#9

I’ve been dead for years, splayed
on the flywheel of uncertain tides/

Banished by the gods to iridescent
indifference, a fuse of failure/

Please sign here, in blood for the
bones of yours alone/

The bruises become wings on which
electrified hopes are dashed/

Oh, the terror of the muses that play
only in the minor key/

The screams are tiny comets that burn
through an uncertain sky/

And dissolve or drown in silence.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

#3

Heartbreak birds with broken beaks
orbit the wilting stem/

While the tide arrives, ocean graves
for the broken vow allowed/

Shipwrecked strangers with ghosts
and shackles/

Fountains of fate and futures
left undone/

The smothered sun shines
blind, a lunar shell/

Wrapped in the luxury of
melancholic indifference/

The blessing arrival of absence

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Blindness

I’ve finally figured out that I’m blind.
Since birth I have seen only darkness
that I mistook for shadows. My mother
mocked me for my optimism and now
I know why.

Love awakened the truth of my blindness
and seared my lids shut to the sound of
shame. The heat of my heart has found
no flame to fight the bitter dark despite
the desire to fold myself between her
fragrant petals. Angst is an owl with large
orbit eyes that swallow entire planets.

Perhaps I’ve mistaken desire for love, light
for dark and prayers for poems. My entire
life has been miscast and the wings I thought
I’d grown are rocks that will drag me down
to drown in darkness.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Call it Something Unexpected No. 2

Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We all drown in our own silence. We float unadorned and untethered to the suffering song of quiet. Deep calls unto deep.

My soul is weary of my life and tempts my body to escape. It culls the favor of my blood and my will.

Imagine light.

The morning kind of light that suffers softly, sweetly. Oh, thy gentle wound, how you’ve strengthened me. What does the Psalmist say when the words waste away in the beggars mouth? The light of the soul bears wings and flies from the rotted sockets.

The soul speaks in silence while I speak in a million tongues and yet, none of them are mine. I’ve gone as far as stealing my prayers from the lips of dead prophets and called them my own. Even in the gulls cry do I hear something more devote, more real than any word I have uttered.

I meant love, although I could never say it. That word. We buried it with a gravediggers shovel just to see if it would resurrect itself and bear our weights and sorrows. Our sins were too sweet to ever want to beg for a savior.

[Temptation tinged with the desire to lose myself between the folds of your fluttering wings.]

As I walk, the rush of the sea invites me in and to leave you once and for all. A gull cries and lifts my eyes toward a silent sky.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Alone + Afraid [the sweetest thing]

Alone + Afraid.

Still a child, a boy, who waits
for you to leave so that I may
suffer in silence and lick my
precious wounds and plot, so
carefully, my revenge against
your loving me so deeply.

You see, this love of yours is a
razor that cuts me and draws
blood, just as you would have it.
I’ve become your little Christ who
willing suffers + will willingly give
my life that you may live again.

[I have no wisdom. I have only wracked passion of a drunken sailor who
refuses the seas demands for drowning.]

Poets and prophets are beggars
with blood and bones that can
swim in the deepest silence as it
rests against the abyss. However,
they mock those whom they heal,
and cut the widows cords falling
back into squalor +shame.

[How do the hours move through the thicket of my heart
without being torn?]

Love, like the dawn, keeps stealing
and you continue to beg for it. Yet,
I am no savior, your son, nor am I a
poet or prophet. Beneath the grip of
my tender ghosts, you will find that
I am still, a boy, alone + afraid.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Who, if Not You?

(Video version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xdKKKtrS4g)

Who, if not you, will recognize the
silent unease that plagues my heart?
Like a ghost of grace, the silence roams
the depths of my tortured chamber and
compels my devotion and my doubt.

Like you, I have practiced absence and
come to worship at the altar of its great
sorrow; may I say artfully so, designed
by the finest artistic intent only to be
betrayed by its kiss.

This silence, however, demands my life
and like a hesitant petal, perhaps fearful
of the possibility of such light, I close my
eyes and plead blindness. The darkness is
familiar and allows my hands to feel the way.

The tide of these withering hours is pushing
me further away from the shore and yet I
continue to walk on water, as if I’ve forgotten
that only by drowning will I finally be forgiven
and given the gift of an untethered silence.

Will I find you there?

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Prophet of Poems

The prophet is handing out poems to the dead
hoping to inspire the next great resurrection.
The dead are showing no interest and the poems
lie scattered in the graveyard like torn leaves.

He’s always been known for putting band aids
on broken arms and making lemonade from limes.
The Bible he reads from is full of blank pages and
he’s changed the names to protect the innocent.

As a last resort he built an altar to the art of sorrow
from the stones of his silent heart. Only crows attend
services anymore, putting his words in their beaks
and feeding them to their young.

The paradox of prayer is that it flies on only one wing.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment