Shakespeare and Synaesthesia in the Park

Memories . . .
The mirror of my mind seems so clear
though they tell me it’s cracked across the middle

The City built this stage in the Park
so that southerners might come to know a smattering of culture
An oval of stage capping an ellipse of stones
beside this undulating velvet creek the color of ghosts

Tonight the sable night wind runs riotous
somehow angry that there might still be leaves on trees
Tonight the waxing inconstant moon feigns warmth as she
trails luminous streamers of cirrus mucus across a sky the color of loss

Alone on this stage of memories
the turning world has found new ways to fracture my stone cold heart
I stood just like this
pouring my heart out through my mouth

You’re not supposed to say the name
but what can the gods do to me that they haven’t already done?

You hair the color of rock and roll
Eyes are the color of a pewter sky foretelling tragedy
Your voice, a promise of rain
Here, under the lights, your smell
the humor of every adolescent male’s dream

All who love are damned
All who love actors, doubly so

In memory you say, “Teach me . . .
teach me poetry”

The Post Industrial Wreckage Warehouse

The Post Industrial Wreckage Warehouse
Wherein Resides the Human Heart
and Any Number
of Other Arcane Devices of Unknown Intent

Here in the belly of the Beast
Century Fine Appliances Inc.

The wreckage strewn through out this quiet cavern
a testament to yester-dreams of post-war prosperity
The only clocks within these walls. . .
my heart and something dripping into a stagnant pool

I stand silent in this place of sloughed machine integument
and post-modern graffiti

In the fractured concrete and debris
there dwells a kind of. . . beauty
I reflect on the ossified architectural concord of design and layout
A kind of rhythm, spacing and style

A broken kind of beauty
Arcane engineering feats of technological magic
Structures and forms no longer functional in any way
Hallowed out spaces aching and itching to be used

If I sit here long enough
If I study the way the moving sun moves through the skeletal remains of shattered windows
I see a beauty in the gliding grid-work shadows
Now ragged and strangely organic

This shaft of light pouring through those roof windows
so popular in the 60’s
pierces into this heart of darkness
and I’m thinking that if I lay on the floor
I could make filth-angels

a combination of motor oil on water and light from the sun
A rainbow
A rippling

An opalescent creature spilling an undulating radiance
on the festooned walls

A spectral innocence shattered by a water clock drip
pierced by a wild droplet from a broken rib rafter
A ripple radiating from a center that strangely holds

And this glassy creature of light
heals itself as if by magic

Returning to a state of luminal meditation

Function of the Muse

And so the Poetess turned
To regard me
Her expression . . .
tolerant . . .

“Tell me please
Of what use is a Muse?
How is it that men such as you
Go on and on about . . . Muses?”

My Lady
(she didn’t like that)
If I pour out my Life-Parna
without a Muse to receive it
It is as cheap wine cast upon the sands . . .

If I set out on this voyage
Of discovering the True Poem
Blessed be the Lady’s token
For without such assurance
How can the poet Sojourn
How can the poet create?

For the absence of the Lady’s token
Reduces the poet to a mere selfish narcissist
Seeking his own aggrandizement
Contributing nothing that any money changer can’t claim

But if I feel the blessing of the Lady
Calling to my inner soul . . .
If I create for her pleasure
If I create with no thought of myself
Then will I come to know
the True Poem
Then can I rest
When she reads . . . and the radiance
of Her smile
Casts back all the Darkness my spirit can offer

In that Moment
I am no longer me
I am the Poet

The Chance of Touching You

for I am surely mad

The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
drew me here tonight
And now
silence rushes in through a door I’m incapable closing
A tsunami of numbness tumbles into this dark room
Not peace
Not an end to this madness

I want to stir your heart-fire
Want to dance with you
to the throbbing thundering drum physically heaving my chest
bursting my ears
melting my defenses
curling around my every thought like incense
glimmering like motes of light

In this silent place
I long to touch your face
one more time with my eyes
I call out as I come apart on this
the altar of your absence
within your temple of silence

If you were here
I’d close my eyes and hold your face
My lungs’d stretch to inhale just one atom of you
and I’d hold my breath
till death came to relieve my heart

The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
The bitter ache of knowing the only thing that holds us apart
is a single word from your mouth

the sky fell

The day the sky fell
and everything is submerged in the waters

two men and two women
(can you walk under water
or is it called swimming?)
appear to be walking across a field
some kind of cultivated field
(I’m thinking
one of those ancient grains
cause that kind of thing is so popular nowadays)

they are all laughing bubbles
and the bubbles are acting funny
I mean you expect bubbles to go up
so we must conclude that either we don’t know which way is up
or there is some kind of down current

anyway its hard to tell which man is with which woman
cause they keep touching each other with a strange fondness
like they have no inhibitions
total trust
they couldn’t be more naked if they dropped all their clothes

these kids today

did I mention that it was a total eclipse of the sun?
cause I think that’s why the sky fell

The Artist


She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

in matters of life


she asked
“Are the gods silent
or is it me?”

the gods are not silent
even in this moment

there is no silence

life is thick, thunderous marching boots
on crazed dictators
stamping across a tin roof

life is a wining dog at the door

life is the roar of a river eating its own banks

and yet
the gods. . .
they are quiet, but not silent

life is a whisper in a hurricane
life is a fragile bloom
even though last spring the frost killed the other bloom
life is a gentle second in a year of bedlam

in matters of life
if we are wise
we appreciate it when we have it