April 30: 'Call it a day'

The invisible dancer; The moral game; The Discards: death; The Discards: lovers; The Discards: abstractions; C'est fini


The invisible dancer

The cloak of light is receding, and the dancer blankets the
world in a silken thread of the galaxy, where her web gleams
softly in reflected light sparkling; her touch is delicately
intricate, new light neither overwhelming nor blinding, and
the invisible threads call for the mass coalesced to witness
the rippling ocean of creation sweep silently overhead…

A dancer who caresses our existence without matter, creature
of darkness who is harbinger of light reborn, she is heat
rolling off an invisible sun, a pulse that radiates outside any
definable spectrum: she spins the wheel of fortune and
her obfuscated fingers push gravity to pool in a current—
and her wheel is the dark matter that keeps us in that game.

The spin dizzies us into strange slumbers, but for the watchers
tireless in their vigilance: their eyes reach beyond the sunset
and drink the work with muted awe, witness to depth unveiled:
relativity almost swallowing them as seemingly insignificant
particles in the tapestry of the galaxy; yet, their vantage is a solid
shore, waters of existence lapping at the harbor of intelligence.

Time does not pass from whence the dancer comes, but the eyes
in the primeval cradle itch with exhaustion; invisible hands
spin the wheel of fortune, and she releases attention, adjusting
the web to swell and reset incessantly; her work is infinity, layers
and layers of chance in pattern – but the swaying watchers
call it a day: resting vigilance till the spin comes around again.


April 30, 2014

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The moral game

I witnessed that killing so monstrous, exacting justice
that should not be dealt by mortal hands—
yet, I learned what he was, and found myself in
agreement with his assassin: and the thought squirmed
uncomfortably in my sagging mind, the pressure of
infinity split by a moral divide; I know he was
imperfect, yet he had good in him still, whether or not
he was mistaken, misguided, done unforgivable deeds—
what, then, should his fate have been, had the decision
been mine? I list pros and cons, black and white,
and still can’t make up my mind… I’ve done things
that perhaps deserve a consequence, yet I have been forgiven,
should he not have had that chance? but there is blood on
his hands, blood that cannot be erased – what is his fate,
just and pure or a malicious end to a callous disgrace?
the moral plateau drops the horizon beneath my feet,
yet always stretches to meet my eyes dead center: however
I twist, I cannot escape it, just as I believe there is no answer…

I have done things that served an end, but they send
ripples of disquiet in an untainted corner of innocence,
yet when asked how far I would go, what I would do—
my answer is never lightly given, but always
without question: I have done things, and said things
knowing the outcome before they left my lips, but what
would I not do, indeed, when everything
hangs in the balance? yet, there is always another side,
a mirror of shadow that rests on my soul, and only
at the end is there opportunity to give as much as I took:
the final moment where it is only sacrifice
that can achieve all I’ve worked for, and to justify
all the things I’ve done that served this end, sending
quiet ripples of contentment that I’ve fulfilled my promise,
the contract with the universe that said one day, there will be
a price I must pay – now gladly given, for the small corner
untainted and still bubbling of hurt innocence: now
like a quiet pool, mollified at the very end.

The board is contemptuous of our plight, always seeking
black or white, never knowing the weight of true
relativity – the dance is one of forgiveness and revenge,
never one without the other, never joy without sadness,
anger without fear, pain without contentment – yet we keep
distinguishing, measuring and outlining our worth with
hollow words, ambivalent noises to sooth the hurts
we cause for feeling so powerless;
but the true power of the game is not on the board,
the true high ground is outside this fiction we call reality;
what is always misunderstood, is that black is white,
white is not good and black is truth, white is black,
black is the hidden heart and white is the calm voice,
and neither black nor white ever
escape the board…
contemplation dies down after uncomfortable
silence shatters, and the last seed of thought is planted:
now all that remains to be seen is how the balance tips
in each and every moment of existence, for
at the end of the day, life is a game of tactics—
and until we end that game and call it a day,
we are always a little out of practice, and life
will always beat us to it…


