carrying distant thoughts
along tracks that parallel but never cross a lifetime passing by
under waxing, waning moons and their whispers of secret suns -
daughters, gilded in their mother's askew image
and dreaming of a far off, feral, ephemeral father,
are left to wait in vain the return of his sure wind at their backs -
fortune finds a compass, a star, a captain, a sail,
only to drown in an ocean while looking for a raindrop,
our pride protests our own small failings then smiles -
nervous laughter forgets itself by dawn breaking fragile
and forgives the long black night her pining siren's song,
wipes away the softly kissed dew of never having done -
a strange boat, this Time unanchored, adrift, amiss,
found from time to time broken and battered in memory's shallows
where bon voyage is nothing but a goodbye clinging to a lie -
there, amidst waves of 'what was' still crashing, only splinters of regret
left to languish along with the days that i have lost
sitting here perched upon the edge of the world
from a house above a weathered bluff
i wave goodbye to the days that i have lost
sitting here perched upon the edge of the world -
piano notes like little clouds of almost melody
drift over me like sotto voce apparitions,
their grey voices barely audible in the din of dim lamp light -
brothers and sisters in exile, dead memories
of decades that have come and gone, failing me,
leaving only their vaguely familiar fingers' braille sting upon my neck -
trains pass in darkness carrying distant thoughts
along tracks that parallel but never cross a lifetime passing by
under waxing, waning moons and their whispers of secret suns -
daughters, gilded in their mother's askew image
and dreaming of a far off, feral, ephemeral father,
are left to wait in vain the return of his sure wind at their backs -
fortune finds a compass, a star, a captain, a sail,
only to drown in an ocean while looking for a raindrop,
our pride protests our own small failings then smiles -
nervous laughter forgets itself by dawn breaking fragile
and forgives the long black night her pining siren's song,
wipes away the softly kissed dew of never having done -
a strange boat, this Time unanchored, adrift, amiss,
found from time to time broken and battered in memory's shallows
where bon voyage is nothing but a goodbye clinging to a lie -
there, amidst waves of 'what was' still crashing, only splinters of regret
left to languish along with the days that i have lost
sitting here perched upon the edge of the world
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Burden of Dreams
the hand, floating,
grasps at air
thick with desire,
turgid with the fear of failure
hanging
in limbo
holding
a heart
the fragile seed pod mind
behind its motion
breaking open
above water
not land
wondering
why an unexpected wind
seems so distant in the face of desperation
the will to carry on
like a grip slipping,
yet still grasping
to hold onto
the burden of dreams
the hand, floating,
grasps at air
thick with desire,
turgid with the fear of failure
hanging
in limbo
holding
a heart
the fragile seed pod mind
behind its motion
breaking open
above water
not land
wondering
why an unexpected wind
seems so distant in the face of desperation
the will to carry on
like a grip slipping,
yet still grasping
to hold onto
the burden of dreams
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Hug and Hum
these hours get late,
the birds of broad daylight are gone
and night smears cold, black acrylics
between the charcoal impressions of trees
here is where i hide
dark thoughts and desperate days,
behind waned moonlight and leaded glass,
in the deep inhale, the slow exhale of tobacco
drunk kiss i keep to myself
from sober stars, the so serious sun
and pull close the hug and hum mumbling
this lullaby of warm red wine to sing me to sleep
these hours get late,
the birds of broad daylight are gone
and night smears cold, black acrylics
between the charcoal impressions of trees
here is where i hide
dark thoughts and desperate days,
behind waned moonlight and leaded glass,
in the deep inhale, the slow exhale of tobacco
drunk kiss i keep to myself
from sober stars, the so serious sun
and pull close the hug and hum mumbling
this lullaby of warm red wine to sing me to sleep
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
I Am The Cosmos
these things i know -
the sound of a train, at night, distant,
before sleep has carried my spirit
beyond the lapping on the shoreline
out toward the edges
i know all too well
where ravens wait
with their yellow eyes
to pick apart the soul
i have commended
to the wind,
to the sun,
to the sky
rolling out and infinitely
from the center
where shadows
pass over my thoughts
like storm clouds
diffusing the light
i walk awake
and usher in
an ominous night
i pull close
like a blanket of stars
