Archive | September 2013

No. 8 – Flight Risk

All these girls
are greener than grass.
We gauge the days
according to definitions
of home:
a place for returning,
a place for leaving.

And I can strip it
down to nothing,
then stack them back —
bricks and bones —
but still can’t build
what I do not know.

Cold hands,
cold heart —
and the old man warned me.
We are always
half in
and half out of the world.

We split the dawn and dark.
And I have no need
for chained or knotted strings.
It’s the unfolding story
that keeps me bound
to these pages.

And with nothing
to reciprocate,
I might as well
hold my tongue.

The sun is choosing
where to shed
its rising light,
and I follow music
through a fog
settled low,
waiting for
inevitable flight.

Impatience

Harvest moon’s stumbled in
with all of summer’s baggage.
Puts his feet up on the table
and glowers at me
while the scuttling clouds
grumble into drunken brawls.

And it slips away,
the dispassionate dream.
It’s only rain
and electricity.
And I don’t want to wait
for the right sign
or the right time.

What a wasteland we make of it.
Collect a million brilliant moments
and remember nothing.
It all adds up to zero.
Why not spend it
on wild and loose,
before it passes on?

The lightning remains detached,
while we wax with the moon.
And with muddy hands
full of seeds,
deaf bones and
words hot and wet,
we try to bring it down.

Strip

Over a shoulder,
mirror meets my gaze.

On skin pale as milk,
five pink petals blossom.

Some places,
we never choose to go.

The nature
of transaction, so fraught.

Some curiosities
find no harbor here,

but I do not grudge
these red rooms.

A more subtle exchange
of coin, this.

Some standards are impossible,
and after —

flowers fade
from the rear-view mirror,

wondering if they weren’t
meant for another garden.

Lie

Cover your ears, now,
and close your eyes.
Just do me a favor and turn away.
I have to tell you this:
You can’t trust the poet.

Oh, she has the best intentions,
but is easily distracted
by a clever arrangement
or a phrase smartly turned.
The poet is a liar.

And I promise,
I would never lie to you.
After all,
I choke on the simplest of words —
inaudible hellos.

But if you would have
the truth of me,
you have to ask.
And asking
is not our strength.

So much easier to hide
behind words that say nothing:
Here is another day,
another song,
another waxwing,
another path,
another moon,
another wind,
another night fallen.

And the poet
is all bravado,
masked in anonymity.
And if you still follow,
well then I admire your stamina.

Because surely
by now
you know
she has nothing true
to say.