the great grief of fortunato

Upon a glade in Misty May
I came across these Charites, three:
each blossom bloom in holy singularity,
each gaze reflect a fix'd
innumerability.

Such subtle sloping of their shoulders
in supple stroking fed
from gently 'round their fertile forms to
infinitum ends; a point upon each
blessed womb in punctuated glory bound:
umbilicum mundi
from which the scenery expound.

Rolling fields of ample crop
adorned each comely crown,
from blank marble pale each brow atop
burst bountiful shades of honey brown.

From stoic poise to every way
root simple limbs
and idly'd sway,
born'd down from
the silver trickle of the stream
to huddled trees, hilltops away.

What is left there to behold
but those mind-abiding fields of gold,
cascades of light in eerie bright
bold blankets white upon those
sacred shapes that
silent bathed
in immortal purity?

What fool's so sped in his depart!
Bumbling on in light of heart,
that merry den had
sense confound:
Spotless in his certainty that yet
again it could be found.

What gleaned from rustling branches since
has my desperate search for Eden given,
but that finely woven wind
is yet graying in memoriam;
its fleeting warmth can only serve
as cruel suggestion of wondrous worlds:
a tarnished souvenir, impotent
paradise misplaced.

Then should I welcome misery's reign
when time reduces joy to pain?
When all the Earth can not return
the chirping worship of those birds?
How I lack that hallowed glade
that I found in Misty May!
Be found once more
I humbly pray,
the Trinity of Gratiae.

family ties

i'm not hamlet either, you know,
but i imagine that
the ungodly presence
of my father
is enough to drive me to
profligate
thoughts
and time spent wading in my
own insignificance

hire

motionless, today
another honest augustine illusion
basking in the rays of its
frankly shrugged confusion
the hearts reflected in those
needy eyes
of mine
boring into themselves
by the light of the mirror.

black hair. it's black, unlike the glossy hard smiles,
but more the betwixt tooth gaps;
some eyes like tiny tiny
plaintive sighs
rove and roam across the room,
scratching at the paint peeling on the wall,
quiet pinholes
absorbing light,
making sense of this
myriad of glorious sight.
i see the face of a newborn child,
asking for love in its smile,
holding back a hint of surprise.
locked tight, rigid, firm, free,
a frame i think of
tight against me
with a hint of her breath on my
still-beating chest,
a silver little laugh,
a quiet joke told in mutters
that makes me chuckle, and spill
some of my coffee on her shoulder.

what two roads may never meet,
but for the wonder we endure?
and yet i know just what i'd miss
if i came knocking at your door.

dune

rise, the mast,
shearing off its
fur of sand,
slipping off,
a velvet dress,
golden brown
and effervescent.

still, the sun
its waving form confound
the muddled eyelids
and dusty brows
the wandering set
ambling indentations sift
the grains between
their feet adrift.

grazed the hull with
calloused fingertips,
prayers mumbled,
paid respects;
its faded chestnut
hues of earth,
blast by wind and
the sun's scorch
drinks the skin they
lay against its
exhumed
magnificence.

fair and balanced

mark my words,
the lexicon established
since the moment that you,
eyes open,
like a gentle, sleeping babe
on a clear cut, softly bedded
pile of golden yellow hay,
stumbled out, moaning, groaning,
hair out of your eyes and teeth glistening
hungry for the first bite of day,
reached for the plate they gave you
and feasted upon the broad array
of slippery slopes,
the dreams of common folks,
sleeping under the common weave,
graying black coarse burlap sacks,
hidden underneath and looking up
to night time skies, beyond and past,
has found you back and forth
the pen you hold,
back to the corner
from which you birthed

misanthropology

I.

i am so fucking glad to be apart of this
heathen generation of
bitches and assholes, rending their hearts
aparts on the docks of an old sea run dry,
blessing me with their pine tree smiles
for all their worth
for about 10 miles
in every direction!

