Thursday, June 30, 2011

Eyes of a Dragon

Got the eyes of a dragon,
         In a single glare
Of ancient wisdom you become aware
                  The eyes of a dragon
                           In darkness, piercing through
                                    Forever haunting you
Your wings & fly my friend
Away from this land where you’ve been sent
Your wings & disappear my friend
Into myth where so many of your kind have went

Fly. Fly away

Your sight and see my friend
What effect you’ve left the day
Your vision and focus my friend
And see there never was another way
Fly, fly away, and go
You live by rules man can’t comprehend
You come from a place mankind can never know

Fly, fly away, and go
When they come to stop your flight
Scorch and singe the earth that night
Make them rue the sins they might
Make them believe you’re cruel
With a serpentine smile
And a mask of scales

Block the skyline
         Erase the sun
                  Soar above the cloudy days
                           Engulf them with your might of shape
                                    Encompass the moon round and round
                                             Devour the landscape with your sound
         Fly. Fly away
         Before the massacre begins
Don’t turn around. Don’t look behind
                  There’s nothing here to find
                           Except heartache and pain

Wednesday, June 29, 2011


I’m not your friend; I’m not your enemy
I’m not your foe; I’m not your family
         I’m but a face
                           In a crowd of many
                                                                        Our paths
May cross
                                                               If I choose them too   
I’m but a face
You might not notice
                  But a face
You won’t forget
I’m not what you think; I tend to live in the shade
I’m not who you suppose I am; I tend to shift and fade
I’m but a face
In a crowd of few

Tuesday, June 28, 2011


I wasn't planning on posting another piece today.  The plan was to post one piece, go over to One Shot Wednesday, and get a whole bunch of reading in tonight.  I still may go back this evening, but it's getting kind of late & still have a few other things to take care of first, so if not, then I guess another day to catch up where I left off.

Anyhow I visited Patt Hatt's site, which is a regular stop for me, and he had a brilliant piece.  The first part was an illustration of 12 clocks with words marked E, N, S, & W.  The second part was a very good poem, but the clocks inspired me, and that's the backstory how this poem came to be.

         -stuck between what once was 
and the corral in between
As you approach the knife
Verbal ability is reduced to but a vowel

         - attractions passing glances
Just inches removed
                              from nearby, wonder speeds-
from fate.

On the road to attraction once again

Time has almost met

Hand upon hand
                        Altering the day

Anyhow, thanks to Pat for the inspiration.  Go check out his sites It's Rhyme Time and Face It Facts.  You'll enjoy them both.

Spin Cycle

Whites separated
From blues and reds
First the water
                  Shooting from all directions
                  As the world spun all around
Second the soap
                  A cleansing some needed gravely
                  Yet others were still pure
                  Got mixed up with the wrong group
Third a rinsing
                  Spinning in circles
                  Liquid flushing
                  Detergent from skin
Next a transfer
                  From one container to the next
                  Before it was time
Finally a heat enveloped all inside
                                                               The container was opened
                                                               Hands sort through
                                                               Into bags for transport
                                                               To the place they will go
And one is left to wonder, when would the next cycle begin

Monday, June 27, 2011

Red Belt Duster

Jet set hustler
Bored drifting to and fro
Reliving all the sensitive postcards
Again and again and again and again
Each subsequent vision
Gathers time
Like moss on a stone

Up ridges you muster
To peaks unknown
Looking to the farmyards
They look like termites in their pen
Wandering in derision
Voiceless mimes
In persistent measured moans

Rust belt duster
In the ozone
Like painted tarot cards
They dance a new jig and then
Writhe in their very own precision
Tart like limes
Remembering the feel of go


On this night
Synaptic gaps
Will fall

In this host
Desires become

Barren wild
Sojourner smiles

Like despotic

Retrieve fluidity
Rebuild it all


In to the out of the in of the out

Entirety cleft
Robber barons
Pitting one against the other
Into the out of the into the out

Pseudo sunlight,
Daggers from man weld hands
Infuriating the moon with its demands

Hospitable South

Laid back,
It’s no wonder
You’re under her spell
Southern beauty
In a pastel shell

