sounds are diminished
in darkness
as if absorbed by shadow
and in the absolute stillness
not even the beating heart
is heard
just the radio static
of empty silence –
no signal sent
and none received
sounds are diminished
in darkness
as if absorbed by shadow
and in the absolute stillness
not even the beating heart
is heard
just the radio static
of empty silence –
no signal sent
and none received
My earliest memories are of pain, violence, drunkenness, sexual abuse, instability, helplessness and fear.
This is my trauma. I will be 55-years-old next year and this is still my trauma. I hate being reminded about it. I hate talking about it because every time I do I feel re-victimized and re-traumatized. But it is real. It happened. It is still happening inside of me and it still affects the people around me.
This is why I keep people at a distance. This is why I struggle to trust. This is why I prefer the anonymity of the crowd over the intimacy of the individual.
the bright and sun-filled mornings;
every dawn that breaks the horizon in angry fire;
my warm evening meal with loved ones;
a cat’s mystified stare as it ponders you;
all my gazes into every green eye –
everything feels like an end these days,
as if I walked through a door unknowingly
and moved to a different universe.
there is a riptide here that threatens
to pull me into future’s deep, ice ocean.
do I swim hard against it,
or ride it far and away from safe shores?
and will I drown either way…
i have been told
that beneath us
and in-between us
and
between the lines
that define the you
from the me
there may be
other realms
and different realities;
an ongoing of sorts
these are the ghost stories of science
told to offer comfort
to a people cursed
with self-awareness;
a people who are told only one truth –
“you have an end”
with this in mind
live, laugh and love
as well as you can
and above all – hope.
this poem
does not offer you compassion,
nor will you find empathy
or understanding.
this poem
will not provide you with solace,
nor safe haven in the storm;
and it refuses an offering of grace
to bestow upon your weary head.
no,
this poem
cannot give you anything you desire;
will not supply anything you need.
this poem
presents to you one thing –
a blade of grass
stretched in lithe and dancer-like composure
toward the ever-giving sun
that warms and feeds it as it passes
through the turquoise skies
from the gates of dawn to dusk.
this poem
suggest you consider
the beauty of otherness outside of yourself
in this scimitar that would uproot
and glide to the heavens above,
if only the loving earth
would let it go.
this is all
this poem
can offer,
nothing more.
there is <code> in me
from a program called
Grandfather, William
it wrote fine lines of poetry
in observance of the world
and tradition.
in observance of pain and joy
as such <code> does
and was meant to do
<code> meets <code>
and new program called
Mother, Monica
is spun into the world
meeting yet more <code>
in program called
Father, Harry
and they write Peter
who finds old lines
buried in his operating system –
EXECUTE <code> Grandfather, William
in combination with new data
program Grandson, Peter
OUTPUT – poetry.
and the <code> moves forward
and the <code> looks back
old program becomes new
sometimes latent,
sometimes activated,
always there.
cold breeze kisses the cheeks
while radiant sun warms the skin
in blissful combined contradiction;
it’s enough to wake you from the dead
to pull you from that rotting slumber
as a reminder that life is best lived
despite the lurking dark.
let us stand in the bright warm places
and sing against impending ends,
thankful for a moment or two,
thankful for me being thankful for you.
big drunk strides
like falling forever
but somehow with
u n i n t e n t i o n a l g r a c e
every step lands
with the confidence
of a person who doesn’t know
and doesn’t care
(or an idiot, we’re not sure which)
jump from the window
two stories up
and flow to the earth
with a smile stitched
from ear to ear
like Icarus without wings
failing to see
that gravity of it all
everyone is far away
in this too small room
filled with smoke and
butter knives with blackened ends
and you are like a ghost
because you are there
but not really…just mist
what’s this?
straight up the nose it goes
and then a taxi with someone
(who is that?)
to nowhere
(where are we going?)
as the cab takes off
the head stays where it was
and then snaps back to you
about 10 or 20 seconds later
how is it possible
you remember any of this
and have forgotten
so much that was important?
you misplaced your trench coat
that night;
so sad to have lost it –
like losing your skin
and walking around naked;
a capeless Batman – vulnerable
then on new year’s eve
brandishing bottles of Chateau Nevada
while she, this unknown, hung on too close
laughed too loud and bullied you to dance
until midnight came and we yelled as we toasted
as she looked at you and said “Well?”
and you were too stupid to know for moment
but then caught on – “Naw, i think i’m headin’ out”
and stumbled away…just like that
still, there was sun the next morning
as she sat with you and a dozen others
glaring death and ice and a thousand hateful thoughts
while we ate a greasy breakfast for kings
and gathered late to quietly consume
preparing for the coming of night
when the siren voices of Jon Anderson and Jim Morrison
would beckon us to the alter again
to light this strange Moroccan incense
and continue the cycle forever
or
at least to the end of the year
And here is Lisbon
Rearing up out of the Tagus
And covered in tourists
Like a dog with fleas
But what a dog!
And we
We two are are here
Me and she
Part of the infestation
In this place
We
We are happy
We rode the train
Back from Cas Cais
And there is the boy
A local
Showing his friends
His new football jersey
And they drink cheap beer together
To celebrate
And nobody cares
No one is getting hurt
Because we are each our own world
Here
Here you can be.
I smell fish and salt by the water
As I carry Pessoa in my hand,
He is heavy with the weight of life
But a burden I can bear
His was his heavier
I can feel the world press in
In the best way possible
While I think of the oranges
That are almost ripe on the trees
Lisbon says aranja differently
They say the J here
It is given a life of its own
Just like me…everyone
Lisbon says me differently
It gives me a life of my own.
Just a little black drop
Falls from the pen’s tip
Landing on the pristine,
The bright white fabric
Of the heavy weight paper;
Watch as it spreads
Running along the threads
So much larger than how it started;
A consuming void.
I understand.