"all of that,"
he said,
"is a bunch of bullshit."
"it is whack," one agreed,
"it's the language of fear," he continued,
"it traps the soul. It provides no pathway
for one to go. promotes distrust, self-destructive lust"
"disinterest," added another,
before said I, "seemingly enough."

ain't happening

march on,
through the stream-lined ticker-tape
city parades,
through piss-soaked back alleys
and cash-cluttered, overwrought promenades,
bleary half-eyed open and mumbling halfheartedly slogans,
slurping down a cold cup of coffee (cooled by time,
not by ice).
blessed be my 21st century;
breathing down a chiseled back its
mounting pressures and tangling ways,
reliving our most desperate moments,
swirled in the tar black self portraits
down, down, down the old road lays.

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