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.

inequalities

remember everything, or nothing, same;
the arms we cross, we write our names,
the sands we tread have blown away,
and all the while whistles tunes
of marigold and dry skin gray.

call to me, i'm drawn to truth,
spoken by an anointed fool.
i've come to listen to wasted words,
awash in me the cries of birds;
in indecision animate
the unfolding fire of endless shame.

there we come to huddle 'gainst
one another's sagging breast,
but i cannot hear the wind for whispers.
between your breaths, the silence whimpers.
and then i'll come quite questioning
the realities that you've portrayed.
and all the more the empty roar,
the tug of better sense, perhaps.
of course, of course, it's all for naught;
the consequence of happenchance.

nonsense

all of this is nonsense, my dear;
it's all for naught, it's naught but here,
and since i'm told that wheres i've been
are uniform, and numbered slim,
i'm unsure, but my chagrin
is written on a page again.