Obsequies

Now that it's done and dim, let's
smoke cigarettes and paint
my floors blue. Fire the lawyers,
hire a small plot of happy.  

Throw back the curtains
in the drive-up motel. Cracked
vinyl and an empty parking lot
and wonder how to leave next.  

O to be the desert. All sand and sweat,
stars crumbling and stumbling
from one room to another.
The past never slept. Fire the chef.  

Hire some consent. Turn out
the lights and wipe down the walls.
Take in that certain charm
of the ebbing and pocket what's left.  

Don't hold tight. Fire the trucks.
Once again we're left to empty
the ashtrays. Strays and the late,
now we see how this ends.

Opposites and Cognates

 
christmas over

all down the street and at the same time

traffic lights shift from red to green

new years gone

and walk don’t walk signs

turn from orange to white

from fire to ice

from flame to Frost

 

Me And My Depression

I can feel
its teeth
against my skin
as I am
lying on the floor
watching
as my blood
pools

There is no wolf
at my door
There are no demons
There is only me
and my depression

Life


life is like
nothing else
like it

no one can
foresee what it will be
or what it may become

no form stays forever fixed
no change ever proves impossible
beans will never grow
into melons
yet a child may become
almost anyone
when journey is done

we can hardly know
what life
will hold ten years from now
to foresee change
is as hard as believing 
we’ll stay the same

all that’s known
remains unknown
and knowing that
is as wise
as any philosopher

Next Life

Will the gods really make it better?  
Are Elysium, Paradise, Valhalla, and
Heaven free of any frustration?
Is it all so easy that we get what we
Want with a mere wish or wave of
The hand?  That's hard to believe 
Since it's been proven that assholes
Die too. 

Way of Life

Sometimes
we smoke ten different
cigars to find the one
worth the price.
Sometimes
we love ten different
women to find the one
that’s truly right.
Sometimes
we drink ten different
whiskeys to find the one
that sits tight.
And sometimes
we push ten different
people to find the one
willing to fight.

Inferno Poem

Takes its cue from just a few sinister
lines that had come before. There’s the fire,
with flames that leap and snatch. Then there’s brimstone,
burning coals, hot lava to sear the souls
and the bottoms of the feet, which cause rhymes
to melt into magma heaps. The piling
up of similes for pain, metaphors
settling old neglected scores. Blind-sided,
gob-smacked, all those thrown stones and broken bones.
Onomatopoeia with its splat, sizzle, buzz, puff of stuff
bulked up on steroids. And that devilish,
diabolical demon, fallen angel,
pitch-forked, horn-crowned, frowning down from his high
seat and stirring this poet to a boil.

*italicized words are the examples John Drury assigns to
“Onamatopeia” in The Poetry Dictionary.

Remorse in the Morning

Prick pinky finger,
catch droplet,
frown at monitor,
regret last night’s
buttered, peppered,
fried potatoes.

Hanged Man

 
Dangling by one foot, head
inches from the ground, eyes
half-open, I wait for resolution. My ego
falters in reverse. Lessons repeated
are forgotten a moment later.

I have grown fond of the rope:
rough grasp around my ankle an
uncompromising noose. The veiled sky
is years away: its shackle a vine,
growing deep within my skin.

My only weapon
is one I cannot use,
lost in unyielding ether,
and release will come much too late,
when I no longer need it.

The 11 dazzling verses


The dreameries need Blue Hours.

The Blue Hours would need a sun's afterglow.

The red sky in the evening longs for a delight.

The delight wants a homeland.

The native land wanted a literature.

The writings are willing to manifest a reality.

The epiphany was willing to become a sermon.

The homily-becoming can conjure a hereafter.

The spell of paradise could paint an entrancement.

The picture of the glee may perpetuate tenderly the dreameries.

The immortalization pertains to the dreams of the Blue Hourlets.




The contemplative flower of violet


The mellow flower of violet
is a fineness of the violet's blossom in the moonlight
however the small eternity happens
in an enchanting woodland solitude
genus Viola is minor
but wonderful and subtle
so tranquil the last night was
when a sylvan dream was awakened
four butterflies landed
in the calyx of this violet
their elysian longing leaving

in the heart of the flower a diamond was created
from heart-like dreameries of butterflies
and from eternal power of starry night
and the moon shines on everything
I stay yet not far from that
in the phantasy – the violet so unfolded
intoxicated by charm and by home land
as well as by starlit night
full of the dreamy Erlking