insanity and my own prison

i dream sometimes of bars
and light and the almost gone
of the moon where I lay
wanting more than this

she tells me the story
of shackles and plain walls
and time that extends just short
of infinity — she makes me feel
ungrateful

i reach into the darkness
between the stars
in hopes of grabbing peace
or sleep — anything to feel
better about freedom
and loss.

she laughs as she tells me
the long song of hurt
and aloneness and humanity
in gray purgatory

i am awake — almost
free i think
until i realize the bars
the shackles
— prison is my fear and ignorance

 

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Nameless she

All perfect I do not tell
Her for being fearful
She might laugh

She flies away into
The endless sky I do not see

I wait
Hoping I might be
Remembered

Raven

what darkness is

o see the raven soar between the night
and day – the gritting of starry teeth
upon dark’ning feather – she tells how light
a bone can be as the world floats beneath

o see the raven hang between the air
and sea – the clenching of squared jaw
upon the lightening – a feather on a dare
seeking a true path through thundered yaw

o see the raven dive between the hour
and the day – the line of sight turned glare
a grayed story left for some mind to devour
like a bible for the unloved to hear and despair

o no, i am not the raven or the coming storm
the eternity unspoken or the line that proves the form

Heron

watching Lowell become me

the heron knows the blues
better than I do, better than you do
better than any fool-poet
winging poems like prayers
along the riverbank

the heron knows the blues
like the beat, like the beaten
better than any damned beatnik
winging poems like prayers
along the road

the heron knows the blues
three bars down, four bars down
twelve bars and ten shots later
winging whisky like a prayer
down the throat
of this mean little city on this mean little river
on this mean little day

paris-2002-2

one January in Paris

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
walk the streets of paris and imagine
how our love might be in april

under the eiffel tower we ate hotdogs
and told eachother stories about other trips
that were so much less than this one

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
jaunt down to the louvre to experience
our love in front of Mona Lisa

in the opera house we listened for ghosts
and told eachother stories about other days
that were much less than this one

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
tremble as we kissed on montmartre

monkewar2

for the love of money

three monkeys sit in a tree
watching men walk past
like me

the sun a matter of opinion
the moon a subject of discourse
the monkeys all agree
it really could be worse

three monkeys sit upon a stone
watching men like me
alone

the road an essay on the past
the field a poem of future’s dreams
the monkeys all agree
this isn’t what it seems

three monkeys sit upon the dirt
watching men writhing like me
hurt

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