And so the dark matter of my soul forms a tear, a slit
so slippery it glides a path for hidden fears to
sidle down to self-dismissal. From narrowed
marrows of neglected time, it rips and gapes
and gasps, widens lurking wise-ass-ness to force
a burgeoning crevasse, an opening so rank
and hungry, it on itself begins to feast and pulse and
hope for bitter ends dissolving into passage
through this misconceived existence.
The hardness of me falls
into a softness indefensible.
I was a man once, slaved to forecast memory,
poisoned as they loved me with conditioned frailty.
Mossy, dank and…
Colors don’t lurk in you, needing
to be turned this way and that,
begging harsh light to call them forth.
Frivolous diamonds expect you to bend
and squint and seek refraction from greedy
elusive facets keeping
all their vibrant secrets hidden
in the hard chisel of war-born crystal.
That won’t do.
For you it must be real.
Juicy, ripe, fired from Earth for
being too brilliant to abide our dust. …
All I asked the night was keep me safe.
Keep me safe in my illusions
snug in my delusions
with a blanket of soft reality, keep me
warm and tight. This is all
I asked of night. It was not enough.
In the empty space
where you were absent, fever brewed
in my belief that safety was the core
of all that made me.
So I was born a whore, enslaved
to keeping things in place.
Cock-sucking darkness, I sank deep inside
dull humanity’s abandoned causes.
I wept and slept and breathed in
and out this weak-knee’d craving
for security. Until the deluge came
rushing, thrusting, pouring…
The hangover that made you late for the train
contained within its sickness a new distaste
for losing yourself in public scenes.
Vomitus small talk and corsets
of self-annihilation; a wildness drained
by one poorly mixed cocktail after
another. You woke up disgusted,
puking, rotten and foul-mouthed
so you could see beyond
the shadows of this play: there, inside
the round, acidic aspirin dissolving
in your brain — this vital flagrancy emerged:
I’ve not come from nowhere to be nothing;
gluttonous graces at my command, I stand
undone for the world to experience my becoming
alone, set apart, choosy and…
There’s an honesty between us
that out of hand instantly forgives
all the lies she’s telling me.
The way the weary dairy maid in spring
preemptively forgave the old crook
for stealing away her summer newborn.
Because he was a god. Because he was
her god. And she was his
to feed or slaughter
per whims of wind divined
by his fervent love of Eire.
Onto a grainy beach in brining
subterfuge, she delivered me by means
unexplained. I nodded when told our boat
had to be ferried in secret on dark currents
cured by ancient tears of cloven mystics.
I nodded and kissed her…
By her hand a key in the door of truth turns.
Weightless and slippery, so gripping in the way
It was nonexistent before the consonant ‘k’
Ordered a common vowel then hung a daring ‘y’
On the end of it. She torques the protruding
Bow, builds force by dangling upside down
From hooks twisted in dark, unwritten ceilings.
Someone screw a light in, please — so she can
Knock it out. Shattering can be useful.
Turning by hand an ordinary alloy
Shaped to fit a lock sealed by an astragal
Painted over by the fact it did not mean a…
Mischief — revolution — sneaky
Goodness overcoming madness:
Choosing to be a golden thread
Shuttling across a dingy loom,
I am substance and vastness and
Speedy beads of light connecting
The dots of my existence.
Rocket fuel is more process than substance; it’s quite simply re-purposed water lit by clear intention.
The scientists who make it do so by separating Hydrogen and Oxygen, the sole items composing water. This is all it takes to launch great big things very fast, extremely far, with wicked momentum.
Today is just a day. Hour follows hour, containing minutes, breaths, and seconds, stacking up…
A green apron sets her apart from the rest of us. She has a damp cloth in one hand, someone’s abandoned newspaper in the other. Straightening chairs, wiping up crumbs and spots of cream. Busy.
Swedish blond chairs and tables. Dull avocado paint, lemonade accent on the trim. Designed to lull and enliven, built quickly to last. What stands out is the green apron. Confident fresh grass, unapologetic shamrock. Hue you expect a green crayon to produce, though childish things rarely look this deep.
She’s cleaning and arranging and fussing over an inch or two of counter space beside the…
How vast, the story of your life — how infinitely in the middle of it you are — and how, like a gift, you own it and want it and deserve it to be golden.
There’s nothing this day can throw at you — no rudeness no harsh fact no dullness nor blade — that could possibly out-match the love inside the truth of who you are.
to see you rising.
So free, prisoners held by inner demons sing songs of you to conjure hidden doors in secret dark caves, swift passage through to light.