April 30, 2014

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The Discards: death

Death’s Transition:
I shudder at the edge of the clock, where
the new blood has come: red blossoms to quench
the thirst of ancients carved seemingly in stone,
unmoving faces welcoming me to a home I
do not care to know—
just then a voice calls: so soft, so stark; I move,
but even as the deep velvet shroud is dropped, I know
that time finally stopped…
…and the voices consumed that vain hope I
kept fanning alive, that there is still a way out:
this cycle has an end, but their dreams only
keep beginning, and the clock’s hands
just kept moving… fingers tense with insufficient
loyalty, thoughts swirls of incomprehensible shades
of dark: I lose myself and pretend to a design, to
cunning stealth born from a desire to hide… I realize
there is no beginning to this, and I fear it will never
taste the relief of an end, because each time I spot
the oasis, the shore, the light – I find myself
still drowning where I began…
moments glitter in this medieval tapestry that
swallows my mind in a joyous breath, I saw it first
in a place of learning, but will remember it as my own
till my death, because it is there that I rebuilt myself;
what place is there for me in this great world, where heart
and soul are joined inside at last? I sought in deep places
and found a road, but on arriving I clung to times past—
that sinuous fire licks around tortured limbs, the breath
of majesty: breath of the dragon, sapphire eyes haunting…

I asked death whether it was meant to be, and he
took me in his arms to soothe, telling me of places
where we would meet and I believed him—
what else could I do? if all that is left to me is a deck
of cards, no other soothing could give me peace;
perhaps a blade is a more poignant killer, but it is
by far not the worst enemy to face – I set out on a quest
to see the true face of death, seeking answers
floating outside existence—
tubes and shocks forgotten, sore limbs ignored,
encumbered mind resting and heart free for a moment—
I sought in a place to know a name, what else would be
given in this space? but I sought more than identity:
I sought an answer to lord death, that calculating lover
of all creation, a bastard child of life and time, tyrant and
sweetest courtier with sultry smiles, and I wonder what is,
by his standards, senseless hedonism; first I placed a finger
on desire, the instinct to test strength against strength, wit
against a lack of it—
but soon I realized that is not the game we play, the truly
terrible place to meet this lord is when senselessness is
the compass to sate bloodlust, when ignorance is the virtue
to guide to the board, where we are pitted against one another—
am I fated to be a tale of old told of his previous mistress?

The maiden is a sprite of the dark woods
her heart of anguish given to the earth
yet she oft ventures forth struck by a mood
to witness the merriment where she was birthed
a child returned and now unrecognized
discouraging lads who ask her to dance
they all feel a stranger behind her eyes—
yet she mourns she cannot give them a chance
but what man could accept her blood that sings
a maiden promised in marriage to death,
of terrible lusts and wicked dreams
and fated to wander till her last breath?
You were an avatar of strength,
a sapling planted in a parched land, yet
you touched the sky with memory reborn
and the petals of your blossoms were the
purest light to shine in the darkness of
the days in which you were born: you were
satisfying as humility did not break you,
and arrogance dimmed to clear sight—
you were an idol, you could do no wrong;
but bravery has its own fault, when
the scorching sky demands sacrifice—
with defiance ready, your course was
true and steady as you made the final leap…
and a hero’s death takes not a shred of the
pain of your loss – but, perhaps,
you have found healing at last.

