and the smoke by it, becoming animated.
Authenticating the slow suffering burn of the cigarette,
and its fierce red bloom ignited, it perspires.
The bedspread is consumed.
He is invisible in the hall and stalks in the dim corners,
obscured by the haze of yellow draped windows and smoke,
he walks sneakily, avoiding all contact.
Not to be seen, only suggested of-
only in the dark- with his mob of sick voices.
Settling nearby in a shabby old chair,
he puts his feet up on the coffee table,
and takes a long drag from his cigarette.
A bottle of liquor just beyond his reach.
Gently…ever so gently, he takes possession of the glass and bottle,
removing the dead finger streaks from the glass;
he settles back into his chair and pours himself a drink.
III. Envy and a Dog
The lament of this young man is unfortunate.
Stumbling he was spotted among the craggy desert,
expending his short-lived days on the hot summer sidewalks,
with the hot sun beating down,
where nothing grows- jumping from one foot to the other.
Turning down dark alleyways,
Under the sun with a melted candle,
he was unable to distinguish between the colors,
or recognize the signs.
He cracked his mirror on the hard rock of perception-
balancing between madness and inevitability.
Ask the minstrels to help him reinterpret it-
reinvigorate it.
His eyes squinted,
are blinded by the glare coming off from tall windows.
The shadows of tall buildings: under which he hides.
Her… over there…
Her eyes are protected by a gigantic pair of sunglasses,
Her mouth slightly open and red,
He wishes he could walk with her.
This other boy wears a baseball cap-
His arms bare and strong,
An Ivy- League, an all-American.
This one wears flip-flops and kaki shorts,
this one Lee jeans and sneakers,
this one high boots and fish nets.
His thin arms hold no one, firmly held down at his sides.
His teeth colored yellow by nicotine are gaped.
The smoke, he lets it blow back into his face,
the harsh taste remaining full upon his lips,
the smell of branches and twigs caught within his jacket.
He can’t really hide anywhere.
His jaw and fists are clenched-
With flushed hot scorn upon his face.-
and the frantic frenzy of the rush,
and the hot stink of the pacing, back and forth.
Searching for a friend to relate to in this place.
On the outside looking in.
The young man watches his dream girl
sitting peaceably alone by a sculpted fountain.
Her angelic soft skin pure and white,
her nature, elegant, true, and free flowing.
Her wavy curls cascade down over her slender shoulders,
blonde and silken-
her hair streams over her-
like the waters which pours forth from the fountain.
Imagined grace personified, refined and humanizing,
she touches the senses innocently as a child,
with joy, lucidity, and without shame.
The young man stands up and ambles over toward her,
the distance between them is vast.
His shadow follows behind him as he is drawn nearer to her reflection.
A place in which he does not belong-
near to the fountain where the waters are clear and sparkling.
A covetous will burning red hot grasping tightly to iron bars.
A spark explodes in a small blaze on the match head.
A figure made of stone, a child with amorous wings,
clasping his bow with adept fingers,
piercing to the heart,
struck dead by a single shot.
Driven forward by thirst,
And the siren’s charming call.
His flute is bent and plays no music,
desires fixed upon the girl-
perceived as the dream conceived her.
He stops dead and remains still.
He disdains these joyful/ fallacious embraces.
Don’t touch these hands.
He wants to make war with the princess and overthrow the ivory tower,
pull her hairs out climbing up.
Her boyfriend has returned to her from only a short separation,
never more than an hour.
He strokes her wavy blonde curls,
kisses the pearl nape of her lean neck,
whispers sweet nothings into her ear-
all this while the fountain smirks, drooling,
from the curled lips of a facetious grin-
shouting obscenities into the clear blue sky.
Turning away, disappearing into the crowd,
the maddened reddened cheeks,
flushed hot and dripping wet, slow moving.
Blinded by anxiety, his comprehension slows.
The world moves too fast, and the ground is spinning.
Mangled up like poison,
the mercury jumps along the dish.
The cracked door left open-
you let your guard down, the chain dangled freely,
unlatched from the hatch. Unhinged.
Everything can change in an instant.
Fingers sliding down the glass leaving greasy white streaks.
Don’t tap…the sound to them is disturbing.
Crashing into the earth, head first-
one thousand miles a minute.
She has the most beautiful neck and chest he has ever seen.
She, the most beautiful legs and arms, daintily stretching.
