Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Most people don't realize that ghosts can't be seen
They really aren't a specter a being, or the voice to a feeling;
Not the voice, but the feeling itself.

And these ghosts do haunt:
They come out in the words of the legend,
In the ink of iconography of the spirit,
And the etching of the acid soaked lithograph.
Sometimes they come as the rattling of a chain
Unlocking the gate to an old mansion,
Or under sheets with eye-hole stains
That cover furniture once alive with use,
Or even in the particles of dust that lie dormant
Until a curious new mind comes and kicks it up
With a seance, to have their heart aflutter in candlelight
And try to peak behind the chains
And underneath the dust and sheets
To try to see what's on the other side.

Little Heart-Shaped Candies

We've made something so sweet
It'll rot your teeth
And fatten you up
Until the doctor takes your feet.

If I Could Just Reach Out

I look over at you on your sleepy island stranded
And I wish I could swim over to you from mine
But the gap is too wide and I don't want to risk
Awakening a Great White shark or a Colossal squid
Or some other maritime beast of larger than life stature

So I try to get you to arouse enough to notice
But you don't understand my semaphore
And the banners I run get lost in the glaring sunlight
And my voice is too faint to yell and too far to be heard
But I could turn to matches and start a fire
So maybe you can smell the smoke and see the flame
My burning may be hasty and poses risk of consuming
My everything of a life aging on this island deserted but I
But to see you I wish to remain free from flames scorching
Because they sear quicker than the Sun
Who has helped in hiding my blushing face in your brilliance
But it is now the Moon who I am relying to open a path
Hidden by tides a sandbar on which we can meet
And embrace until the sea douses our dawning bodies.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

O Beckon Unto Me

Like my time spent outside in this season,
        My thoughts get more brief,
Yet my words still give shelter
--Warm & Inviting.

A Broken Cane and Discount Glasses

The poor man who counts on
      The bonds and stocks of other people
Is the fool for not buying more into himself.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

The vigor of this generation has been lost.
Thoughts have gotten in the way of action.

Monday, November 5, 2012

"Deer Tracks"

"Beautiful, sobbing, high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently like deer tracks
in the freshly-fallen snow beside the one
      you love. That's all."

When I Had A Child's Mind

In my youth,
I lived for God, country, and family.
Now I have turned my back
On God and country,
And all that I live for
Has scattered and expanded
Like this aging universe.

Real Things

A couple whose modest lives require frugality.
They are talented in their professions,
Have pleasant dispositions, and humble backgrounds.
Unlike the company they keep,
Their paychecks are meager pennies needing pinching.
Token perpetrators in their circle of friends,
However, never treated any differently;
Expected to keep up with high-living,
They were never given charity,
But they never felt ashamed.

A night after some event in an old brick mansion,
Historically located in a presently poor neighborhood
From which, they live only several blocks away.
It is not economic to drive that night,
And their two-door, rusted with paint chipping POS
Would not fit the scheme of cars valeted into security.
So the husband, in his thrift store suit still looking sharp,
And the wife, in her grandmother's vintage dress
Flashing an eloquent past, walk that night home.

Flirting with the breeze, airy on cocktails,
Ears fill with sweet nothings and rapid breath.
They tie each other to with their arms.
Lips locking and unlocking as they sway.
Their eyes spent more time reflecting each other
Than watching their path, it was no surprise
That they didn't see shadows cast from behind
Or hear quick steps approaching, or even
Put their arms up in surrender quickly.
But no matter, the encounter, from start to end,
Lasted only a fraction of a moment.
Her faux gold and precious gem necklace taken,
And his wallet filled with food stamps ripped off,
They were not stirred or shaken, simply glad
They were spared any real harm,
They giggled on the way home, find humor
In how little was actually taken
And how little it actually mattered.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

When they woke, white was all they saw.
Anesthetic sleep causes an unnatural darkness.
A body disabled, traps the mind and binds it
Further in the depths of their consciousness.
Holding faint candlelight kindled by memories
And that  deeper-sounding voice the mind possesses.
They have temporarily stepped out of the physical,
And facing the complexities of their existence,
They seek familiarity in an exotic location.

The voices they hear sound faint,
Mumbles and whispers, of insignificant
Little conversations echoing in the void
Of cognizance; they make little sense
Only in cadence and intonation---
Most likely originating from remembrance,
But one is unsure of the permeable nature
Of this state of mind and the physical world.

Their vision is hazy and confused with imagination.
The eyes think they see a flicker in the distance
As if there were few stars on the horizon
The size of the candlelight they feel warming their chin.
They want to go towards the light and think to walk,
Instead they feel they are floating, but no matter
How far they perceive they go, they never gain distance
And the flickering never comes closer.
The only thing left is to hear their thoughts.

Whiteness taking the eyes in such a way
Shocks them back into the world, forgetting
Their dream state. It's almost a sensation
Not unlike that of birth, they feel lighter
With life to live, spared a moment of crisis
And a piece of that darkness explored
And cut out of their worries and replaced
By a little candlelight.

Thursday, November 1, 2012


My pen is:
Easy to hold,
And Devious.

But it has run dry.
Can I dip in your well?