each mind pervade a drift and wide open
blazed their blinds, and with seas and sawed off
hopes and dreams, oh the irony he said sarcast-aside,
how clever endeavors break upon neap
tide

for every vainglorious
eye cast bloom blush
burst open lash batting
bitch made
man son of a boy,
i've heard the sound of thousand
horrible jokes
some nudges
some pokes,
some high expectations and some
broken broken hopes
made with reference to Tolstoy
(wow!)

comforting, i guess it's not
all rested with omniscience nestled
deep across its heavy breast
and harboring its empty vessels,
bringing golden Aphra Behns the
softly light advancing hence;
the morning virtue turns the clock,
the TV's loud and the
radio's on,
and i hope to catch my breath when
i'm neck to neck with imagery
commonplace unfortunate,
daft beyond all misery,

hopefully the sound's unspoken
and painfully awash awoken
by the sounds of hapless babes
devirginized by a new age,
bereft and huffing puffing
death-defying mace aside the leather bag
oh how we've deceived them! and they have been
taken by the words they've taken
conflated with the only words they've heard
but haven't learned themselves
averting eyes disaster rides in the face
of all the maybes
the world can offer for 10 a-buck
advertisements around the clock,

but for all of the nothing castles
float upon the clouds of folly fickle
and rain their shine and pour the wine
it flows it glows and down it goes

fie expects, fie fie fly
because of all the things
expect to pass the worst of things
and watch them last your friends and loves
and homes and hearts,
the constants whirring arrange away
contents content with mounting contempt

a bridging break stone gap it cries
it cries it cries! oh don't you sympathize
the world explodes its tears erupt the
sacred landscape bare corrupt,
a kiss blown gone and down away
the mocking stench of memory

with hate you all
with hate you all
careless and disappoint
another phone call
embroiled mind retreats its hive
the reminiscence dance with god;

if only you could see the violence deep inside of me
i see blood and pain and joy be gained
i'm not excited by anything but death
an artless poem, a lack of depth
the clarity breaks the poetry's gone
perhaps the words be fetched alone
why write words when no one reads?
and those who read are dead to me!
what's left the greatest minds have been
marred by pride, and inability to see outside
a blanket bunch of broken souls
self conscious eyes dug underground and entrenched
trenchant, fortified

the dumb are still alive they
break their backs working their livelihoods
they buy excuses on the dollar dime
and nickeled in the
shiny shine

no theres nothing left for the meek unable
blank bereft
the dignity of life is gone
take us now
before it goes on


II.


friends are a wilting flower broken
another nothing note passed under the doorway
asking for a favor or two, affirmations mentioning
mothers fathers and social forces' confluences
approbations, rejections, masturbation;
ha! i've lived the best times of my lives
hiding away from the prying myopic eyes
messianic solitude, solidarity
messenger supreme, absolute certainty.
apocalypse now! the end of man
the fall of the human face the countenance
dead,
satan gone, jesus vain,
an hourly rate driven to the minute.

friends broken an illusion muttering
selfish breaks in a smile a frown
a sympathetic glance it looks upon
passing sentiments another subject
it runs away, brush against,
give me your heart and lent ears
borrowed away and frustrated tears
no the cross is heavier
the wood is splintering the weight
crushes the homeless thoughts that strident
cry
shelter shelter, the dying branch its graying leaves
the gutter aside it collects its leaves, devoid
of description,
without mention mutters hopeful
tea kettle porcelain separate face
gently inlaid, its blue lines scripting something
sincere, but is it real?

the world eats itself and spits you out
the product of a thousand years of regurgitation
cud-chewing folks with premeditation
commercial, conglom-o, global circumnavigate,
advertised and infiltrated
the arts! the books! the philosophy! the movies and the TV,
(oh, but not the poetry!)
the magazines filter through
the lowest common denominator
until it is all substance, groundless
style, flashing gently a street light
an abandoned street, wet with rain,
paved with pain, the softened lights glare across
the slippery cement hill

GOD COMPLEX! open its eyes,
the world is a miracle and
she is its cause,
the opera intones its layered notes
kaleidoscope tragedian Capulet
copulate,
the social circles,
fawning fame seeping
deep the corners of a naive brain;
brace yourself, my dear
the end is near
and the pattern indicates a fall from grace!