Menacing with thick wavy brows, staring into the abyss,
dismal dreary thoughts turned inward, revealed outward.
He trips on the curb.
Turning the corner, a chill goes up the spine.
The children disappearing behind twisted shoulders,
like drunken revelers, as he pounds the pavement with dirty shoes.
The women announcing themselves in glamorous fashion,
low cut jeans and midriff skin, neck lines declined,
arousing his suspicions.
On the street it is unbearable in the summertime,
where the heat chokes the blood.
In the apartment there is little relief,
where the body heat gathers in the box,
the bill overdue and the accounts closed-
the ceiling yellowed.
Craven afflicted, dormant appetites burning,
the refrigerator empty,
he counts hours by the pack.
Dead fingers rested on licentious beds sleeping.
A brutal man holding tightly to her,
Moistened bedspreads from feverish sweats in cold nights.
Tattooed arms clasped around her throat,
powerful and cruel arms, firm and indignant.
Finding their way from the package stores and the bars,
they come in from every angle, through the window,
through the door, over the hedges, another wretched duet.
The tricycle missing a wheel tilts precariously on the verge.
The rattling of the mattress springs, with heads, shoulders, and elbows,
slammed against the headboards in drunken ecstasy,
till the morning dawns and brings the sickness.
Moans and screams coming in from next door-
Holding a pillow ov
er your head won’t calm your mind.
Entering his dreams the sordid detail-
The aged bodies together grinding,
shadows of their silhouettes thrown upon the wall,
with moistened lips drooling,
thrust into one another.
Walking along grit grimy city streets-
where the mind is thrust into serene images-
a man perishing with his thoughts.
Cheer filled conversations that run on for hours on end-
how attractive they all are.
Painted toes polished and red.
Like a greedy old man in his silent lust.
A lust for steamy nights and sick mornings,
a lust for the love of the legs and the shoulders,
a lust for the committed and immaculate dancers,
a lust for domesticity, and an “I love you.”
Love, and ownership-
to be maintained and comfortable,
along these tragic city streets.
In the apartment the light is dim and hazy,
and the skin reflects yellow and stained into the mirror.
Who could love these sinister eyes?
These frantic eyes? These tear filled eyes?
IV. Professor Boys
On the campus the feeling is uneasy.
The sacred soul torn asunder-
They study Shakespeare till the pages are crumpled from analysis.
Books made up of speculation spread out on the tables.
Distant shepherds searching for young men and women,
an internship in the towers turned their anecdotes from epiphanies
into lost rhythms and broken chords.
Songs sung into empty hallways-
By people who can’t carry a tune.
The sign says no vagrancy.
Everyone must have somewhere to go.
So he is wandering beneath the tower.
Institutional young men and young women-
carefully scrutinize the loon.
Where does he come from?
Where do they make people like that?
Dark green jackets, bruised hands, and ragged faces.
The horizon turned from red to yellow-
from blue to black.
Lingering on the doorsteps, in the bathrooms,
on bench seats, by the clubs under the red neon lights,
in apartment buildings, stretched out on the grass,
he changes positions perpetually- Comfort eludes him.
He doesn’t know how to move his arms,
how to control the muscles of his face, how to smile,
how not to stare.
Here on the campus, they are sane.
Here even the trees are strategically placed on the foyer,
and the rabble howls excesses,
pink and blonde,
of a pink and blonde flavor.
“I can’t believe I kissed him.
Well, we were friends for a very long time,
and I was like fuckin’ trashed.
So fuckin’ trashed.
Like that time in the dorm room,
Or in the club.
It was like so cool though,
we didn’t talk about it at all,
but I think he’s cool with it,
we’re still friends I think.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t know what I’d do if it got out,
probably have a nervous breakdown.”
Statistical, material searches turned up empty.
Sensual, hedonistic searches turned up empty.
Objective, Intellectual searches turned up empty.
Rationality…
Taking attendance they found he was missing.
Professional services, charts and graphs,
sold souls and respected members of the community.
Looking into the heavens at the starlight,
stars bright, the flaming molecules and gaseous clouds,
wishing upon comets and meteors,
God take me away!
Entering into a room full of strangers is penetrating.
A paranoid mind contemplates too much.
Every flash of light a lightning bolt.
She scowls because of his manner,
she smiles at the expense of his looks.
Looks like the tree branch was struck,
it fell on the house and the people run in panic from the wreckage.
