Friday, December 9, 2016

Books From Pasts

Books from pasts
lie in a cardboard box,
seams still taped
from transport
waiting to impart
a thought of hope
desperate hope
that one printed word
finds an eye
opposed to death,
to stimulate
courageous leaps
across chasms to time
that never existed



Thursday, December 8, 2016

Genius In A Trunk


A genius in a trunk with horrifying effort 
sought in days on days, season
on seasons and year on years,
to at last construct a doorway,
a window of senseless motion,
fallen shrugs and sighs and dateless
walks across a universe city,
to pass through those brittle walls.

Genius, filling, stacking,
stacking, filling, packed
dozens of unseen faces,
stacking sense on word,
scribble on type on scrawl
from inner names seen
in a clouded mirror,
from a now empty chair,
awaiting a futureling,
a reader,
any reader,
this reader,
to say yes, yes, yes, you
are the genius in a box,
your trunk of dreams
just for me.
I am that futureling
to discover you because
I see your genius.

We will sit together in the trunk
and pierce paper with inked images,
or, from passing minds, we genius
sculptors will furiously chisel word
and sound with nerve and finger,
and pen and finger, and key and finger,
and whisper of our blood
and coffee and wine
and love.

Our futurelings, seeing all the stars and moons
on our track of discovery, and light
tracing roofs and walls with a line of silver
from our port of departure,
glimpse yellow lamplight flowing
from a solitary window,
above a lonely street where,
at last, their own silhouettes
hunch over a table to scribble ink
across reams and reams, keys pounding
faster and faster
to find an end
to our heart.



Wednesday, December 7, 2016

And Everybody Knows But You

And everybody knows but you,
         those words you never said,
our polaroids left to hang
         and melt on grimy walls
stained with old thoughts,
         and there, that’s the scar
where your fist once struck
         at flaws you knew
were you and saw as weak,
         angelic, beautiful.

That place is empty now,
         yet your scent lingers,
your hands still find reasons
         to feed hungry hearts
without wasted gesture.
         No one heard your voice,
your feet dance on air,
         you just threw your quiet  
with its failure and success
         into endless night.
        

         

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Swimming to Horizons

Swimming to horizons
there is no love here on the shore.
That treasure outside imagination
lies deep, outside a shallow lagoon
beyond that precipitous reef edge.

to see a future must we not look
past veils of dense fog stirring
the eon mornings and untracked stars?


Monday, December 5, 2016

Tule Fog

Tule Fog

floating beyond
the windshield
just below
tule fog,

intruding thoughts
race into night
building rapid breath
into that old monster,
still caged,
still roaring.

This bonfire burnt
behind the speed of lights,
left nothing
but a silhouette
of fingers gripping
a dark wheel.

These gathering mists
veil empty space
where pulse, gentle days,
life still warm, spill
from your tiny cuts.