my flickering flame
like a dim lantern
somewhere down the tracks
but still moving as surely
as the sound of a train
from left to right
out of sight unseen
the fading cry of broken daylight
hidden below the horizon
where apex and nadir
hover plumb below, above
the center i know so well
where spirit and soul
meet salt and air
at the edges of the world
where i am fortunate to ford
the waters rising all around
in search of basin, range and plain
where night sighs through
an iron rooster's whistle
and breathes deep the sunrise
painting rails in the gold of new mornings
where feet beneath and head above
are centered squarely upon broad shoulders
having felt but forgotten the shear bluffs
of my darkest thoughts left drowning
where even stars will fail to hold
this same sun from falling, swallowing hours
but never
the sound of a train, at night, and not so distant now
in the blind of black
where i see myself
so clearly
in the center of this life
still navigating the edges
by sextant and senses,
a map of constellations
in a pocket full of sand,
an eye to the sky,
an ear to the ground
still looking, listening
for heaven at the horizon
but more likely found hiding
beneath the beating
of this restless heart
- along with these things i know
these things i know -
the sound of a train, at night, distant,
before sleep has carried my spirit
beyond the lapping on the shoreline
out toward the edges
i know all too well
where ravens wait
with their yellow eyes
to pick apart the soul
i have commended
to the wind,
to the sun,
to the sky
rolling out and infinitely
from the center
where shadows
pass over my thoughts
like storm clouds
diffusing the light
i walk awake
and usher in
an ominous night
i pull close
like a blanket of stars
my flickering flame
like a dim lantern
somewhere down the tracks
but still moving as surely
as the sound of a train
from left to right
out of sight unseen
the fading cry of broken daylight
hidden below the horizon
where apex and nadir
hover plumb below, above
the center i know so well
where spirit and soul
meet salt and air
at the edges of the world
where i am fortunate to ford
the waters rising all around
in search of basin, range and plain
where night sighs through
an iron rooster's whistle
and breathes deep the sunrise
painting rails in the gold of new mornings
where feet beneath and head above
are centered squarely upon broad shoulders
having felt but forgotten the shear bluffs
of my darkest thoughts left drowning
where even stars will fail to hold
this same sun from falling, swallowing hours
but never
the sound of a train, at night, and not so distant now
in the blind of black
where i see myself
so clearly
in the center of this life
still navigating the edges
by sextant and senses,
a map of constellations
in a pocket full of sand,
an eye to the sky,
an ear to the ground
still looking, listening
for heaven at the horizon
but more likely found hiding
beneath the beating
of this restless heart
- along with these things i know
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Bracing For The Lake Effect
She sips green tea
This coffee's gone cold, again
Shutters creak, cry to come inside
Dog dreams hover overhead
In the low ceiling's trapped heat
But escape is never an option here
Better to brace ourselves for the coming calendar
Send cold rosary prayers to frozen saints
Sketch elusive Barcelona by her open waters
Between the short-lived suns of December on
Where sleep feels narcotic, almost anesthetic
Before ourselves dare dream of heat's release
When dogs run free in search of Spanish sol
And so kettle cries fog brittled windows
We drink deep, steel the soul instead for now
Hot tea, slow blood, cold caffeine
Surround this island, around this island
Where we have fashioned naive architectures
Of hours spent in darkness beneath incandescent
Reading Hemingway and humming a cante fandango
She sips green tea
This coffee's gone cold, again
Shutters creak, cry to come inside
Dog dreams hover overhead
In the low ceiling's trapped heat
But escape is never an option here
Better to brace ourselves for the coming calendar
Send cold rosary prayers to frozen saints
Sketch elusive Barcelona by her open waters
Between the short-lived suns of December on
Where sleep feels narcotic, almost anesthetic
Before ourselves dare dream of heat's release
When dogs run free in search of Spanish sol
And so kettle cries fog brittled windows
We drink deep, steel the soul instead for now
Hot tea, slow blood, cold caffeine
Surround this island, around this island
Where we have fashioned naive architectures
Of hours spent in darkness beneath incandescent
Reading Hemingway and humming a cante fandango
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
The Art of Me
broken canvas lies bleeding
splattered paint in brilliant corners
