eyelash moon flutters-
the cobalt sky caresses
my longing silence
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
How to Love in These Last Days
i.
all i want to do
is love you famous
all i want to do
is burn my initials into your soul
all i want to do
is write my love
from the middle of an erupting volcano
standing in the fast lane of the
lava flow
the world as it's become
eats its inhabitants
i'd rather
sell arms to the devil
than wait sullenly for
approval from a diseased clown with a
three-piece mind
telling me that i should love through a
bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
i want to be
hated
by Everybody Else who
proselytizes hearts and minds
i want people to hear about my love
and get headaches
i want people to hear about my love
and vomit
i want people to hear about my love
and weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,
eat their television sets, beat each other to death with
swords and
get out and get riotously drunk on
someone else's money
ii.
love ain't no democratic process
love ain't no populist agenda
love ain't foolin' a
grab-bag of
clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and
gracious theories about
how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a
hallmark card
love ain't no
genteel discussion over
cappuccino and collective consciousness
love ain't no chest-thumping
These Last Days have meaning
as we watch the planets and stars fall from heaven
they ain't no letter press, hand-me-down,
wimpy lovefest about
the broken rainbow
they are a carnival of dread
they are a savage sideshow
about to move into the main arena
they are the thief in the night stealthily slipping
in and out of our lives
stealing a precious gem and leaving paste
they are terror and wild beauty
walking hand-in-hand down a bombed-out history
as missle scream while a
sky the color of arterial blood
blinks on and off
like the light on broadway
after the last junky's dead of
aids....
iii.
i come not to bury love
but to blow it up
not dandle it on my knee
like a handicapped child with
beautiful eyes
but
throw it off a cliff into
icy seas and
see if my unsated soul can
swim for its life
because soul-love is expensive
sorely needed
but....
there is so much iron pyrite these days
apathetic love with a chip on its shoulder
a chip as big as the empire state building
and heavier than
all the bills it'll never be able to pay
because these ARE the Last Days
Everybody Else is hawking radioactive jared-diamond-love
and victoria-secret-lingerie-love that
lowers the iq by fifty points per eye full
the vast masses believe
practicing half-hearted love
is the best way to combine caress and career
we're accosted by comercial love
with eyes like wet stones
peering out from the pages of
glossy magazines
promising that it'll
make us love till we bleed
if we just buy on of their switch-blade versions of love....
all i want to do
is love you famous
all i want to do
is burn my initials into your soul
all i want to do
is write my love
from the middle of an erupting volcano
standing in the fast lane of the
lava flow
the world as it's become
eats its inhabitants
i'd rather
sell arms to the devil
than wait sullenly for
approval from a diseased clown with a
three-piece mind
telling me that i should love through a
bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
i want to be
hated
by Everybody Else who
proselytizes hearts and minds
i want people to hear about my love
and get headaches
i want people to hear about my love
and vomit
i want people to hear about my love
and weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,
eat their television sets, beat each other to death with
swords and
get out and get riotously drunk on
someone else's money
ii.
love ain't no democratic process
love ain't no populist agenda
love ain't foolin' a
grab-bag of
clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and
gracious theories about
how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a
hallmark card
love ain't no
genteel discussion over
cappuccino and collective consciousness
love ain't no chest-thumping
These Last Days have meaning
as we watch the planets and stars fall from heaven
they ain't no letter press, hand-me-down,
wimpy lovefest about
the broken rainbow
they are a carnival of dread
they are a savage sideshow
about to move into the main arena
they are the thief in the night stealthily slipping
in and out of our lives
stealing a precious gem and leaving paste
they are terror and wild beauty
walking hand-in-hand down a bombed-out history
as missle scream while a
sky the color of arterial blood
blinks on and off
like the light on broadway
after the last junky's dead of
aids....
iii.
i come not to bury love
but to blow it up
not dandle it on my knee
like a handicapped child with
beautiful eyes
but
throw it off a cliff into
icy seas and
see if my unsated soul can
swim for its life
because soul-love is expensive
sorely needed
but....
there is so much iron pyrite these days
apathetic love with a chip on its shoulder
a chip as big as the empire state building
and heavier than
all the bills it'll never be able to pay
because these ARE the Last Days
Everybody Else is hawking radioactive jared-diamond-love
and victoria-secret-lingerie-love that
lowers the iq by fifty points per eye full
the vast masses believe
practicing half-hearted love
is the best way to combine caress and career
we're accosted by comercial love
with eyes like wet stones
peering out from the pages of
glossy magazines
promising that it'll
make us love till we bleed
if we just buy on of their switch-blade versions of love....
The What Could Have Been Pail
nothing ever happens
twice. the cosmic fact:
we come to life's stage
jazz musicians
improvising-
no chance to practice.
no moment a carbon copy,
no two days the same.
an hour my mind
mentioned your name-
a rose tossed
into my skull,
all hue and fragrance.
now, your name
is the morning star-
a rose? a rose?
what is a rose?
is it a flower or
a platinum light?
each hour is pregnant
with embyotic moments-
too many aborted-
each carelessly tossed into the blood
of the what-could-have-been pail
with syllabic swoons
i enter the maternity ward-
a jazz obstetrician,
delivering bebop babies beneath
brilliant stars and roses-
today won't stay;
always gone tomorrow.
twice. the cosmic fact:
we come to life's stage
jazz musicians
improvising-
no chance to practice.
no moment a carbon copy,
no two days the same.
an hour my mind
mentioned your name-
a rose tossed
into my skull,
all hue and fragrance.
now, your name
is the morning star-
a rose? a rose?
what is a rose?
is it a flower or
a platinum light?
each hour is pregnant
with embyotic moments-
too many aborted-
each carelessly tossed into the blood
of the what-could-have-been pail
with syllabic swoons
i enter the maternity ward-
a jazz obstetrician,
delivering bebop babies beneath
brilliant stars and roses-
today won't stay;
always gone tomorrow.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Dawn
love's dawn:
water purling over ice
blue with rising mist,
glaciers sunk in emerald green,
mountain ram and antelope climbing,
golden salmon spawning,
dolphins frolicking,
the amber jack leaping
o'er the arctic rim.
water purling over ice
blue with rising mist,
glaciers sunk in emerald green,
mountain ram and antelope climbing,
golden salmon spawning,
dolphins frolicking,
the amber jack leaping
o'er the arctic rim.
Pregnant
my love gestates.
i carry it with me
wherever i roam.
throughout the day i am
great with child;
boy scouts escort me
across the street.
women offer their chairs,
no one pushes me rudely.
i waddle awkwardly,
my soul's stomach pressed
against the weight of the world.
i carry it with me
wherever i roam.
throughout the day i am
great with child;
boy scouts escort me
across the street.
women offer their chairs,
no one pushes me rudely.
i waddle awkwardly,
my soul's stomach pressed
against the weight of the world.
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