ModernschismWhenever I read Virginia Woolf, it happens.More Like This
Hallucinated sounds, like the burning thorax
of a horsefly as it kills itself trying to reach
the center of an eco-friendly lightbulb.
Even then, I have to pretend to know
what she is saying; what anyone is saying.
“North, past the Egyptian cemetery,
the dogs went hunting.”
Who said it first: me, or her, or them?
“I remember my first period,
and a bizarre mark on the wall.”
This isn’t because I’m afraid.
This isn’t because I hate being told
what to read and how to read it.
The fly is really there, and like the fly,
I’m dying to feel some kind of warmth.
Like the fly, I’ve left something
in an irretrievable place; a glass cathedral.
MementosI return home and empty my coat pocketsMore Like This
I pour out the cinnamon scented coins
scraps of paper, and the red of autumn leaves
I dig out the heavy air, and the smell of old books
mixed with the smell of rain,
and the spice of freshly cut grass
I shake out the last of the city lights
and the sound of footsteps on sidewalks
and so I gather up these pieces of moments
and tuck them away, to be pulled out and admired
when the memories themselves begin to fade
Questions of the NightGlass skies of starlight overtake the falling sun,More Like This
and the constant heartbeat of the world takes pause.
Do you hear the skipping beats of the giant creature?
Tell me, how do you miss that mournful sound?
Standing in the meadow of the lost and stolen,
hearing the screams of those gone long before.
Do you feel the souls crying in the blackness?
Show me, how is it that you cannot see the faces?
Hidden fires of the ancient heart aching promises,
and the dying ember of the betrayed and forgotten.
Do you know how the night shelters them from your sight?
Find me, how is it that you have gone so far from my heart?
Night AwedTiny embers float like dreams in the night sky.More Like This
The night sees them when the moon does not.
The black like the mother of all the forgotten,
and hope for the children born of shadows.
The smallest of creatures cling to the warm summer air,
flying in their fires like ash from a well tended flame.
The heat is but a passing wave that kills when it recedes,
abandoning all joy in the wake of the cruel tide.
The chill of the world will return with the dark autumn.
The firefly and the leaf will alike feel the deadly kiss.
Dragon breath and crystal death will take each in its time,
and the power of all rendered defenseless in the fight.
Yet wonder still pervades the darkness.
The Void will always astound the Young.
What is there but the night of the world,
for the Sun is just a poor trick of the light.
I stand and watch the world dying in the grip of the fading tale,
and the dying glow of the fireflies in the sodden grass.
The ever failing starlight on the black mat of the soul,
and the gentle