Sunday, March 11, 2012

What She Deemed as Independence


Fretting the skylark vignette, thinking
was it troublesome, I forget?
fragile, damaged—subterfuge
inserted through—detachers landing pads
abruptly fluttersome, this dark dove
of scarcity…crumbs…and ain’t that so so so so

Sweating the tough clues, brick
upon brick, soft at the mortar-side—
flashing incoherence, representable
detonation—of scoffed genuflections—
easily mutable are distractions—but—case
in pointed point presents the presences of pretension—sweeping through—a haunting dark—reefs broken by—all the everlasting—
freak flags glowing—bezerk—ghastly—cruel—but who knows the pick to blame?  and ain’t that so so so so

I’ve dreamt the same dream for decades now,
there I sat mountain high, observing as
colossal tides collapse, collide—into the low
craggy tips, barely breathing—there—above an ocean’s rising floor—draped amongst the plankton skirts and corral tees— the red, the blues—and there, I realize, I’m more own worst anemone.

 shine shine shine though, sparkly shine—the party beats still—expectations don’t surrender—must try, must try—then, there—without trying—a memory—how beautiful the ceiling looked—cloud covering fog below, the light shards pierce of select wave—It was beyond peaceful, beyond any Eden I could ever know—ecstasy until….”damn pills said I’d sleep through the night”

…and attrition reminds me—everything I had purposely ignored— while sleeping under stardust, coveting whatever the splashing leaves behind—

however –
neurons remembered the firing pin—and…and, the words were still there—as if they had never left—intact—survived—still remained—exactly where last placed—way back when—on that day—the one you called your independence— as you stood tall upon that reef, watching the schools swim so so so    

Saturday, March 10, 2012

To Rise Again (Greater Heights Have Been Scaled)


Slew foot polygon—a gross manipulator
one in the same—as facts—details—skew the page
for all the ins and outs—
for all the feral symmetry—
for all the finite skills suppressed—
for all the jungle operations hunkered
down—

So deep, that vacuous well—
forever locked—up, down, side x side—
jaw draped—from the random parallels—
between awe—and the every word spoken against, 
in spell—
in prisms—
of polarities—dualities—
beacons—cadmium contrition’s—
acting out—
for the veil of false pretense—
for the guise of diction—
for the holographic mark of time—
for the itch turned untimely cue—

Fate breathers,
henchmen to the idle ones—
content to float through belligerencies—
within broken vessels— meant for
toys, not for man

But who should cast such blame?
Is it he who skips the perfect stone?
Is it she, wielding such a silvered tongue?
or perhaps, it’s just those that need not sweat
yet are still the ones who always get?

the everyman sitting there—
on hands, on knees—trying to find
whatever comes naturally—trying to discover
whatever may come to mind?
—anything, something, anything please—
but what can be done?
but what else is there to do—
when we are many and they are few?
until the skies shift and the tides can turn
we cannot protect against the subsets spurn
when voices meet but never blend
and until they do and we can
 it seems the facts remain the same
that Everyman doesn’t stand a chance
As conditions can’t change
until one voice is heard
as progress can’t begin
until Everyman gathers ears
and states its case

   
The history of mankind is overrun with tales of ordinary men and women fighting the odds and climbing out from the deepest and darkest of pits.  The precedents are right there in the record books, it has been done and can be done again.    

Friday, March 9, 2012

A Dirge Adrift


beautiful fractals float
atop the rotting wood—
wind-stains adrift

slanted dreams
a felony of

groves barren and forgotten
are those moments past a reapers swing

gorgeous surrender
tempt me naught

for the greyest cloaks of strangeness
guide the shadows now

to where the weathered stones denote location
to where fragments bathe in muddied earth

it’s message, is one of certainty
providing clarity through dates and name,
leaving but the questions mankind’s wrestled all his days

Thursday, March 8, 2012

The Black Mask Of Love


Black mask on!
white’s aglow
familiar yet still unknown

black mask on!
scars concealed,
skin forever sealed from view

loving me is like suicide
slowly drains the life in you
loving me is like suicide
you’ll feel trapped; you’ll feel lost
and soon… there’ll be nothing left of you

Black mask on!
chamber’s spun
rotates until
the last shell’s won,
the end’s revealed

Black mask on!
slipping away
faceless seems like everyday
all that you’ve done, so little won
for a love grown stale, the mirror tells the truest tale

loving me is like suicide
you ignore the signs; you pray instead of run
loving me is like suicide
without knowing the how, where and when

Black mask on!
pressed to skin
asphyxiation
cutting deep within

Black mask on!
dreaming upon anything
preying upon everyone
wishing…for only all of this to end

loving me is like suicide
Mercury or heroine
tracts to arm
to fuel the spark
needed to let this love survive

Black mask on!
searching for
meanings that just aren’t there

loving me is like suicide
first you love and then you die
loving me is never right
only darkness, never light

Black mask on!
seeking high and searching for
locked doors you’ll never find 

loving me is like suicide
craving deeply loves embrace
loving me is like suicide
in spite of knowing it all will be erased

Black mask on!

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Masthead


Label me an infant
label me a fool

do not trust the anarchist
preaching about rules

label me a scapegoat
label me a tool

do not dam the floodgates
lest inside they form a pool

label me a train-wreck
label me as blind

its good to poke holes in theory
so truth can breathe in time

call me what you like
call me what you don’t
it doesn’t matter to me;
I’ve learned to laugh at all your jokes

labels are scattered; they’re thrown around
labels are but words; always lost, but never found

they have no bearing; they play no role
in who I am, to what I do

they have no influence; they have not a say
as to what fate finds in store for me

your words fall deaf, meaningless and weak
never providing the satisfaction that you seek

your words bring pain to others, highlighting their many scars
but you should be reflecting, as to where the damage starts

your words are but a mere transference
of what you’ve been and where and who you are

sticks and stones…if it appeases you…
just know…that for each judgment cast
I’ll shed a tear in prayer for you—
Forever using those labels as my mast


Be sure to head on over to D'verse for Open Link Night.  The doors open up in just a few short minutes. Starting at 3pm the poetry is always fresh on tap. And while you're there, share a poem of your own. Cheers. 

Monday, March 5, 2012

For All The Kings of Wanton Realms


clarity amongst the spackled shale—arrives
rattled, riven—as tenets forcibly flash before
simmering currents far from home—dreamt about, yet left alone—
where endless mirrors span amongst the golden bedrock—

that is, until, the eyes opened—once again carving reality—frozen in unkempt status and other sordid scatterings—a reminder, of the chaotic surplus owned by few; and those detrimental demons—the apparent contagions designated in the discarded view—of which, ironically, comprise the largest populous of the two.

the mirage, the oasis, seeping through pavement cracks—
crackling dismay through annexed thought—of soda-colored undertows and yet another night alone—beneath a shelter of stars; beside the lullabies of sounding vermin—scurrying competitively—for the tarnished or divine—for whatever’s left to find—for something, anything, helps prolong the fight   

but only the forked pitch tongue survives—thus the adaptability of the protector’s disguise—the only thing—aside from thought and dream—making movement possible.

…and diadems are pronounced,
for the newest king of another
wanton realm