The green leaves quivering on a wet black bough,
a terrible beauty born in the charred dead bark.
These textures of stone, like cold nails and screws.
His austere likeness desirous, of cheerful melodies wanting.
The chairs are hard and made of hard woods.
Among the conformed, uniformed, and unidentified-
Countless who also sit.
Trading looks across long tables, polite courtesies,
odd feverish looks, heads sunk low toward scraps of paper-
peering up again.
V. Lamp Light Yellow
She on the bench is the exception.
Outside of the classroom,
her red hair fluttering in the faint yellow glow,
containing all, nothing lacking.
The sun going down in a fit of color,
the night claiming a victory,
a perfect backdrop to her subtle flow,
the purposes hidden, the mystery undisclosed.
Can you speak of the beauty of the horizon,
and describe it perfectly?
The perfection of the contrasts confused above.
The shades of red and yellow and passion blue.
The way one becomes another,
Described the form of a form so pure-
so like the real that a stranger could see,
a man who never knew to look upward.
The heavens so deep in darkness,
the starlight beaming bright and eternal, made visible.
How these things change, the day to the night.
No man could create this in his art.
No man could do her justice with his pen.
So easy in being- so difficult to embrace.
The moonlight flowing in silver currents-
Over the still waters of wishing pools,
fluid over wet grass and through dreamy parking lots-
dripped with dew the hand brushed against the mouth,
in tight legs over dull dry rocks-
casting a gaze over the delirious spectators,
playing with the shadows-
her fair and flawless skin.
Man’s form is square and resistant,
built for war,
with strong backs and hairy knuckled hands,
sharp knives and blunt tools,
grinding gears and pistols.
Every man a conqueror.
Brutality, strength, for its own sake-
where everything’s to prove.
The ape like man tortures the hay of his stall into tiny shreds-
flailing his exaggerated arms-
pounding the unyielding ground with mighty hands-
a sternness toward his guards and keepers.
A sternness toward the spectators.
A love of the jungle and the tangled shrubs,
a love of ripe fruits and sweet sap,
the smells and tastes of places far away,
a love of free and peaceful breathing,
without cages made of steel or cold bars and chains.
A love for a nature he knows within,
a home he can barely remember.
She carries a link and a key around her neck.
The sound of her heels clap upon the floor.
The door behind her closes,
Behind her- the black of the night.
T
he professor making use of his fingers for pointing-
at little white lines of chalk.
Arguments in proofs, evidences, and reason,
written in a language that satisfies.
Truth here has a label.
“The world is being destroyed by the ignorant and uneducated,”
The professor says-
“There are too many unreasonable, ridiculous,
and uncaring people in the world.
Isn’t it obvious to all of you?
The problem is that every man has a motive-
nobody I’ve met is true.
If everyone would just listen to their hearts.”
“If everyone should be forced to sit here and listen,
to learn what is right.
We could solve it all in a cause-
We could come together.
Studies show the educated are less likely to rebel.”
“There are two ways to view every issue”, he says,
“two ways of looking at every event,
two notions of what is right and wrong-
victims, hero’s and vested interest on every side.”
Thank God he at least is objective-
as he tells you truth exists within the quantity of two.
He spoke in error;
he thought everything he said was a proven fact of science.
Marisa, lady of the sea,
She is free, and carries the key.
She isn’t convinced by their explanations;
she can’t afford to trip and fall in heels.
They quote scholarship and dead men to defend their stolen judgments-
the prejudice of scholars and learned men-
cat calls and hidden glances down her back.
Wet mouths and quivering lips.
She refuses to be retained by what she read-
or to denounce what she saw-
she saw what she could and read it all in their faces.
The ape like man in lust bites the corner of his cheek while chewing.
A wild unnatural sight,
his hatreds too deep, his inadequacies too apparent-
his hair matted down to his hide by the unnatural surface.
Bubblegum and popcorn caught in tangles locks.
His eyes milky white are blind and bloodless,
staring off into far off places, untamed open spaces-
dragging his blistered and swollen knuckles over the pavement.
He’s been here too long, and his torture stinks like sex.
The heart inside is clenched.
V. White Goddess
Pity not these careworn and ragged spirits- well laden.
Forever idling nearby slumped over on the bus stop benches,
with their hands over their heads,
guarding against the clear blue sky- that’s falling.
They would stand up- they just can’t right now.
Selected Poems (2006 - 2012) Page 4
