Archive for December, 2013

I am where the fury cannot reach me.

Claws of ice, of cold glass

would cut my cheeks

when I was younger, when I was

more foolish.

Now the breath of the globe

stirs its perfect blanket, it separates

into particles that cluster into talons,

but once would melt against my raw flesh-

no harsher than a mother’s love.

 

There is beauty

in this rage.

Only where I am is where Earth

could fold a new layer of skin

over itself, and become pristine,

with no black macadam,

no brown roots,

no pink beasts

to disturb its purity.

They are all too afraid.

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At this moment

snow is falling,

coating spruce trees

in a down of crystals.

There shall be a time

when they fall with great age,

or are plucked from the earth

to make room for progress

and its silver cables.

There shall be a time

when the moon pulls off her mask

and becomes a droplet of blood-

the doom ruby, shining in the sky.

There shall be a time

when heaven spits upon the Earth,

and the creatures flee,

but Man is caught in the fire.

Until that time I will open my mouth,

let snowflakes fall in, an angel within each,

and taste my childhood.

is not impossible.

Van Gogh’s body fought off gangrene

to live with it.

Orpheus survived the depths of Hell

to live with it,

for however short a time.

It may be difficult,

one may become a phantom,

or cycle through labyrinths of fire, water, and snow,

but they will survive.

The human heart has adapted

to be a phoenix:

reborn with new fervor

after fizzling out.

Sweet lady,

you’ve shrunk to a corn husk,

your eyes bulge with water-weight,

you’re hunched over like a crescent moon.

Prattle on in Polish 

among the younger adults

who sip wine, that sour nectar.

 

I’m a ghost in the room.

I fade into the gray walls.

My disinterest fuels my observation,

and, if you’ll forgive me, my ignorance

towards announced recollection of days long gone 

(fond memories I’ll sneeze at in the future).

I notice the pot bellies– as one grays,

one grows out– the obsession with the menial,

and I realize I want glamour,

I want flashing lights and millions to know my name,

then I won’t be wide eyed, staring at a dog.

Then I’ll be able

to make conversation

with people who mutually want to,

to talk about things 

that actually have meaning.

Where would I rather be?

There are people here

who do not know me.

I know only their blood, not

their histories.

They talk of people I know,

the gray lady who died, my cousins;

they peruse photographs,

sorting and arranging landscapes.

I find it all uninteresting.

I distance myself–

a pale carp apart from these squawking birds.

As intriguing as

blue glass glaciers in Canada

and enormous fallen trees in California are

I’d rather their mysteries be saved for me,

for when I am old enough to journey

and pull the curtain of fog away

for even a small glimpse

at the present,

but these people are stuck

in the past.

Friends or Pirates–

you can’t be both.

They want– I want…

if they could let me be happy,

be respected for one day.

I am not a toy to be passed

from dirty hands of one child

to the next. I’ll rest here,

where I want. Until the day

comes when they’ll learn

by truth bitterly seasoned,

and unto them served.

A song of penance I sing–

mercy, pity, before flames radiant glow,

prostrating instead of genuflecting–

pleading for a future I do not know.

 

Something in the small fire

relieves my apprehension.

Swaying like an eye-twinkle,

no sputter, no tension.