6/18/2017

Touch



There is no touch that will compare to your bare skin on my brow, or the kisses that alit my arms like birds on a branch, swollen with the fervent cries of prayer. We were together, in that time and for that moment, never again. What memory remains, erodes. What love I had for you, I buried deep. So deep that sunlight will never seed the embers of my heart. Your specter shuffles by, a scattered thought sandwiched between a laundry list of to do's and have done's. You are an item, an actor playing lines in the theater of my past. You are a thing on one long pearl string of other things. The lighthouse of your longing grows faint the further I sail out to sea until I one day I cannot see you on the shore. What we had, let it remain in the hallways of our mind. Our greatest love and your regret, the door to which I close and leave behind. 

Nostalgia

Samuel Palmer, A Shepherd & His Flock Under The Moon & Stars
Plead for a time and place all you like, for the stars to turn themselves forever backwards, peeling past the pit hole of your mind when you were infantile and absolved of all the crimes which carry forward, on your shoulders, a burden that amasses as each year goes rolling by. Plead with them and not with me. Nothing can absolve your memory, not even the utterance of those words you hope to hear, for no, I am the moon and immovable and I do not love you even though you think of loving me.

6/17/2017

Time, the Thief

Haughty is the night which takes from me by dreams, wishes of a long, lost life when I was an errant queen.
Long are the days which dripping by the light, lend unto the ground, leaves that loose their flight.
Longer still my love which like a shadow sits, counting every empty hour that flies by like counterfeits.
Time is yet a thief who would steal away our love, whittling down my patience until you I'm deserving of.

Wind




Crashing into me along the window pane is the wind with whom I love like a gentle, moving vane. Stealing on the nightly cloudy fog a phantom specter rise, filling up the skies with hollow, ghoulish cries. Chasing down into glades grubby little gnomes, snatching at the nymphs whose gleaming lightly gloams. Tragic is the wind who howls and moans so low, he the hunger has will only grow and grow. Stirring up the tempest tide of tidal woes it must, screaming at the moon he cannot win with lust. When drown he dies his groans and cries cease to be no more. Then there is no trace of the wind except the windswept shore.



Aren't

Ardent are my eyes which look at you, my soul. Aren't all my cries yet a worthy goal? Arrest me by your arms and arm against my waist, unburden all from me that is good and chaste. Snatch away my breath and grab my tender heart. Plunder mine rosy cheeks and coax these knees apart. Sir, all I ask of you, do not destroy my love, which begs on bended knee for you to be beloved.

6/16/2017

to struggle

Words, like dry bones, litter the valley and the wind howls out against the insensible cacophony of stars which scrape the sky. The animal, Man, wanders the land, searching for meaning among stones and sigils, running his hand along the darkened cave of his mind, feeling, scrawling, along the thick, stony walls, the outline of what he knows. Years later, his struggle but an ancient memory, his descendants, prosperous, fat and rich, will have all but forgotten the utterances behind the words with which he tried to paint the Truth.

Power

The Eclipse of the Sun by George Grosz, 1926


Power is, perhaps, the only element that matters to the human psyche. It is the very elemental force, unattainable and fleeting, that pervades our subconsciousness. From sex to politics, amid our relations with family and friends, to gain power is the driver that compels us to engage in society and with each other. Is it any wonder that as we grow in excess our delights become lascivious and our expressions of power pervert like lines that warp in florid frills which take delight in amassing more and more of the heady, noxious fumes even at another's expense? For power many a man went mad and against all laws of his moral compunction which may have, hitherto, compelled him to be "good." 

To debase another is the purest form of concentrated power, which is why there are an abundance of child molesters amassed at every pinnacle of society. To toy with the fate of another man is a sweet and secret pleasure, which is why all laws are devised with bents and twists, the loopholes of which may be exercised at whim by those who scale a ladder of paperwork to attain the key of legality which unlocks every avenue of the matrices informing our communities of what is "right" and "wrong." Those who have power rewrite the world according to their standard, doing so to protect their power and prevent others from the pursuit of it: they labor under the delusion that they have rewritten themselves a check against the banknote of Life and lent unto themselves more of the very thing they seek: Eternity. 


The powerful man fears one thing and She is Nature, for no amount of power can prevent the death strokes of Time from taking her toll. Power and power alone is the only seemingly attainable measure that man has to reconnoiter the map of his life against annihilating force that is his fear of Death. In power we distract ourself from the sting which is our namelessness when the light of our being ceases to exist. In our pursuit of Power, which we mistake for Life, we trample underfoot, the living things around us and perpetuate the carnal cycle of Death which we so pathetically attempt to escape.





10/28/2016

a woman from Zurich


That woman with braids severe as her face is lovely
sits down at the cafe to order a cup of coffee.

From Zurich, silk wrapped around her throat
Listens to the gypsies whose music by her floats.

Her head tilted like a crow eyeing sightless sound
turned into a changeling child who would not be found.

Swaying to the music, bent, a willow to the shore
calling for a time since passed long before the war.

The cup meets but never kissed the distaste of her mouth
which turned up to greet the musicians of the south.

She was taken by cabal, taken to the dance
her body seized by movement, her gaze transformed to trance.

That moment was suspended between her glance and mine,
across four rows of tables our hearts were so inclined.

I'll never know this woman in any other tongue
than the Dionysian tune to which the gypsies sung.

Secret of the Heart

each hearbreak is so distinct as to make you fresh aware that the heart can be healed seven times seven, broken and resurrected yet again to do the impossible task of loving.
love without remorse.
regret the people you loved but never regret the loving, a reflexive sign one is still alive and capable of feeling that which brings musicians to utter words into song and the force which pulls life from legs.
sink into the feeling. possess yourself of the ache and let it stab you over and over again. Cry heartlessly and with abandon. wander the streets with a kind of detachment that allows the world to pass through your body like a glove. be nobody and everybody. the minutia of an old woman's wrinkle -she sits in the cafe- will make you wonder what it was like for her lover to taste the tears off her lips. The bulbous onion rounded cheeks of a child will make you long to touch them with a blessing.
there is no end to your love. it was never this person's to own. it was never bound. it is free to dispense like alms to every passerby you meet.
and if all else fails listen to music on repeat.

What I saw in Strahov



There was a priest not much older age than I
whose beauteous purity caught my wandering eye.
Within the chapel of gilded gold and brown
I saw him sitting there, hands clasped, lips turned down.
His gaze affixed the cross which on high did sit
Mary on her lap with Jesu, her holy infant.
He had no care but them, his worldly ways deceased
only the sin within his mortal coil this man cared release.
That boyish look about his lips, that sincerity of heart,
oh he was like a piece of living chapel art!
My body could never be the holy bread and wine
the kadosh, kadosh, kadosh drawing his mouth to mine.
That priest bedecked in white an ecstatic joy did know
more than I ever did when held by men below.