Eleutheromania (and other words that don’t exist anymore.)
There is a road that cuts
Past lakes, over hills, and across plains
and the rain waters are cupped
In the boot marks that remain.
Salvation raining from the veins of men
Has long since soaked into the ground.
Where passerbyes can see lovers kissing and often
Catch more than just the sound
of wildlife. Before too long the town will pave the road
and the memories which marched there.
No one is left to receive what is owed,
and the responsibility is too much to bare.
The town, and its folk, are considered free
by all the men of the world – except for me.
At noon, the clock chimes for the dead
Signalling the lunch hour for the living.
They pass the church, in search for bread
There’s nothing left for the forgiving.
Families gather next to empty chairs
Belonging to people captured in pictures
That fill the space going up the stairs -
Perpetually imprisoned wall fixtures.
Brother spills tomato soup when it burns his tongue,
Sister is trying to get momma’s attention,
But she is yelling like a gatlin gun
about mistakes and intentions.
Yet, folk in the town are considered free
by all the men of the world, except for me.
Why things fall
Rain drops fall past birds who fly
Toward the ground on which stands I
With an eye on myself and one on the sky
Watching the birds as they pass by
The Astronaut
My feet have left their mark on the moon.
I have basked in the shadows removed from the sun.
My eyes removed themselves too soon
From Copernicus’ first born son.
Floating in the darkness, encircled by blue,
Stars surround you.
Your twin virgin solar systems hold me captive,
Heliocentricity denied for the sake of the Mother.
Traveling through darkness cannot give you bliss
Believe me when I tell you
I would cross the universe for your kiss.
Give me what the stars never did
Hide me behind your eyelid,
So I can explore infinity in a spaceship made of glass,
Perhaps let it crash on foreign terrain
Worship the sun that casts shadows
From our window onto your breasts.
Greet the natives with an open hand
Hike the mountains, look for fertile land.
Plant my flag wherever I please
Sit on your lips and feel the breeze.
Your body is my planet
So stay in bed and let’s turn the gravity off
The sun is coming up and I am ready to blast-off
There can be no disorder here
“Leave it as is” She said,
“There can be no disorder here”
As if the past had fled
As soon as the present appeared.
Despite the chaos near
and the confusion between us
I had nothing but trust.
There could be no disorder here.
Outside stormed the winter
for the entirety of the year.
Queitly she whispered
“There can be no disorder here.”
When the sun hides my fear
Under the realization of this
There can be no disorder here
So I leave it as is.
Bullet
Lead words from the barrel of a gun
O multi-lingual tongue
Your red-hot syllables need no interpretations
Eat confessions, breath conquest
Tear air, worlds, and sons
From their fathers
A do and die procession
Loudspeaker of hating rebels
Dissecting where the devils
Meet in every man
Woman and child
Peace the wild contraband
Smuggled, wrapped in hope
Across party lines
But it may only combine
The hangman and his rope
Love Hate Relationship
Her name was Ecclasia Caffeina
and up until her eighteenth year
She had the good fortune to have been a
Friend of mine. She had moved here
After her fortunate parents had seen a
Study on the effect of the country air
and how it combated megalomania.
She had said once, in a fit of romantic ire
“We are just trees that cannot
appreciate the beauty of a forest fire”
and that the human hope had been for not.
Yet it was this same fanatical desire
That drove her to the shadowed spot
Parellel but behind my side. Not to call her a liar
But while one hand hated mankind, the other sought
To touch the faces of all that she could inspire.
And while one eye struggled and fought
Against anything beautiful or higher
The other eye did as it had been taught.
Alas, I wish I could mourn the tragic fate
Of the girl whose love was born from hate.
Cinquain III
Desire
Motion, Abyss
Think, Breath, Photosynthesis
Hunger, Hungover, Fear, Paralysis
Humanity
Haiku XXVII
Mighty River blocked
Feather sticks bound by beavers.
Flood kills an anthill
The Entoptic Universe
Through the steel bars of my prison
I watch Scheerer’s queasy sky,
Clarified by my glassed prism
Until the phosephene nights arrive.
A sign clepes the room “Ganglion’s Cell”
Above an indiscernable series of scribbles
Perhaps the famed Purkinje’s cave Image
Or a poor relfection from one of his pupils.
Prophetic emmetropia has rendered me blind
To all except the dreams of chasing Fata Morgana
the farie queen who paints the horizon with Haldinger’s Brush
and whose sweeping hands wipe the sfumato
From off my cofocal eyes,
twin syzygetic sublimes,
Crowning a dark heart of obsidian
Where a parhelion lies.
When finally the night arrives
and flowing dark, freckled with asterism,
can subdue what little of reality survives,
I can finally turn to a bed which
Laughs at fates cruel vitreous humor.
I will sleep there until the blinding light
pierces my glass cell.
And as the cold morning intervenes
I have nothing, save the praying space,
For my daily morning call
To my savior fairy queen.
The Morning of Execution
The incarned beauty rests
reclined, her hemlock colored eyes
Preparing for her test.
Despite his recent arrest
the horror of the loved and wise
The incarned beauty rests.
Alcestis’ blood pumping in her chest
Her hands, resting on his thighs,
Are preparing for her test.
Unaware of the gathering guests
and the unfurling of the elydoric skies
The incarned beauty rests.
Aesclepius’ cock greets the morning in protest,
She wonders if his closest allies
Are prepared for her test.
This union required her to invest
More than this world so small in size.
Yet, the incarned beauty rests
Preparing for her test.