The Minion:
Death sent me with a message, with the instructions
to tell it to the vampire, for his ears alone, but when I
arrived he took me, the ritual death truly intended—
yet I could not protest with those eyes on me:
he told me he was irreverent of some delights of
mortality, and scornful of what else his kith did;
all he asked for was blood,
but that was not all I wanted – with
eyes that had a velvet sheen, shifting
in the moonlight as they drank me in,
with his cool fingers hesitating just
short of touching—
no, I wanted more of him, the thrill
of the terror, a polite predator
with his Victorian smile
I knew the pain would be slight,
such a charming monster would surely—
but as he snatched me close,
agony exploded and I jumped convulsively…
he is a monster disguised as a smile,
a whisper that digs fingers into your heart,
he is a delicious and slippery trickster,
and I found regret too late… his chant filled
my heart with dread, that now I am truly
just another minion of death, as he said:

There is a beauty to the lines of your eyes,
the corners of your mouth, the line of your jaw—
but I do not know you behind that gaze, looking
at me with the glance of a disinterested stranger;
you are one of us,
you share our blood—
but you are the individual…

There is something in the way you move that
strikes a chord and seems familiar; your hair is just
the shade of a long lost memory outside of time,
and the things you do are what I do in my mind;
you are one of us now,
you share in our blood—
but you are forever apart…

There is death clinging on the underside of creation,
your fingers feel it, yet keep moving to complete
the sequence and finish the weave; you are a
woman of the soil, man of the skies, a daughter, a son—
you are of our kith,
your blood sings connection,
but you have forsaken what we were: just human…

Colorless Death:
Bakkheia is the voice of the spheres this night
limits snapped in frenzied dance: feet aching,
a soreness creeping across our bodies, we
did not feel the rumble beneath as anything less
than Bacchus himself joining our feast—
we were lost in meandering streets of obsidian dreams,
and a kiss of ecstasy brushed across our lips, the deep
pulses hummed desire – and we were lost in a pure white
of lusts exploding into a numbness beyond thought:
the dusky blue of the sunset cooled, but we
twisted with heat from our hearts, heat from beneath,
but before the frenzy could die down, our heads still
swimming in a golden completion—
the ground began to bleed, the soil’s veins emptying
hot red – the skies would turn gray with ashes,
a cleansing roar to be followed by chill silence
and colors drained from the moment in stillness
as we saw Vulcan’s ire pooling to surround us—
feeling pulsed from the deep: this soil
bleeds hot red, but the skies are still not yet the gray
of destruction, cleansing…
toxic water spewed to settle the dust—
there is no trust for the likes of such, but
without a voice to speak, there’s no need to argue;
the lyre plucks hauntingly at the plight of the few,
raging against a mechanism greased with blood
and covered with lichen as it is, sitting in its
hidden dank cave… cunning pulsed ‘neath your breast
airborne grace fallen from the high mist, dew corrupted:
that inconsolable depth is what draws eyes to you
without meaning, kindling a wanting to fill it, though
there is nothing to say; you have grudging admiration
in your enemies and startlement in your victims silenced—
I should abhor you, your instincts callous, your hands
falling with quiet malice, and yet—
I feel regret for the need for you the most; and
perhaps more that you are what we wrought
at the very first as your mother cloud descended
and spread her dew across our quiet meadow…
I believed, but not enough to try to stop this day
from coming; it did come – and for all the horrors
that would be done, my part is the true tragedy—
I chose a medieval moon to oversee,
with rhapsodizing vines to undress the source
a pool of vibrations that hum with delicious zing, and
I commanded an elegy spoken: the storm swept
a corner of its cloak over the sky above, and we
soberly bid our farewells, hearts opening to the moon
witnessing this rite of rebirth, destruction pooling and
vibrating with delicious shivers, yet – none of that power
sparked the words I needed just yet: I just stood, grieving,
nestled in a cold space where I prepare, hands
outstretched… then I began, and I caught the first swirls
of rain to string them together into a column of
violent nurturing, and felt my thirst quenched in a dark
and hazy relief, before it changed to a hammer to pound
the gates of the underworld where I would take them as
my own minions… and the work was done with no more
than an indecently hasty flash—
my work is done, and I can rest at last…


