Tag: writerDM
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Antemeridian Monday
eyes too fatigued from letter and allergeneven to dream, bloodshot and weeping airwhere no tears will form for sloth and ailment,even the brain is hazed, dazed, sluggish toform, frame, interpret image . . . here the worldmelts away into pools of abstraction,not only meaning but the compulsiontoward meaning slips away, absents, escapes. here, in the…
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Edward and Lisel
today I’m stealing poems from LiselMueller’s Alive Together. my copyriddled with small book marks: six neon greensticky flags and one hunter orange, onereceipt dated 2004 from Barnes& Noble, and two rogue Yahtzee score sheets,completed without dates. Thirteen pagesare dog-eared. Rare as it is, I have scrawledmarginalia alongside several poems.I recall now that it was Lisel…
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Of Death She Stays Aloof
she always was an odd child, fascinatedwith death and dying despite her shelteredlife early on and into adulthood;never lost a friend or close familymember to it, not even so much, orlittle, as a pet goldfish; she had nouse for dead things, things she said were merelydiscarded clothes, the truth of life beingsomething merely disguised by…
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Aubade
We all want to be beautiful, Liza beneath some argent moon in her fullness, at daybreak with its pink-lined clouds and sky pure as mountain springs, bright as topaz and us waking from dreams of golden streets . . . Liza, paradise is deep within, resides here within the placid soul, the restful mind. Each…
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Breakdown
you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her hypodermic is that for which I came. what the fuck ever happened to refuges, to the sanitaria of yesteryear? I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn unwired and without the green threat of work, the soft voice of a sympathetic soul. my dreams are meaningless…
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Written in 2012 about This Current Year
LITTLE APOCALYPSEit’s the end of the world, the end of time,the end of all things, the prophet tells us.but there’s never a calendar entryto guide us, just the vague hint of “in yourlifetime”. all we thought was holy will berevealed as lies of the Adversary.fire and mayhem, disease and flood . . . it’salways the…
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All Bosched Up
QUATORZAIN 41 In the garden of freshly pierced hearts,I’m doing time with a shadow of you,thorn quivers in your hand crimson blood-stained;and I stare hollow-eyed all bright withsoft admiration and honeyed words beggingyou to forgive my tenderness in lightof your crystal ice delicate touch. Youpirouette in time to music I’m deaf to,and I misstep cloven-hoofed…
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Your Church and Mine
driving through this rainy morning Sundayyou in your puritan dress and humming hymnsand me trying to remember when last I wentto service, to the gathering of the faithful, whenlast I broke bread with the brethren andfeasted on the flesh of a two-thousand-year deadsavior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straightinto my mind and soul,…
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Sophist on a Soapbox
Let us dance among clouds singing of Deathsuch mornings as we awaken to predawnand dancing fall from heaven, though it’s merelysky, and drub our heads against anotherday as the planet turns on its axischasing this eccentric path around our sunspinning in Earth’s backwater neighborhoodin a galaxy we call Milky Way –and what is death? merely…
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Working on this Sonnet
SOULFUL?How much in our lives do we give away?And for what? To whom? How much love we spendunwitting, never counting returns untilbroke and wanting with hunger-angered fistsclenched in supplication. Some say poweris the social currency, but I arguehere that suffering buys all resourcesmeaningful to the soul – and what is ‘soul’?Some may ask – young,…
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