of a mind, abstract and
keeping you in mind
so as to save myself
from this still life
broken canvas lies bleeding
splattered paint in brilliant corners
of a mind, abstract and
keeping you in mind
so as to save myself
from this still life
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
At a Fraction of a Fraction of 24 Frames Per Second
someone buried the lights
in the snow
mistook me for someone they knew
stumbling these winter hidden streets
cold hands
reaching for coattails
dead stares
searching for connection
but the film is spilling across
an endless frozen floor
scenes, brittle, underexposed,
out of synch with the static hum
of hidden ballasts
so i skip frames
where i was not nearly drunk enough
to forget i was lonely, to forget i was fucked
and forged ahead splicing together frames
where i was left wandering blizzards
longing, looking for the glow
(buried beneath more than a decade of snowfall)
and the quality of light in winter
that summer, she will never understand
now that i am unrecognizable
and holding your warm hand,
watching an ice age pass by
in the blink of an eye
at a fraction of a fraction
of 24 frames per second
someone buried the lights
in the snow
mistook me for someone they knew
stumbling these winter hidden streets
cold hands
reaching for coattails
dead stares
searching for connection
but the film is spilling across
an endless frozen floor
scenes, brittle, underexposed,
out of synch with the static hum
of hidden ballasts
so i skip frames
where i was not nearly drunk enough
to forget i was lonely, to forget i was fucked
and forged ahead splicing together frames
where i was left wandering blizzards
longing, looking for the glow
(buried beneath more than a decade of snowfall)
and the quality of light in winter
that summer, she will never understand
now that i am unrecognizable
and holding your warm hand,
watching an ice age pass by
in the blink of an eye
at a fraction of a fraction
of 24 frames per second
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Self-Portrait
I have stopped many times -
listened,
for
myself
in the wind that knows no conversation.
my thoughts consider my thoughts -
the melody of emotion,
the geography of time,
the science of spirit
and
dwell
too long I know,
in search of now
where religion is nothing more than
his smile,
her soul
here in the quiet of a heart,
there in the whisper of the wind
I have stopped many times -
listened,
for
myself
in the wind that knows no conversation.
my thoughts consider my thoughts -
the melody of emotion,
the geography of time,
the science of spirit
and
dwell
too long I know,
in search of now
where religion is nothing more than
his smile,
her soul
here in the quiet of a heart,
there in the whisper of the wind
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
The Heart Tenders Its intentions
the click, clip, quick
of heels
moving through
emotions, mixed,
fixed
in memory,
in a menagerie
of cold static,
shivered
spaces
between
distances
where the heart
tenders its intentions,
in the drop of
the other then another shoe,
behind the guise
of lipstick's rhetorical smile,
within ennui whispered
across a shrugging shoulder,
indelible as the heat
of her footsteps fading
the click, clip, quick
of heels
moving through
emotions, mixed,
fixed
in memory,
in a menagerie
of cold static,
shivered
spaces
between
distances
where the heart
tenders its intentions,
in the drop of
the other then another shoe,
behind the guise
of lipstick's rhetorical smile,
within ennui whispered
across a shrugging shoulder,
indelible as the heat
of her footsteps fading
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Anchors Hold
rooms breathe -
inhale the cyan blue of dusk,
exhale the zinc white of the sun
as darkness brings lightness
to the weight of the world.
our cumbersome flesh can
knock over such a quiet night.
you asleep and i still/sitting,
both trying not to disturb
this quiescence.
anchors hold
these hearts.
submerged and shifting dampers
pull sunken piano notes
from shadow fathoms.
i try not to move,
ripple this room, a tranquil sea,
listen instead to you, the night
breathe.
the two of us, weightless,
20,000 leagues below daylight,
beyond heartache.
our son, who one day will drift beyond our reach -
clinging to us even as he dreams
rooms breathe -
inhale the cyan blue of dusk,
exhale the zinc white of the sun
as darkness brings lightness
to the weight of the world.
our cumbersome flesh can
knock over such a quiet night.
you asleep and i still/sitting,
both trying not to disturb
this quiescence.
anchors hold
these hearts.
submerged and shifting dampers
pull sunken piano notes
from shadow fathoms.
i try not to move,
ripple this room, a tranquil sea,
listen instead to you, the night
breathe.
the two of us, weightless,
20,000 leagues below daylight,
beyond heartache.
our son, who one day will drift beyond our reach -
clinging to us even as he dreams
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Anastylosis
Somewhere buried in the dirt of Taposiris Magna
Trapped for millennia beneath Skara Brae
Between wall after wall inside Catalhoyuk
- All of us -
Not ghosts,
but remains, reminders,
remanding humanity to remember
The thread that connects,
a tensile structure so frail,
somewhat inflexible, and all binding,
has no latitude for compression,
but impresses upon memory
the weight of lineal, linear reality
lost then found then lost again
to histories accumulated
and unwillingly discarded
The archaeology of our endeavors
hidden, but here, lingering in decay,
long after we have sewn our souls
to the wind that covers/uncovers
the civilized artifacts of our existence
Somewhere buried in the dirt of Taposiris Magna
Trapped for millenia beneath Skara Brae
Between wall after wall inside Catalhoyuk
Somewhere buried in the dirt of Taposiris Magna
Trapped for millennia beneath Skara Brae
Between wall after wall inside Catalhoyuk
- All of us -
Not ghosts,
but remains, reminders,
remanding humanity to remember
The thread that connects,
a tensile structure so frail,
somewhat inflexible, and all binding,
has no latitude for compression,
but impresses upon memory
the weight of lineal, linear reality
lost then found then lost again
to histories accumulated
and unwillingly discarded
The archaeology of our endeavors
hidden, but here, lingering in decay,
long after we have sewn our souls
to the wind that covers/uncovers
the civilized artifacts of our existence
Somewhere buried in the dirt of Taposiris Magna
Trapped for millenia beneath Skara Brae
Between wall after wall inside Catalhoyuk
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
You Must Believe In Spring
the cold wind's
rattle
against windows
which peer
into the thick bark of time,
tall against a storm scarred sky
where some rings are so near another
they must mark seeming moments
i held your sure sun in defiance
of winter years lasting more
than their fair share
and leaving me
waiting and watching
through windows
to appear
the warm first rain's reminder,
you must believe in spring
the cold wind's
rattle
against windows
which peer
into the thick bark of time,
tall against a storm scarred sky
where some rings are so near another
they must mark seeming moments
i held your sure sun in defiance
of winter years lasting more
than their fair share
and leaving me
waiting and watching
through windows
to appear
the warm first rain's reminder,
you must believe in spring
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
For Bill Evans
dead leaves
blow grey
stepping off a curb,
New York City 1961
puddles of rain
remind
anomalous mirrors,
we look away
our own mortality
reflected
above us, in the trees
below us, in the streets
dead leaves
blow grey
stepping off a curb,
New York City 1961
puddles of rain
remind
anomalous mirrors,
we look away
our own mortality
reflected
above us, in the trees
below us, in the streets
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
The Crooked Beat
I don't know what we're supposed to be
Reinventing the wheel
one word, one day, one melody
at a time
Hand in hand
mapping fingerprints
We sweep the floor clean
of a day's debris
Spinning slowly,
we stand still
as the world waltzes
lightly beneath our feet
We turn along with
phases of the moon
that slip beyond our reach
Our faces changing
in-between the light and dark,
ascending, descending
ad nausea
Somehow still managing to recognize
one another night after night
despite the uncertainty
of what we have become,
of who we're supposed to be
Our unfailing fingerprints
finding unchanged hearts
behind the crooked beat
of this mutable song and dance
We dare to drag
our chameleon bodies
back out on the floor
without a word,
day after day,
broken melody
be damned
Knowing all we need know when our eyes close
is who we are right now, whatever may come
of this beauty beheld in years cruel counting
in constant, perfect, and poignant 4/4 time
I don't know what we're supposed to be
Reinventing the wheel
one word, one day, one melody
at a time
Hand in hand
mapping fingerprints
We sweep the floor clean
of a day's debris
Spinning slowly,
we stand still
as the world waltzes
lightly beneath our feet
We turn along with
phases of the moon
that slip beyond our reach
Our faces changing
in-between the light and dark,
ascending, descending
ad nausea
Somehow still managing to recognize
one another night after night
despite the uncertainty
of what we have become,
of who we're supposed to be
Our unfailing fingerprints
finding unchanged hearts
behind the crooked beat
of this mutable song and dance
We dare to drag
our chameleon bodies
back out on the floor
without a word,
day after day,
broken melody
be damned
Knowing all we need know when our eyes close
is who we are right now, whatever may come
of this beauty beheld in years cruel counting
in constant, perfect, and poignant 4/4 time
No Architecture Can Forget / new poems 2010
Prayer Book
wine,
take time
in your vine's grip
and let me slip her hands
of fate for a few hours fortune
where i bottle my thoughts and fears
in words to sober to speak or publicly protest
the sentence we are born to bare without divine intervention
wine,
take time
in your vine's grip
and let me slip her hands
of fate for a few hours fortune
where i bottle my thoughts and fears
in words to sober to speak or publicly protest
the sentence we are born to bare without divine intervention
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