April 1-30, 2014

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The Discards: lovers

Remembrance held me still at that edge: where I was
next to you, but that was not meant for this moment—
yet I still dreamed often of you… I held back
what I was, reserved for your eyes alone, but I
might as well have claimed to show no one at all—
for of all that wished me open as everyone else, you
held the least interest: our tale was not unheard of in a
world filled with identical copies of that archetypal angst;
it shamed me so to beg, but I surrendered myself to
the banner of your sheer existence on my battlefield—
in imagination, I touched the beauty cupped in your
calloused palms, a gift of dying hope, but there was no jolt
of acceptance in my mind, and I spread regretful sighs
over the flicker, gone again; I imagined a heartbeat pulsing
between us, joined as lovers, before the first rays of
moonlight brushed away the figments, and just so:
the beauty was gone… I drank from the beginning of time
and swirled the universe on my tongue, a whisper
of ageless morning, betrayed by nightmares manifested,
where solitude became loneliness, and I was compelled
to resentful searching… somewhere amongst all these
dream sequences, you must exist, real for my eyes and
untroubled by your reality—
I returned with a jolt, startled to see you: the words were
ever left unspoken whenever we met, as they are now,
despite the chiding voice in my head every time we parted;
so, I tried a small conspiracy, involving notes, empty places,
companions to distract and a moment to give you my words
without ever voicing them, but instead…
I entered a memory at the cusp of a dark age,
and became a shadow between flickering torches, and I wonder
what you say when you gaze at the stars, when the voices
stop in your mind and the emptiness stretches unbearably… do you
conjure a ball of light and hurry back inside, back where
the musty bookshelves spread warmth in your bones? or do you
wonder, like I do, about where I am, beyond those tall walls and
over the forest where the tricksters lurk? I am sleeping by a river
shivering beneath my cloak spread over bushes, wishing
to be in your chambers, with the warmth of your smiles—
but reality crashed back: I was bleeding thought into a patch
of moonlight and thought I saw a reflection catch somewhere ahead,
my considerations cut short with one, breathless snap, and
the cord of initiations into the secrets of the night fled;
footsteps, glances, hesitation – I drew closer, thinking:
perhaps it was a twinkle, a lost gem unearthed by the rain,
and perhaps it was a wish fulfilled by the moon I contemplate…
I was drifting on a tide of nocturnal feelings, a seed
of tiredness seeping from my soul, but the glint came again,
and I could not draw away, nor stop my approach—
had I been discovered by another who pondered as I?
soft breathing, remembrance of intrigue – I hid where I could see:
perhaps it is a man – or not – with a feather step and aura of peace,
but perhaps it was simply an interloper, only just like me…
I felt that gaze turn and it froze me in place, like ice and
sweltering heat molded into one, I had to draw closer and feel
recognition or…

The princess cooed through the bronze cage
and thought herself the same, she is weeping,
the canary is sleeping and dreaming
of the taste of freedom’s sweet, cooling air
but come morning, both will sing for the heir;
master of the land: callous, and ambitious
his smile belying his name: Nightingale.

She once loved the song of the nightingale,
yet now his plumes were that of a steel cage,
and were she but courageous, a tad ambitious,
she would set her canary free, never weeping,
and reclaim the throne to which she is heir,
not stifling tears and endlessly dreaming
of the world outside swathed in night’s cold air.