As the sky turns brighter
As the grass shades greener
As the air itself
Seems much crisper,
Seems cleaner
A heavenly gelling
A sweeter horizon
To aspire
To calm
To ease into
A state of blissfulness

Travelling to a place,
Where anxiety is understood
But not the template
Seen in the hands and voice
Of the northern man

A Bag of Sharks

A bag of sharks
A pocketful of dusty sky
Pollutants congeal
Nullifying the practices
Of defending benign elegance

A clever wasp
A dandelion crushed
Colors shift
Adverting the principles
Of curmudgeonly gracious spite

Rod of Neptune
Part the sea
Rood of chrysanthemum
Do not forget me there

A broken pigment
A dollop of blush
Sunspots devour
Enhancing role-play
Of Salinized brittle resourcefulness
A flood contained
An infrared contraband
Blossoms defy
Disregarding natures cost
Of infrastructures lost

Ink on page
Spell a prayer
Charcoal brush
Paint it everywhere

Agoraphobic peeking out
First the lips, then the mouth
Absolved of your once sacred fright
Esau, do not trade my flight

Playing God

Under the lens,
Of some scientific theory,
Dr. Moreau, I presume, in any case, that’s what I’ll be calling you

Who gave you such breadth of power?
What made you; first think to, do the things you do?
How does it feel, pretending, to hang upon the cross?

Don’t defend your position,
Don’t defend your stance,
I’m not interested,
Mind’s all made up,
No, this doesn’t make me, higher than thou,
No, this doesn’t make me holier than you, well, perhaps it does…
It’s just that I don’t feel the need, to argue with the likes of you,

Well, yes it was me, who first assailed you with questions,
But no, answers were never the aim,
Answers were never the intention,
They weren’t really questions,
They were more like implications


Funnels of cotton candy blissful dreams
Emptiness between the stick and the sea
A void of compact society
An intense wandering invisible to the eye

Kaleidoscopes of versatile abstract relationships
Fondness between the turnstile and the apostrophe
An absence of the creative nomad
A fervor tripping about, stumbling from peer to peer

Dancing in a caravan
Where each step is severe
One arm, one hand
Two hearts, one band
Yet unaware

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Embryonic Parallels

Pantheon of pristine
Unguarded, engulfed
Inquisitors swarm

Frozen on the image
Repelling toward

Silence and sequester
Melodramatically fester
Painful corroboration
Unshielded eyes

Exacerbations of self
Vice grip spreading
Wounds steeped

Embryonic parallels

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Secrets within the Serf

Random generation
Of mergers and acquisitions
Of protection
To serve; secure
The secrets within the serf

Different collaboration
Of sort and ilk
Of encryption
To unite; unify
The secrets within the serf

Splintered combination
Of clusters and meanings
Of integrity
To instill; beacon
The secrets within the serf

Chains bind; Anklets define
The secrets within the serf
Breed independence; gives freedom life

Friday, June 24, 2011


In the folds of tapestry
An odd fabric I did find,
It was scarcely sewn,
Yet it overtook the essence and flow,

Mimicry, is not always flattery
Sincere perhaps, but compliments are the first to flee

Germinating wheat grain bulbs
Blowing through the grazing green
Into the ears that always follow me

Do scarecrows ever scare anything away?
Seems like all they do, is provide a crow a resting place

Scaffolding, twenty stories tall,
Before you know the last
You first must read them all

Wash those walls; make them clean,
Watch the soapy water slide down past each of them
Spots don’t appear until the next sunny day

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Into the Exit wound

Into the exit wound
Normal movements bend in two
Cracks and drainage
Into the exit wound
Your tears burn into

F lies before
The fertilizer alphabetized
Sweltering in humid times
They swarm to the scars inside
Inflicting falsities to the blurring hopeful
All lies (sic) upon
Betrayals from
The warmest gun

Cylindricality to the masking tape
Blinding first, the ghost berates
Anesthetized by the makers mark
Gritting teeth as the barrel embarks
A contact wound, through and through
The other end clearly in view
Into the exit wound
You smile into
Into the exit wounds
You begin anew