the world oyster yawns its
tongue lolls out the tail droops
oh its all subject matter
subject to change
the empty anger, the passionate rage
dying light is our salvation
the light itself has blinded us.

remember

remember me as i was
i had laughs and fears
and i cried sometimes;
every once in a while
i made halfhearted attempts
good tries,
on my behalf--
to make good
on some of the promises
i've made.

today was nothing,
yesterday i said
"tomorrow shows
the future of these
messy lives
and all of these
unwitting blows"
and yet again
i'm not sure if i know
if yet again
tomorrow comes
what it may cease to show
or what perhaps may unfold
but probably not
still instead
they say
its a
permanent solution
to some temporary problems

i feel

there's a distinct lack of effort
behind every thing i do.
illusions drive me forward
i don't know what holds the reins.
all the while i'm determined
to figure out the prospect of
enjoyment along the minutiae of it all.

there's a distinct sense of
disappointment that i feel
when i'm called into the room.
there's a number with my name
and a brief, uninteresting appointment
in an office without a face.

i am constantly ashamed of
the things i have yet to say.
i want nothing more than to succeed.
success is everything.
yet i can't prepare
for a future that leads nowhere.

moonbrush

blasphemy be my 21st century;
blessings marked by brazen impotency
believing in me, these crumbling trees--
crooked branches crackle-sway, crackle-sway--
bramble blanket whistling wind
cover hover arching over dirt pathways.
gutters lined with empty letters, shifty eyed a summer's fall
inhaling deeply its winter breaths
and memorizing a winter death;
the sun lifts later bound, the clouds curl west, and
mother drops her heavy lids and mutters
prayers for the best.

in lights

a requiem to our dream escapes
some love-lost lips anticipate
some long-lost reward, still yet to come
perhaps, or not, if there be one.

in golden gales and exploding sky
if or when yours should meet mine
i imagine nothing passing by
of worthy note, or memory.

i should think that years apart would
make fonder yet some fonding hearts;
yet i am wanting of quiet sympathy
perhaps without which i'm unlovely.

in all in all the worst to come
must be the break of expectation.
i declare, it's no good to care
when loving flees like seeds in air.

tired

are you not lonely when speaking words are unspoken thus,
and daily partners locking eyes see one other but barely found?
like icy steels whose shoulders brush,
some rushing trains from to and from, uninterested and duty-bound.
inside each mind a king contained: a throne, a hall, a hand bedecked with sparkling rings;
in measure taken back a step, yourself you hold in charge of things.
but is it cold, so deep inside that lofty vault of ivory carved?
no foreign thought to penetrate, no requited love to disregard?
such purpose outlined in your face, and poise enacted upon your action,
but no subtleties that surprise you here, nor answers meet your satisfaction.

Do you breathe your sighs alone? Or is it for having never spoken
to substantial spirits out beyond your own
that you have staled and withered by, an ageless look that appears to die?
with wisdom well beyond your years that alienates you from your peers;
fashionably distracted now, and sociably intact.
grace us with your presence once, once inured to find
some privy disassociation thus was better left behind.

in the suburbs

the house won't leave the front lawn buried
its feet and tail in the backyard;
the trees dangle leaves blow lazy in the windswept
dust ruffling empty streets of clean paved charcoal dark
black cement.
a toe tap sidewalk touch and the birds exult
tweetle singing praises tootle whispers in the wasting breeze they went.

but there's an eye for every eye we spend when we cross our paths
our shuffling feet coinciding upon these dead and empty ends
so spend a dime for every
time a minute dies;
inside the hours click on by and
saturate the air.
the musty smell of pages
turned
compiled soaked in skin flake musk,
a seething sun, a new day earned
and sunlit dreams in disrepair.

chances

chances are, if you're aware
of it there's nothing much more
there to care
about it at all, suffice as to say
that i suppose it's something
you carry away.

what you don't
know can hurt you still,
and what you know
can not as well;
the blending white
envelops words
and worlds apart
your own hell.


call me early,
i'll be gone
for as long as i'll wait
i'll be heavy with the
passion, sorely;
i'm in no mood for saving
grace,
or for swallowed pride,
the kind i hate.