Love is a jealous mistress
that bubbles up at even casual strings:
you may not be my lover, but I wish you
all to myself – that’s a kind of love,
that’s what I love you with – that’s all I have,
this is what I call friendship…
he comes like a shadow, love does
and slips nimble fingers into your pouch of treasures,
netting strings around impossible things,
spawning dreams and planting dangerous seeds—
what care has he for right and wrong? love
is a force beyond reason, a rage that cannot be stopped,
a fire that consumes and yet,
douses warmth with its cold jealousy… love is
spread evenly in a mosaic of utter chaos, love
is a trickster who plays idly with all: a string plucked,
a stray arrow to take away the pain—
indecision is not his way, he would rather us
flounder in a sea of desirable anguish, and he
is a creator of the void: that yawning emptiness
where he stuffs others in your head,
without regard for common sense: if it cannot be,
then at the very least, drink of a failed tie’s misery…
I say the most important thing is
the love lacing between us, but perhaps
it is your absence which is most eloquent—
but I will always be but a heartbeat away,
where I met you on a green field dabbled with lights,
little fireflies like fairies illuminating patches
where your light step took you out of sight,
melting into a deep shadow…
I can see the scent of lavender swirling around you,
a sharp merriment hidden in lush softness, that
combination as easy to breathe as desire; lavender
is passion ignited, a purple flame kindled
in the heart of a midnight blackness, a warm place
where nothing exists except shapeless blurs;
and the texture of skin, lavender’s essence tingling,
for lavender fills your breath,
as you whisper sweet nothings in my ear;
I should not, yet I know I will indulge it, that
treacherous hope that keeps building, heedless—
each time it is trampled, buffeted by winds of change,
slaughtered and dumped into an unmarked grave, it just
keeps growing stronger, its taste always lingering on
my tongue, and the suffering is always correspondingly
more dire – yet I keep thinking: sometime it has to end—
at least once, come a new turn, dumb luck has to work
in my favor; I may have quashed naivety, but hope
just refuses to bleed out: it is a snuffed candle
with a flame that burns in vacuum and not air, balancing
power that is a soft moss growing over shackles of despair.

You gave me a cup of sunshine and had
a dress of faded pink made for me to wear—
I was incredulous, but I saw in your eyes
that you were quite sincere; you said that I
was the stars in the sky to you, a brilliant comet
of talent and wisdom – I thought you were joking,
but then you bent lower to kiss me, and
I knew this was really happening: a dream sequence
from a bizarre lover’s tale that involved
fluff laced with lust, absurd obsessions and
a general directionless vagueness; you said
that my advice resurrected your heart,
gave it a beat that it might have never had
from the very start, but you fancied yourself a prince
saving a sleeping beauty—
I was never enticed by empty understanding and
the diminishment of my pain into something inflicted,
but easily mended by a kiss or two; I have need
of my blue, and little of your pink frill; still,
you persisted…
I gave you a smirk, but you gave me flowers, even
though the whites of your eyes were a faded pink
with the glassy film of tears drying; but
you kept implying that there was something here—
and I know that your pretty haze is going to
evaporate one day and reveal that I’m just not
the princess you want—
but against that day, my work is done, and I depart
to rest in the solitude I’ve wrested from your arms.


