Sunday, November 27, 2011

Poor you
Your brain is broken
A prisoner locked in darkness
No one to touch you, to love you
Imprisoned inside your sallow skin, what is this depression?
Someday a light may shine, warm that coldness
That dispirited self may cease
Like a great rising you will overcome and repair the brokenness
But the dispirited self may be what you will always be
That is a sadness for me too
For my heart wants you to feel my touch, my nurturing love
I'll hold on as long as can be, and hope the sadness dies for you and me

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Oh, my mind will split
Like a blade sharp and shiny cutting it into two
One is the left side. The other the right
These parts think in opposite ways
It pains me
It confuses me and leaves me without wonder or great thought
Oh, my mind will be stitched
Like a string that ties the two parts together
The disparate ways are as one
The wonder and thoughts are greater than before
But the fear is the blade that will cut this mind for evermore

Friday, November 25, 2011

I wonder who my true love might be
I wonder too, if she is a falsehood
And I question something related to this: am I a blog, or is it her?
These words.
These posts.
I ponder if there is truth in love
Or if we slip lonesome under a plastic sky

Closing Time
Late at night, just at closing time, 'Beer Mugs' Moran stood in the alley behind the One Lucky and smoked a cheap cigarette. The old bartender's shoulders ailed him, so each time he lifted his smoke to his lips he cringed. But through his pain he could hear a sleeping dog breathe. The stray's lungs were deep and powerful, even as he was dreaming; but he also was aging. His hind legs had become arthritic and hobbled his gait.

'Beer Mugs' dropped the smoked cigarette and stepped on it. Lately his knees and ankles hurt him and he wondered if they would grow as painful as his shoulders. He left the alley and uneasily locked the front doors of the One Lucky. Soon the morning's light would shine. This time between closing and sunrise seemed to move faster to the bartender. He had heard the sensation of hours flying by happens to men in their fifties. This worried him as much as his hurting body abandoning him altogether. But in his dreams his lungs were deep and powerful; and he believed this was a good thing.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

I live on the dark side of the line
In blindness, in this place no man can escape...
Unless I am wrong
What if there is brightness on the other side?
Will it, I pray sometimes, emit its shine?
Its warmth?
Its eternal light?
Then I will emit what troubles me:
This rancor
This darkness
This blindness
But what if it is a fiery shine?
Will it ignite what I emit?
My solitude turning to dust and ash?
I question too much in this blindness, I know
But in rancor and darkness what is one to do?
But to pray against the eternal night

Friday, November 18, 2011

I hate to go,
To say good-bye,
To shut the door gentle and never return
But I'm human, made of flesh and blood
Someday I'll go for good, just like you
It's written in Bibles; medical books, too
This unavoidable So Long
So I'll let in eternal rest and say Hello
Embrace what I love till I'm gone

You wear hats like a mad hatter and complain when people's eyes rest and linger upon your gestures of insanity. You say this is your right; that you can make a statement about who you are. Like a wild aunt I knew, you lay claim to your individuality any way you please, dangling those crazy sausage hats along your head. Yes, you can do this thing if you so choose. But in the end, I wouldn't want other people's eyes resting and lingering upon my narrow strips of saneness.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

When y0u hear the crying wind;
When your touch is anguish against the clouds above;
And when your turbulent voice turns to the ocean breeze,
You ask a forgiveness for being human
For the mistakes we've all done
When this is what you hear and say, I know you are my friend

I stood in darkness against the edge of water
I couldn't swim
So in this absence of light I was drowning either way

The Start
The Poet says it's over
They've taken it all away
Burned and buried what matters in art: beauty from the sorrow
It's over the Poet says
Only the sorrow remains,
Pity, I reply. I was only getting started

I am a borderline
Living with truth and lies
Stepping back from madness in reality
I am a borderline
Sweet dimensions of time
Let me be, I am happy and sad on this borderline

Monday, November 7, 2011

I conspired with conceit to control the things I could. The things I thought I could. As in fear rising as a trembling city and then falling down. But in the end conceit betrayed me as it always does. It conspired with self-doubt and left me sorry and weak against the things I've done.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Jackie was a dream
She murmured: If sound were a colour, how dark would your voice be?
Pitch black like the universe?
Bright white like bright eyes
Jackie was a dream
She dreamt of voices, and colours, and sounds to make her sleep
She murmured darkly in pitching voice
But all she knew was, dreams kept her awake
Sleep unrested her,
Submerged Jackie pushed away the stammering night
And pulled at colours like chattering butterflies