Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Pointless Hope

Clauses left hanging after the comma,
as if cut off-- left to ellipsis...
The remnants of emotions translated into words
are gone-- you have none,
you do not exist.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Awoken from a Dream

Now I pull the candle flame closer to me,
as warm as a crowded-around hearth.
My brother plays his guitar erratically,
and the brownish-yellow lamplight
within the hopeful night.

...I awake, and my peculiar
nightmare draws to a close.
My teeth no longer chatter against the cold,
lessened to slight chill, and the spring cherry-blossoms.

The sky is real, an indigo color, and there is a whole world waiting underneath of it.
I lift my eyes up to it, a little dizzy, but whole.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Sydney Carton

The jackal has shed his skin--
or skinned himself.

His spirit, always dwindling,
now shudders, finally alive, in the brisk of the morning--
blossoming from the headless corpse.

The golden horizon
gleams in his hindsight
a thin line of beauty, of divinity;
separating the ground from the sky.

The sunrise approaches-- O!--
and he goes.

She will smile, someday, far away from this time.
And her hesitant sunshine will engulf the Earth,
left in the hands of his mirror image.

Animals in Afternoon

My fennec fox friend told me,
off-resentment in her voice,
"Life sucks and then you die."
And my brother the fanged bear said,

"You don't know what
suffering is."

And the transparent and wide-eyed canine thing
--a girl who resides in a bright, false haze--
--skinny and odd, yet lingering, with head tilted--
told me it was all

My father, the starving and bald
scoffs, ruffles his feathers, and sits down,
sets down.
He squawks an idiots' squawk.

My mother,
the awkward Persian cat,
swishes her tail in a half-interest;
she licks her paw.
Meow, she meows
quite plainly, Meow.

A few parakeets tweet their pleasant tweet
for a pleasing moments' pleasure before they must go.
The sunlight sparkles on their wings, but then
the sun sets.

The smiling yet melancholy
adolescent tigeress'
eyes turn
to slits.

She still grins.

And my claws protrude from my hands
and retract,
my fickle ears shoot up, fold over, and disappear;
my tail snakes around my human thigh and flickers.

Blood pours from my mouth,
black blood.
And I wonder where
the innocence went; I wonder where
my memory has gone.
Where has childhood fled to?

And why have we all turned to animals?

Radiohead - Karma Police

"This is what you get.
This is what you get.
This is what you get
when you mess with us..."

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Now is the Final Act

The scene cuts away, and the camera pans out.
I take my final bow.

A faint melody is playing in the background,
the musings of a distant piano player.

It is 12:12 AM. The room is dark now, finally. The play has finished.
Now I may rest.
The lights are dimmed.

The crowd is filtering out.

They have prepared their testimonies, written on paper,
their prosecution and defense.
These are my sentiments, on the stage,
and this is the reviewers' backlash.

I am the playwright condemned,
the freelance

The fleeting muse has taken flight,
and the production has been swallowed.

Encore, a soft voice cries, encore.
But the voice is wholly ignored.

Now is the Final Act.

Monday, March 8, 2010


At the end of this road, there will be no more winter.
From December to March, those months are better spent sleeping;
Let your heart find rest in this forced hibernation.

The warmth that was once spread across this grateful surface
retreats, crawling back into the sun.
And the wind that once tickled your skin
and turned pinwheels,
now whips and rages, taming
the unforgiven land.

The doe, with wide eyes,
scrapes her hoof across the snow,
but the grass is frozen over;

Some tigers have been stalking her,
now with a snarl, they pounce
and she goes limp and is no more.


We stand,
little marbles and rubies
of desert sand
hollowing out our stomachs.

A similar tear,
falls from our eyes.

Back to back,
we stand,
an arm's length through the Dream Mirror,
the strange scarlet Connection going unbroken.

The ground shifts beneath our feet,
and we go along with it, hesitantly,
two wines of completely different brands.

But still, these two human
beings are
of the same flavor,

diverging from the same path.

A similar tear.
Is shed.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Lullaby Reconsidered

Twinkle twinkle,
Little Gem,
the fairy-dust shimmer at the end of the road,
the lone tear of the mountain fox,
just now turning to leave.

The abandoned abode
where dreams reside,
the slumbering hope of a new world-- a new life,
the beautiful sun beam within the moonlight,
O, twinkling
Little Gem.

Someday do you think
we will finally grasp it? The strange
speck of decency as it dances,
it dances.

The odd
faint pulse of the man in the coma?
The twinkling
Little Gem?

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Interlude

It was beautiful.

My heart beat rapid,
staccato drum beats
and my perspective became strange,
more adult
and skewed;
The walls fell apart and my joints disbanded:
it was scary

but beautiful.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The Times are Different Now.

The Fireflies are dead.
The city lights still remain
but suffer no loss or humane shimmer
as any star should.

The doubt has evaporated,
but the basin has dried out:
and the Metropolitan has grown dimmer,
The ever-shivering blackout.

Sickly, the morning mist
and aching eyes leave nothing to the blue-gray,
only invisible-- I cover my eyes.

The radiance of those nights I once knew
--the luminescent breath of the city at your window--
--your beautiful smile as we drifted into dreams
is gone--

exists only
behind my eyelids;
the erratic R.E.M.
and the eternal fever.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010


The children understand.

They are relatively quiet;
they look away for a moment
as if preoccupied,
off to daydream cities;

but then they smile again,
turning their bright eyes
back to you.

Let it not be known what stole their attention.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Drowsy in Twilight

I am the goddess of yellow fires
flaring in the sky on oddball afternoons
mildly sunny,
but dull as dusk.

On days mild,
with settings matte;
as if the wolves weren't crouched in the shrub:

but I can see them there,
as I am a goddess
of this land long abandoned for clearer thinking.

Abandoned by most, that is.

Either way, the drugged feeling
wreathes around the atmosphere;
it eats and devours,
it festers strangely,
it growls hungrily.

The creatures dash from cover to cover,
they gnaw on the corpses in the clearing;
and all the while, the gases fume;

the goddess of this place is sent into a lull.

The leaking fog is everywhere, and the wolves
the deserters, the beasts, the jackals
swarm about this dreaming