April 1-30, 2014

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The Discards: abstractions

I stopped in splash of brightness, and though
my heart may have a comfortable snuggle in the
lush rains and warm breezes of the world taking a
deep breath of wakening, what truly stitched
closed the gaps was the thrumming beneath, the magic
flowing from the core to the callous skies… and I was
sure that with this, I could not desire your cold kisses,
given only grudgingly – and somewhere a clasp
loosened inside, rusted with an age of uneventful and
wily hours that strip away meaning from sunshine and
sunsets; only regret remains, reaching back, only
that has the true grasp of it… there was a prayer whispered
in the fog of saturation, lights and scents to bury
the mind and heighten emotion: I thought I had it all
figured out, but I see now that I’ve just been seeking
the unknown… not the concept, not the void in which
I find myself time and again, simply: more…
I feel the hollow rasp on the cheek, just
a breath of that gray fog—
where passions dim into a soothed indistinctness,
and the voice carries a familiar warmth…
out here, in this cold, I do not grow old nor find myself
in tight corners of duty and abandon; out here, in this world,
there is nothing—
no weight, no long suffering silences, no expectation, only…
a dream…
I sought the rivers of chance in the deep and
to escape from shackles of affection placed on myself,
just to see what I could have done differently: but answers
kept eluding me… I was the sojourner, taken a quest upon
myself to discover treasures lost, not the lush palaces of
my fantasies, but to tap into rivers of magical reality: but
I was lost in the surging forces of time eroding myths,
and returned resentfully to the beginning… I was
the hunter, without a quarry and brimming with doubts,
but I sought time in the skies—
if it is that which hinders me, surely it is where I must go:
but as the skies opened and haunting silence surrounded me,
I realized that time only existed in the encumbrance
of change, the answer one within the other, and
untouchable by my mortal comprehension;
I thought briefly of what the others might say—
but the moment passed quickly, for my heart does not
answer to their expectation; since that caring died down
to an ember, I floated on a summer breeze
without encumbrances of what must and should,
and life still miraculously continued: since
I stopped thinking, feeling has taken its place
and worry is a figment of my imagination,
a sickness deep in me that festered long, but now,
since I began to see more clearly: worry and me
are old friends… distant ones,
across oceans of difference, but I still reminisce
on special occasions, for the time that has since passed
and elapsed in waves on my shores, so high and deep
that a few words could not begin to describe them, so
I summon a few to put behind my quiet smiles:
since we said our farewells, there is no room left;
but something occurred to me, and
since that guilty thought gripped,
time seemed to slip through fingers dripping
with intentions that would never come to fruition,
all for a delicate quiver inside: eyes drinking,
lips moving in silent reverie, the hills swelled
and a mist cloaked it all in a mystery, but just beyond,
the sands gusted forth, consuming like a strange dream…
Moonblush makes a stained-glass pattern fall over
my still form on the cool stone floor, I am
a wild huntress who wiles away time in this corner often,
I say I am recharging and the moonshine seems
so radiant through my fingers as I peer betwixt them—
moving softly and with bubbling mirth, to woo the night itself
with promises of desires fulfilled, and—
…and I awaken with a groan, the hour late, head spinning
with a dull ache of resounding emptiness, and the most
I hunt for here and now is a resigned sigh,
in the hopes that it can express a sliver of feeling, inside this
cage of existence where I dwell, in this land that holds
not a shred of myth and magic, only sullen glares and
fascination with the petty squabbles: a distorted mirror
of the miasma of immaturity that hides their starvation…
and just then, asteroids invade softly in the vision of a map,
falling like a gentle rain down to gravity’s embrace—
yet there is no doubt of the shock, the fire mirrored:
there is nothing quite like city lights ablaze, they said,
set against rustling green trees, nor the brief
glimpses of a canvas of stars peering
between buildings, but nothing can give that hum
of surprising death—
he was an abstraction, a visitation from
a place beyond the fern and ivy, inside
the ruins – my skin pebbles as my fingers
run along the toppled tower, still a piece, though
with a jaunty lean that seems a mockery, and
the eyes stared at me, behind blades of grass
determinedly invading every nook to be had;
the eyes implored me closer towards a patch of mist,
and as I touched it—
desire shivered through me: desire to know,
to feel again, to see the tower standing tall and
reflecting light like a brilliant beacon—
as a gasp left my lips, vision doubled, I fell
to stare at a canopy of stars chased by moonlight,
and the eyes hovered over me…
an essence manifested, he was a metaphor
for what once was, yet his flesh mortal, his eyes
sorrowful pools; the emperor of a city of the dead,
