empty hands and
open eyes
ask old questions
and are answered by train tracks
and syncopated
cell phone rings
sometimes my feet reach
through the soles of
my shoes
to grip concrete
And feel the stiff heartbeat
of the city
veins full of sewage
and small lost dreams
Category: Poems
In our secret places where we hide
our mothers bruising and our fathers lying
on a floor of goosesteps and nasty arms,
I think we keep the worst in us
safely set from sight
and so much in love
with the sin and the spit of it all,
waiting to snake our skin and
show the world our Caesar suits.
When once I left and fell to pray,
I saw in that summer moon
Saint Paul on the side of a road
lined with tanks and guns
and I cried and I smiled and I gave in,
with my arm straight out in the sky,
knowing then I’ll never want more
than to want you to want me,
and to kneel.
For Rob
Tonight we smoke and drink
And think of those
Who have passed on
Tonight we raise a glass
To laughter past
And good times gone
Memories of those whose
Friendship was true
And love was strong
So tonight let us all toast
Those we loved the most
And held so dear
Yes tonight we’ll celebrate
We’ll stay up late
Just like you’re here
Just like you’re here
I keep you in a box
in my bottom drawer
next to my socks and under
my old t shirts
When I first put you in the box
it was hard
I did not like you being there
but I understood why that was
where you must go
There were no choices left
Once a week I used to take the box out
and open it
We would visit
laugh and cry together for a little while
Then I would put you back and wait for six more days to pass
before I could say hello again
We do not visit anymore
I no longer take out the box
But every morning I open my bottom drawer
and push aside my t shirts
to make sure you are still there
I tried to write a love poem
But forgot the language
Do I start with eyes or lips
stars or moon
Do I confess
A tragic soliloquy of
self indulgent longing
or trumpet my unending, time defying devotion
Shall I promise everything
give nothing
and hope forever
speak of heavens and seas
laughter and brilliance
perhaps it is best to be quiet
maybe the memories will return
and I’ll recall the patterns of pen strokes
and heartbeats
Or perhaps you will offer lessons
on how to speak again
stars sing
loud with radiance
at the precise pitch
of a newborn’s cry or an old
man’s last breath
Distant watchers project the
past onto the backs of
the first blossoms of ideas
and watch them wither
snickering wings of dismay flutter
amongst dreams, shifting them in abject
absurdity
I read psalms written by children from religions yet to be seen
they beg forgiveness for the scars of past faiths
and wash blood from the eyes of their ancestors
I am not a Nubian king,
but when Ourou Giyorgis stands
naked and tall atop his horse
he must now look somewhat like me.
His treasure chest held all the masks
of the men who had gone before,
but grandma left it once inside
a dry Arizona railyard.
A small apple orchard now marks
the loss with fruit too sweet to taste
without a thought of golden thrones
and Nile running north to the sea.
Spellbound witches brew
Cerebral cortex shredded
Midnight pantomime
Glistening imagination
Slipping away from memory
Like condensation on airplane wings
And infants fingers on baby rattles
Grass crushed beneath bare feet
Utters no apology for being in the way
Crude bastards
Trample Eco systems
On their way to another day
Of 9-5
Eight hour disappointments
If you strain your eyes
You can see the counterfeit currency fly through the air
And if you cup your ears
You can hear hopes evaporate
As wall street bells ring
And empty stomach mumble complaints
Poor mens prayers
Bounce off skyscrapers and ocean waves and neck ties
Blowing kisses in the wind
At rich mens problems
Rain slicked highways paint patterns of my past
through the tinted windows of my iris and I let
pain flow through my toes grasping at elusive echoes
Clipped wings furiously attempt to fly but instead climb
raindrops one at a time toward lightning that
feels like love and tastes like copper on the tongues of fools
who smile at the wrong times and say the wrong things
and still reach the right places
Grinning madman in a thunderstorm
rain slides down the back of his neck and it feels
like Gods sweat or heavens tears
or the last time you held her
Palms upward waiting for droplets
to turn to diamonds and grenades hoping the world
will die rich and I’ll open my eyes to a freshly grown
Eden where I eat the apple and throw it at the snake
and march out of the garden with the vigilance of
self righteous teenagers or a bible thumping fire and brimstone minister
Voices sing goodbyes with a slight lisp
wearing the night like a klansman hood hands
make the sign of the cross sitting at the edge of a cliff waiting
for eternity to arrive and when it does it is only
a child with sad eyes and no lips who shakes his head
and asks you questions without speaking and
when you cry he dries your tears and leads you home
We are nothing
But packing slips
That long-dead mothers drop,
Fleeing Kelton in pain
On rail line’s beam
In hopes of another stop.
Once we might have come
From trunk and train
To a home of light and dream,
A silver mine’s stream
That runs from dust
To the peace of endless gain.
But now we sit unopened,
Running on lies and steam,
Ninety years gone
And still unclaimed,
The storage trunks all stolen,
Our lives but empty and tame.