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Sloppy Seconds

I drew a blueprint, a design
Of idyllic functionality, to search for and to find,
The shape, the mold, to fit the image in my mind,
But second hand wood, knots and all,
Was all the lumber store could spare,
So I weighed the ups and downs,
Then pictured how they may fit, how they might be,
Not what I envisioned,
But effable to me

I perused the aisle
I sorted through the shelves
I didn’t see the first editions,
All that was left was those other books,
The reprints, the restored, and the translations you abhor,
Yet, representative of every genre, one for each an all,
Perhaps I’ll have a look,
Under the covers, just to take a peek,
To see what differences I may see,
Not what I pictured,
But effable to me

I went out for the night,
To see a band I loved,
They played the songs I came to hear,
Yet the singer could not replicate his recorded voice,
While upset at first, I drank and wait, succumbing to fate,
Giving each song a chance to elate,
And as time expired, the variations I could not see,
Not what I desired,
But effable to me


It’s a rainy and downright miserable day.  

The sky, draped in parameters of the grayest quays, decides to travel slower than design would abdicate.  Shades of the fallen emanate from beyond. There is a somber eloquence that, at times, can have its charm.  However, rarely does the journey take that long.  Smoked inside, to avoid the frazzled delicacies it denotes upon, our irrationality merges with the impatience birthed from within.  Cataloging our every movement, as if the walls become the audience, to the spectacle we put on.  

Forever we languish, in the sorrow of the subtle sound, and wait for its crescendo to paint its song.  Rumbling from the overpass, on most days magnified by the swift echoes it instills upon, today shadowed by the cataclysmic sacrifice gray skies offer on, days that mire in contemplative thoughts.  We rue the sprite that casts this deplorability upon. 

Ceramic vases, jars of clay, born hollow, but made that way. 

Flowers insert into voids, flourish when droplets caress joy.  Emotions of the wind, when soft, a wafting passes through.  It connects to nasal passageways, spells aromatic poems into the fragile arms of pawns.  Delight we take, from such minute epiphanies; from the molecular embankments we're gladly stranded upon.  It is a delight that is torn asunder, as winged worlds collide in jagged flaunts of plunder.  To which the spiders cry, their bed has been split, their trellis scattered and left to drift.  One quick look back, ill afforded, yet in the tear, drooling from the arachnid's eye, a world remains through the trail it defines.  Goodbyes are sent from midair, ensuring it jumps before the flowers wilt in despair.  Connecting to petals firm and quick, posturing their will upon their fragrant lips.  Nothing but a fragment remains, which is all the will’s become, lost forever in a moment without sun. 

Filaments cemented down, burrowing teeth into weathered gums, a travesty of solitude has such become.  Yet in times of weakening, war-torn stories quickly absorb. The atmospheric pressure folds, bending in directions we never would’ve thoughtfully supposed.  Our hours weigh upon us, like the relegated wisdom of a traffic officer, amidst broken steel, gridlock and the vulgarities they spawn. Only puddles, large and round, small and square to splash.  Only puddles, composed of, gelatin, or so is the story the mind disclosed.  Black and Blue, flashing signals strong and bright, wishing he was in between a street fight, between the world's deadliest gangs.  Would've been easier to stomach, easier to get through.

A return, to the gray skyline, offers insightful adequacy.

Graphite shards shade us, outline our aura with their silver tongues.  Commiserating, mingling in, fleeting shallow breaths begin. To the right are the brothels, of the unhinged incendiaries, waiting for the architecture to align.
A design lusted for, sought after since a plagued adolescence, spent despising the facades and the faces, of the everyday and the every one. Willing strength, they have, yearning for a bomb to end; to send the grandest smoke signal high, for all to read, all to see, to paint the clouds in char and ash.
So they saw the clouds, and basked in their unholiest of premonitions.  It was a dream unlike this: the precise angling of currents' flow, of a lightning strike, those incurrent surely felt. The bolt  draws the prawn to the surface, where safety nets look to control them.  It lures a bath-robed army, out from their security blanket, and into the moistened night, powerless, watching as the furies danced with the embers they create; two-step, then waltz, upon every ounce of ownership the outcasts keep.