trapped forever in an eternity of loneliness, and
I found myself wishing to set him free—
but before I could stand, he vanished,
the night empty once more, a crumbling ruin
to mark his grave and prison;
still, I knew those eyes would haunt me
until I could summon him again…
the abstract liquid like a bitter honey
makes me keep listening to my blood rush—
that small almost-sound that comes again and
again, I think it’s a hook of a madness;
perhaps I am ill, perhaps this is a nightmare,
with a shadow suddenly teasing me with an
almost-kiss – but if it is a nightmare, I think
I must be a masochist…
the pulse was a wave that rippled through me,
and the sound caught my attention again—
for a moment I was less than solid in that embrace,
and caught in the wave, I thought I saw a face
just at the corner of my eye—
but whenever I look, all I see is an empty place
filled with curious filth and mannequins, but
then I feel I might be one of them…
my blood tells me maybe I am right, someone
is tugging a string attached to me somewhere;
It was agony and sinful delight—
a crescendo of new life,
after the bitter pain kept swelling,
the moment was forever building higher,
and finally the pain subsided into numb
disbelief: the waves kept
crashing and I think the lights went out—
that’s when
culture popped out:
the ice was smoking in the village square
silk hats flapping in the gusts of winter’s breath,
the substrata heat was unexpected – but hardly
anything difficult to deal with; spring was all in a rush,
forcing out blossoms to cheer the hopeless who stood
mournfully ‘neath the cherry tree’s branches
yet the icicles were still keen to find heads,
dropping with the crack of a hard fate met
but the pavement was set to bubble
like an overwrought cauldron of anger:
it boiled into spring breezes laced with chill, winter’s fall
a mere pittance compared with the gales of
a spring thaw come to thwart the still dark days,
the underside of civilization heaved
and its temper cooled only high in the skies;
where comets met its red glares with indifferent shrugs
storms and fair days alternating to harry the nobility
and press down on the little folk into utmost misery:
crops sitting in stagnant pools of attention,
this spring marks a strange occasion of
sublimation to challenge all seasons;
when that sun goes down, my steps are lighter,
city lights like fairy bubbles swimming in vertigo,
this place is outside of time on summer nights
where the river is black with delights simmering,
buildings quivering from the kicking beat of relaxing,
and we’re never in one place too long; there’s always
a festival raging, a quiet affair in analogy:
the vertigo of exhaustion never dulled fear,
in that place where I was walking the clouds;
maybe somewhere there’s danger lurking, but
I never felt its presence—
yet the river of suffering flooded
through the valley of agony, they told me:
shore the sides up to the standard,
fold the flagging textile of bled dreams,
and finally, there was a releasing feeling:
I drank from the stream spilling from the mountains,
and felt the coolness spread across my inner heat—
with startling clarity, we agreed
that justice was something we want,
and it was settled – so we gathered around to hear
the pronouncement of the weight of what was done;
yet justice does not weigh deeds as we do,
justice is merciless, even cruel, to strike down
those you might forgive – so justice was thereafter
an ideal shelved…
vices creep in the mirror,
sneaks preening with slant-eyed gloats
positioning pieces, so red, so nimble,
those bleeding voices in my head
the word doppelgängers march on the fort:
vision expands, but riddled with
original clichés – their slap smarts
with flushed witticisms and catechisms
that spell a nuanced plague;
I spilled fantasy salve to cure the infection:
mythical beasts groaning, and I hold my
breath as the storm broke down weeping;
nature bent backwards and snapped—
severed at the base, the sapling wilted
and the vices snickered in delight
the ominous words triumphed….
tangled wits and slow eyes, always
the eyes are lidded in the smoke
sultry scent and sheen of sweat, the work
spirals into completion; knots of hair,
jars of pickled sensibility
tossed onto the flames of quiet spells…

I wandered enchanted forests and spun tales
to tell of it, but always I was silenced by
an imposing cloud of disinterest—
so I kept it to myself, and called it a day:
‘neath a glib gibbous moon, I know the time
has come: I exit my mind, for
my work here is done.


April 1-30, 2014

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C'est fini

My Muse and I danced amidst fairy lights, but almost
all that had to be said had been—
his supple lips had whispered secrets of the universe,
but always colored in his personality, and now
we come to an end; harsh words were exchanged in
the heat of our metaphysical battles, and sweet
lover’s kisses to assuage our hurts, and now
only the aria of the spheres bridges our silence—
until the dance is finally done, and I remain
but a moment longer in his arms, till we are
to part ways, for a time at least; as his eyes voiced
a final affection that he would not speak,
I kissed him gently and whispered c’est fini—
and woke from the magical dream…


April 30, 2014

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