Never Seventy-FourNever seventy-four.Never Seventy-Four9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
Never this day.
My heart fell out of my chest
became a cow
so I could lead her into the city.
We aim across a field of thirsty wheat,
I put my hat upon her head.
I am an older man a simple man
from simpler times in simpler clothes.
I hope I'm blind by the time I reach
the city with its great reflexions.
Never a day like this.
She balks at the river, no matter my coaxing
by now she is so long away my chest she's forgotten
our common tongue. She used to give sweet
cream but now she just bellows.
I know what it is to be married, see?
I was right to have kept her so long
else I'd have eaten her for a porterhouse while
I still had my teeth.
Maybe that's why she doesn't come.
Never this day.
I heave, bring her through the rice
she turns saffron, her eyelashes orange thread
I think to sell at market street. I'm going backward
now, feet aimed at my mother's bed
hair gone the way of teeth the way of sense.
A ByeA Bye8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Plucked by Dallas for an entire week
like a string refusing to tune
I spent more time driving than I had ever wanted--
until finally, trading companionship
and well-seasoned exhaustion for solace,
I watched as he pulled the clouds over my head,
heat lightning snapping like a static-cling bedspread.
I curled up, and the tiredest parts slept,
giving up burdens and ghosts and taking rest,
and I forgave him for Texas.
EphemeraEphemera10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I found an old map of my life in the closet today,
worn almost to the point of tearing.
It was burnt at one end, my birth I suppose.
Pieces of it still crumble when I'm not careful.
The first roads are drawn in crayon and lead only in circles.
There is a picture of a man sitting at a table shaped like the moon
somewhere around my sixth birthday.
My father perhaps. I don't remember.
By the age of eleven the first small houses appear,
my friend Tommy with his German Shepard shooting cap guns,
further down, real guns, another hole. Of course
none of this is to scale. The first graves appears at age
twelve, my grandmother is drawn wearing a black dress
made of constellations. I stand next to her holding a toy spaceship.
By this time the trees behind my house are quite detailed,
their leaves cut from old green food stamps. The compass
is backward. West is East. South is missing.
There is a
The Celestial GirlThe Celestial Girl10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I search for the lonely sparkles
So uniquely recumbent and undercover.
Ambivalent towards popularity's pupils
but perilously potent to mine.
Merging towards a merger
she migrates from malignance.
I now spy the girl with stars in her eyes.
Engulfed with eternal enchantment
I sit still as she
meekly models magnetism
on the lunar lit catwalk
Shall we bequeath this blanketed beauty?
Unwrapped for all our pleasures
The masses refuse to respect
her austere allurement.
Gibbous gasps with great gusto
as she peels away the hidden agendas
So picturesque unlimitedů
...With gravity breeding synchronicity
Unification is no more a dream.
and seduction subscribes to its senses
The 'Northern Lights' still seem so far away.
Kings and Queens.There was a time, once, when we were king and queen.Kings and Queens.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We sat upon decadent thrones, in robes of sumptuous cloth.
About your brow, so pale, so beautiful, a circlet of precious gold,
adorned with rubies, bright and polished to an iridescent perfection.
You'd wear a full smile, with those voluptous, enticing lips.
Many a man covets you, my queen.
The sleek, cascading, flowing locks of your hair, shimmer gently
in the generous torchlight, as your eyes sparkle with your smile.
Finest filigree adorns the cloth that entraps your bosom,
your gentle, steading breathing, rhythmic rise and fall of your wrapped breasts.
You're beautiful, my dear, sat daintily atop your throne,
even bedecked in items of decadence, your natural beauty shines through.
You could be robed in rags and your beauty would be unsurpassed.
Cut to the night, when the toches are doused and the silence of the darkness descends,
here we lay, entwined in the night.
Softness upon softness,
skin wearing skin.
Your breath being eager
An Off-Handed Remark...Our matching footstepsAn Off-Handed Remark...9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
could strike anywhere
and we'd go
up in flames.
I wouldn't mind
that my words
were my last meal.
I'd just wish we could burn a little longer.