In the aftermath, the bugs still linger, keen eyes peeled,as a life of misery, a world of dismay, is summated, by the collection baskets, the particulates of biographies scorn, laying destitute, for contemptuous eyes and jaded hearts, of the deliberating anti-man, to copulate amongst the crags and scabs of ragged and weary women and men.

The clouds are not moving like they often do. 

The clouds are dark and surrounding.  
The wind is heavy and swift.
It escapes the head, only to travel back around, perhaps through time, waiting for the off-guard peculiarity you will, someday be blinded by.

The arch of rumbling seems to arise someplace to the south. 
Either the worst is over, or the wickedest has yet to come.

Sparklers lift the veil of night, illuminating the gravest rhymes superimposed upon the darkest of soliloquies.

  Sheltering the shadows, as to not give false notion, or to encourage encored performances. The verisimilitude is staggering. The battery seems to extend forever.

Forever is an exaggeration.  

Nothing can sustain such an appetite.  
No force is built to survive.  
The mourning shall come.  
The tides will shift.  
Hairs will part again.

There will be much recovery.  Stories will not grow periods in their sleep. The mortician may be smiling as dollar signs echo, but restoration will be a job incurred by all.

All the trees will grow new leaves. 
The unfortunate collected, reused in the creative pursuit of something novel, perhaps essential to persistence. 
All the streets will be swept.  All the arterial interference will be cleared.

Some new political scenario shall distract those affected.
Focus will adapt
Current commotions shall become carpet rides, for one and all.

And all will be forgotten, perhaps recalled in memoir, maybe gospel story, all the activity, all the attention this night has spawned, all forgotten, as if the dismal tribulations of a devastating scourge never occurred, dancing children will placate posters, teenage first-love shall enter the second act, blossoming the third with high definition denouement and diligently constructed charm in the front and rear view.  


All will be remembered:
For those injured.
For those forced to bury a friend, a brother
For those forced to part ways with a lover
For those who arduously led the clean up
For those living still in shelters
For those with no one that gets them
For those with problems stemming much earlier
For those....
  A pretty picture will not release them.

   The burdens they feel will still weigh upon them. 

It’s for the soldiers of normalcy,
To which the decree of politeness swear. 
Don’t discuss and it’s like it never happened.  
That will be the chorus, 
and after all, right or wrong,
 No one really remembers the refrain.

Then there is the other side, the opposing view.  That we need those who push and motivate those incapable, or in a positioning fetal to where they should be.  These sorts encourage prosperity.  They foster growth.  Yet tactfulness is often what they lack.  Therefore they become the motivating force, but not as they intended.  (Question:

What's the best way to stop a war between two dominating factions?

Answer:  Unify them with hatred.  Create an enemy, so strong, so powerful, so universally unbecoming, a force that threatens both factions.  Use their hatred as the unifying thread.  Distract them.  Force a truce.
Become the martyr.

And to think, the weatherman projected a wonderful summers eve.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011


Weeks merge
Convergent days a component, comprised of
Hour’s blood
Here and there, now and then
Every month it starts again
Lingering is
A cramping
Of time

Years smeared across
A calendar- a sustaining void
Seconds precious few
Blonde, bruised
Forever Blue
Tokens of exclamation

As premature as my claims may seem
A coward’s image I’ve begun to see
Like mascara to the cloth I run from what could be

Monday, June 20, 2011

Antique Ink

Rags of antiquity
Brown stained fragments
Of some other time, some other world
Genuflecting, in some ancient’s honor
As calligraphy embraces descendant’s hand

Tattered, torn in parts,
A different way of life it was,
Musty scent from where the aged papers spent,
Its vagrant years,
As forgotten words,
Suppressed through neglect,
A voice repressed,
By motions since,

Yet, today, this afternoon,
Reunion from a world unknown,
Page upon page, word upon word,
I noticed the way you crossed your t’s & the positioning of the dot above your I’s; then realized your ink lay in a way, not too estranged from mine. 

And through the dusty attic window, outdated for an era or so, must be back in vogue, as I firmly recall, seeing such a design, prominently displayed, on the showroom floor, shifting clouds could have been seen, if my eyes ever chose to rest, if they had averted from this diary that I read.

I noticed, no matter how much things have altered, when it comes to matters of the heart, when it comes to love, not much has changed at all.

And it’s eerie for me,
To find you and I,
Are strangely connected,
In ways,
Apart from DNA.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


Beneath scarf and tie,
Bristling brush,
I’m sensing your push,

Whispering unto nape,
Shiver and shake
I sense the smell you make,

Caressing sweetly,
Over bruises deep,
I sense the moisture seep,

Massages, kneading,
Tissues torn and dry,
I sense your lies,

I feel the signals,
Issuing their warning,

I sense the sounds,
The restlessness of morning,

I read the motion,
Of waves collapsing,

I hear the warmth,
Beneath your eyes

All lies, all deceptions,
Carefully crafted superficiality,
Entwined with intentions, tailor made décor,
Beneath the softness, lays a jagged floor

Through the silence, in the paint,
The forest comes alive, the foliage wakes,
Moving are its branches; broken is the trail,
No time for sorrow; no chance to fail,
Impending doom will swallow,
As the night grows hollow,

Dreams laced with paper cuts
Nightmares infused with trust

An Intersect

Like lost angels,
Falling from the sky,
Residing in the place,
They’ve all gone to die,

I’m in-between,
I’m in the crevice,

Sanctimony & temple lore,
I shall retrieve my broken promises,
When I arrive at Hell’s door,

I feel like I just broke my heart,
If I had a baseline,
I could gauge it from the start,

Fillings, stuffed & sewn,
I lost some balance,
When she came home,

Like a clown,
Directionless & alone,
I know the path I took,
Not by choice,
But from circumstantial looks,
Glances I could not take back,

Yet to see you, occupying this same space,
I wonder what difference your wisdom made,
And if your words, burrowed a hole,
For all those you had saved,

I never could’ve walked the path you paved,
Perhaps, in your case, the error’s clerical,
But for now, it appears we’ll be burning simultaneously,

I’ll now burn faster,
Ruing nothing from the life I led

Saturday, June 18, 2011

In the mind of a stranger ( A mind known so well)

Raise the curtain,
         Lift the veil,
When it comes to life,
Make it real,
         Strip it bare

Put away the glitter
Let down your hair
Burn the montages
You wish weren’t there
Return to

One foot before the other
I know it hurts, I feel the scars
I also know, it’s going to get worse
Before this clarifies
But I’ll be your crutch; I’ll be your cane
I’ll try to make it the same again
To me

Open those walls
Let in the air
A cool breeze
Amidst a warm summer’s eve
Purge away; exfoliate your fears
It can’t hurt you as long as I’m near
But first you must
Return to

Take my hand
But don’t let go
Like you’ve grown accustomed to
I can help, this I know
But the mirror needs to shatter
Before the parts regrow
Drop the act; stop pretending
I know you’re still in there
But I first you must
To me

This place bears no witness
To the niche we made
When you were Buffy
And I, your vampire
With an outfit I stole from school
And the black cape you gave to me
All I knew; all I know
 Don’t let go

Flashbacks flutter, back and forth
Between dire straits & a true north
They merge; they dissipate; they remain
They tell me I need to let you be
To let you sleep in the beds you unmade
To walk as far away I can from you
Before the damage destroy me too

Perhaps there’s wisdom in their words
But If I listened, tell me,
What kind of friend would I be?

Eventually a point may come
The point I more than fear
But first you must:

Raise the curtain,
         Lift the veil,
When it comes to life,
Make it real,
         Strip it bare
And return to me

Friday, June 17, 2011

Riot Act

And so it was…
…An incurable scourge…
         …Happed to make its stand…
…Upon our patch of soil…
              …In this once proud land…
Chaotic Applause
Predilections Rise
In revolt of an unjust cause

Tyrannical Pause
Insurrections beget
In defense of pawns

Symbolic thaw
Volitions speak
Riot acts upon

Empirical scars
Elevations threaten
The way things were

Iniquity calls
Inflictions augment
The way things are

Cascades draw
Perditions whelm
In the support of man
…And so it was…
…Carnage crawled back into its depth…
…United was the common man…
…Deflecting treble …
 …Distracting spawn…
…With the will exhibited by all…
…Shielded from the shame of failure…
…Through which…
...A once desolate village…
…Became quite strong