Poetry

July last summer was sweet, 

Like the taste of honey and peach. 

Now I while away time smoking,

Living refuge in vague memory.

Walking a lonely, moonless avenue, 

Leaving my fate up only to you. 

Bent awkwardly over a window sill,

Trying to change the direction of wind.

Three bodies burn still beside me, 

It blows in, in, and not out. 

There’s a paper cut on my pinky

That’s always been strangely crooked. 

I press an orange bud against the wound

And it, nor I, make any sound. 

-Honey and Peach-

The moon arches above;

My body bends below. 

It moves high, alongside,

Lighting listless limbs afire, 

Breathing smothered dreams, 

Slowly, softly back to life. 

Thoughts and distant stars,

Aching elsewhere in the night.

The moon dances through the sky,

Raising soiled hearts in its arms. 

Alas, I wish to die;

Alas, I wish to live.

The moon arches above;

My body bends below.

Alas, the sick sorrow near the surface, 

So that their hopes may drift ashore. 

-Swimming Moon-

This murmuring sore in my chest 

Like the scar of a wound undressed 

A token of our desperate survival; 

A restless, earnest search to find

Something of ourselves in fickle highs.

Driving past lone power lines

Yellow skies darken as we laugh and cry

Side by side, wandering separate shores

Within a warm kitchen, shared bedroom,

A piano whispers, you’re out of time. 

Is it true that I’ve become a ghost 

Living enough to fear that what is 

Has been nothing but a bluebird’s shell, 

Hollow and forgotten once found? 

Squinting eyes are lost behind.

Fly back; Will you, fly back around? 

-Bluebird-

Sightless searching, thoughtless thinking 

Venomous illusions that exist 

And persist without reason, reflection, 

Unable to drown after indulgence 

Are suddenly laid to rest. 

Ashes from a summer’s noon 

Are scattered on the window frame.

Stale smoke lifts slowly away 

By wind fanning new flames,

Carrying the breath, death, 

Of a field of June roses.

Full ashtray, little much more to say.

Hidden all but from eyes that see mine.

Speak, why don’t you speak? 

But until I have realized its strength 

And weakness, however benign, 

My image will be tainted in defeat. 

Grief without reason, 

Be not defeated by self-deceit 

Nor an egoist’s desire for strain. 

For the day is intimate, so dear, to seize. 

-Burn Baby, Burn!-

I know not a thing about time 

Until its wings hammer my lungs 

No longer young and covered with grime, 

They ooze soundlessly, a blood-filled blister. 

My ears numb as the crickets chime; 

Devoid of sincerity, an exterior of duplicity, 

Canvas of cracked smiles, they whisper, 

And I press a cool lighter against my skin

As she inside writhes in an inferno. 

Glanced at the moon once before 

Sinking into bed, lost in blank space 

Stuck in an indifferent orbit, circling oblivion.

Restless sleep, misery preserving disgrace. 

-Cricket Song-

Despairing for good in a glass of amber

Clear, pure, but never honest.

The way memory and desire stirs

Straight down my throat—

An obscure, drunken promise. 

I reach into my drawer for another;

After, only after I won’t bother . . .

Clinging for life in bundles of gauze

My ghost with eyes pressed like ice

Watching as cold fingers intertwine—

I must be careful about such things nice

—Before they cut and slash at one another.

I set out to the night in search of cover

After, only after I won’t bother . . .

Still surface, peace of mind—

Lies! Heart always on the verge of crisis. 

Ashes fall like snow in a motionless world 

Of hopes, your image tainted in sickness 

The more I mean the less is heard

But I can’t say I didn’t try 

Or now that I didn’t know.

-Evening Rosé-

A child is running alongside the tide 

A kindred spirit they fall and they rise

Hand in hand beside the clear water’s edge 

Far far away from the city 

The child stops at sunrise and night 

To peer at the past from a towering height 

Hand in hand beside the clear water’s edge 

Far far away from the city

-Tides-

Whimsical waltzes and woven wills

A whirl into warmth and all seconds still

Oh God let this not be ephemeral

The wishes I waste count more than a several 

Hold me closer before the ceiling can fall 

Fervid foxtrot that spins us from wall to wall

Tell me sleepy dancer, are your soles not sore? 

For your soul is singing and aching for more

-Sleepy Dancer-