Poetry is an expression of the heart, and not always meant to be taken literally. If the world is the body, poetry is the unseen spirit, an attempt to express that which cannot be expressed. Enjoy.
Black Book
The nyght is a black book
written in invisible ink,
full of alchemy recipes.
Between the pages
obsidian orchids are pressed,
staining tissue paper sky
with a pollen of stars.
When all the blooms have fallen
like angels from heaven,
I will be no closer to death.
(3-17-96)
Transformation
Frozen in amber fog,
aftermath of storm,
the nyght is a still life
sculpted by street lights.
If I could walk between
these molecules of suspended mist,
into this motionless moment
of bare trees scratching phantom heaven
with broken fingers,
I think I could become
the thing I have always been.
(12-7-97)
Voodoo
Doll
Moonbeams play over cluttered desk
where some naive past self
writes unpublished books
for me to read in years hence.
The stereo glows blue,
painting Gothic tapestries
in an empty room
while the voodoo doll
I have become,
held together with glue
and paint and spent wax,
sits beneath the stars,
pricking human consciousness
with a cheap Bic pen,
harvesting the words like blood.
Time is a fractured vein
from which the phantoms feed.
(8-4-98)
Stained Glass
Dreamings
Somewhere in this hollowed out pumpkin
I breathed myself into being
and called it life.
It's all just a grand cotillion
thrown by the gods
to honor our existence.
But midnight comes all too soon
and the prince drinks blood
from a crystal slipper
while the princess eats a poison mushroom
and sleeps forever in a stained glass coffin
dreaming of dreaming of being
alive.
(8-12-98)
The Shadows
Still To Come
The world has rolled on her side
and put on October clothes:
faded umber gown, brittle as glass,
tattered lace made of sea foam,
veils of fog curling past chimneys
where the season's first smoke
spells out messages
in silver and spark.
The door between realities
stands open a crack,
revealing the shadows still to come,
the effect of moonlight on tombstones.
Those Who
Wait
The candelabra stands dark,
grieving the passing of time
with hardened wax tears
collected in scarlet rivers.
A cobweb on the ceiling undulates,
a restless ocean,
for though the windows are all shut
in honor of autumn,
the wind is cold and hungry,
sneaking in thru the cracks,
to look for warmth.
Plastic pumpkins and velvet vampires
watch the circus unfold,
secretly wondering what will become of them
when the mortal who placed them on the shelf
joins the gathering dust.
(10-28-98)
There's a black crayon melting
to form a pool of night,
thick as honey,
hot as blood.
It closes over me
like a coffin lid,
and I am swimming
in a fingerpainting
still wet on the walls of Hell.
(8-14-98)
Goethe Passing
By
It is a nyght when stars must fall
thru the fiery tears of their own cremation
and galaxies are committed to collide
because the universe isn't strong enough
to hold them all,
and comets pass by
just to catch the lonely fragrance
of chimney smoke
swept along on a wind so cold
it can't help but scream
as it drags its fingers
thru chimes made of old silver knives.
From the doorway of my haunted room,
I watch the world
spider-webbing herself alive,
and I know you're out there somewhere,
tip-toeing over the rooftops of mortals,
dancing with wolf shadows
and tipping your chimney-sweep hat
to the ghost of a thousand dead poets
you have been at one time or another.
(12-3-98)
Earthen
Vessel
Nyght paints with black crayons
from a palette of shadows,
and the stars are pixie dust
in the skeletal hand of time.
I look for evidence of immortals
and find only tombstones
worn thin as silk.
The mushrooms are singing hallucinations
and dreams are sneaking out of sleep,
lonesome ghosts
on the canvas of the nothing.
I am the receptacle for this fragile world,
afraid of breaking
lest the contents spill
like fine dark wine,
wasted,
drying to dust.
(4-10-00)
Candle lantern illumines
the red velvet window
where the crone hides
in a tangle of brittle blonde hair,
singing sermons to the night
in a voice that is nothing more
than the soft scratch of cheap pen
on torn pages of a past life diary
where unfulfilled dreams keep company
with all the grandiose delusions
witches conjure under the guise of magick.
The clock grinds its teeth
on candle wax and silent screams.
The whole earth is full of coffins,
bones of the dead,
blanched white pegs
holding it all together
while we wait for it all to fall apart again.
The crone worships the spent wick,
the dark enlightenment.
The night crackles,
an old house settling down to sleep.
(4-11-00)
Alchemy
It is a nyght of train whistles
blown a hundred years ago
echoing on the edge of a storm
sometime in this insignificant Apri.
I bathe in the cold,
rubbing shade and rain into my pores
until I resemble the silver nothing
found on the horizon at dusk.
Clouds dangle long wet fingers
to the ground,
and I dream of drinking blood
from nipples of fog and mist.
Vampyres tie celtic knots,
weaving an ancient new tapestry
of a delicate reality.
My grave lies empty
in some far future century,
and I see myself dancing
on the madhouse balcony
where Time and Death
are only genies in a bottle,
imprisoned on the shaman's top shelf.
(4-17-00)
On the dusky outskirts
of the City of October,
beyond the last bend
of a dead-end road,
on the edge of a cliff
where shadows and substance
conspire to snatch the stopwatch
carried in the tattered pocket of Time,
you sit dangling fish hooks
baited with scraps of poetry
into the shattered crystal mirror
of the madhouse mortal continuum,
trolling for lost souls.
I swallow your lure with deliberate intent,
knowing the barbs will rip apart
the heart of the consensual world
as you reel me into the nyght.
You say I am the one who got away
when creation cast us asunder,
and now the tides in the gene pool
have put me within your reach again,
so there is no choice for either of us.
I feel you pulling and the barbs are sharp,
mean as fangs,
drawing me toward the surface
of a world I have never known,
yet a place I have always called home.
It should surprise neither of us to discover
that each is the other,
mortal mother and infinite father
captured in the same eternal vessel
of the sorcerer's darkest trick.
(9-01-00)
The wind in the garden blows indigo cold.
My heart is colder still.
Mortality's curse hangs over me,
Eve's legacy.
I summon the marrow of candles,
the gnosis of transcended sentience,
seeking solutions
beyond this horizon
of endless mausoleums.
(11-09-00)
A voice passing through the nothing whispers,
"We have to get back to the boat."
A twin-rigger I think she was,
with timbers creaking beneath our feet
on a sea so still
we gazed down into the midnight sky,
dizzying refracted realities,
and the ship had become a starswimmer,
and all the stars just trinkets on your belt.
Your eyes were stolen sapphires,
your heart a pagan drum
stretched taut over the hollow
of vacant crypts and empty coffins
where our bones would be writing
sonnets of dust
had we never embarked on this treacherous trip.
"We have to get back to the boat."
Back to that place
where the rivers of reason have all run dry,
where silence has its own continuum,
and the flesh we inhabit is luminous silver,
where all of creation is our address,
all of time our identity.
(9-17-00)
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