Swimming To Horizons

Swim to horizons

for there is no love on this shore.

That treasure beyond imagination,

lies deep, outside a shallow lagoon

far away from this protecting reef.

To see a future must we not look

past a veil of dense fog

eon mornings and unnamed stars?

Futures Once Seen Ahead

Futures once seen ahead,

appealing islands beyond

cracks of incidental doors,

orthographic possibilities

lost to this blood of survival.

Once continent, these veins

now spill life in furious gouts

into a desert never green,

from fragile limbs and organs

weakened in escape.

New Year Fog

New Year Fog,

         Outside Perfect Pour

                  closed against my need

                           for resurrection

                                    and a newer

caffeinated me,

dims street lights

         and clear visions

                  of a future

without hangovers.

Zapata's People

I do not think Zapata

would allow me

in his camp.

One look at this face

broken from an edge

of Western Europe,

unvagabondish,

and perhaps too delicate

for the art of war,

would wrinkle brows

and fingers itching

on hair triggers

might discover

new reason to move

toward Reconquista.

Who Sleeps In My Bed?

Who sleeps in my bed?

         It cannot be me,

for my dreams

         have never known

this ecstasy.

Who sings such valiant songs,

         that float over rooftops

to proclaim love everlasting?

         These sounds cannot be mine;

my voice cannot touch such joy

         overwhelming.

The sky must have fallen

         with the rain.

that river must have finally

         gone dry;

to sing such songs

         and dream such dreams

from such a malcontent

         as I.

The Noise In My Head

I hate your noise in my head

the way you hated the noises

in yours.

Your power and your weakness

left me struggling for breath

in clear air.

Your darkness gathers in corners

under an old lampshade and speaks

with a knife edge.

Electric shock made nothing new

your will broke in waves

and we into silvered shards.

Your grim song wove moonlight

then fire across time

and a floor empty of dance.

I hate your ideal face

with its bullet hole

reflected in polaroid forests.

A Sharp Cry

A sharp cry,

a dry shout

flies into my ear

kitchen frustration

a vegetable resisting

molecular separation

a dead creature’s

sinew

unwilling to part

from bone

perhaps that sound

springs from other action

an attempt

more spectacular

like suicide