Every Other Day

Id cry to get it all out,
But I'm so empty, even these echoes find themselves lost.
In this world where friends,
Still there,
Disappear for parts -- not unknown --
I don't even know what hurts;
It's not as if I cant make it on my own,
I just don't remember how.
I want to whisper "I'm so lost without you here"
But nothing's changed. You're still there, I'm still here
Making my way, like before,
Groping in the dark, perhaps,
But not any darker than it ever was,
Not any more alone than I ever was.
You're willing, I know, but not able.
I pretended you could make it all right,
All this time, every time, after that terrible night.
I wouldn't wake you after,
But at least I knew I could.
But I cant even pretend,
Cant even hope, anymore.
I want to be happy, and I am,
But why these burning tears?
Why all these dark days?
And all these crippling fears?
I cant love myself, and how,
How can someone love me?
And who will save me now?

unfinished business...

I cant hear my own thoughts these days.
Only words of songs I know too well
And forgotten poems -- a line
here and there
Missing its
other half
Sometimes its head, sometimes
-- its heart;
Never complete, never really
Saying what it means to say,
Like a clever joke with
bad deliv-
ery.
I try too hard, and yet, I never try.
I want so much --
And yet I have nothing to give.

"Here's to the fear of being trapped..."

I dont want to be inspired
By cheap metaphors and simple similes
I want the truth to be so close.
So close that i can understand in a flash
Of light that banishes dark dreams
And confounds insolent incertitudes.
So bright that i could die just to know
That its trenchant beams would pierce my weary body
Save my lost soul, and transfix this hardened heart --
Let this fervid blood come spilling out
Paint my grey world red, my blue world crimson
With real life -- not hiding, beating, waiting --
But dashed, spilt, gushing, rushing, surging
To a truth more real than life,
A truth more constant than breath,
A truth to which tedious metaphor seems
A cheap motel knock off of Van Gogh.
"Who steals a Monet, just to not sell it? .. A Monet Lover..."

Haiku...of sorts..

City of Big Shoulders

Oh laughing city!
Giants tow'ring in the dust,
Singing: proud, coarse, strong.

Possible, possible, possible --
No, I dont think so.
Yes, this is America, but
Does it deserve to be?
To be free? To be beautiful?
To be someone? To be there
In the fray, blazing a golden path -
Way -- way up to god? To
Man? No. I dont think so.
Dont know, so...
So do we stay? Do we try?
Do we pretend? No. I dont think so.
Don't know, so...
So go back to looking down.
Looking up is going forward --
Into NOTHINGNESS.
Cold, blue, airless --
So. It's possible?
No. I dont think so.

"Did you know what You were doing?"

Uninspired.
Understanding utter unction --
Shall we say extreme --
I think i missed the boat
Because i thought it was about
me.
But i jumped in anyhow.
Bleeding Bread, but not for bloody me.
Broken? Beaten?
Yes, perhaps. Not like Him.
Reconciliation?
Raging against dark demons --
But its not rage that revitalizes.
Cold water first --
I dont remember -- In nomine --
-- Domine, non tantum pedes meos --
I want it though. All.
But i jumped for what? Why? When? Where?
Cold water now, to fight back -- but still
Uninspired.

Some Things

The Books

Hockey helmet next to books --
Grey helmet, brown box, black books.
Terrible titles -- Rockin' Out, Life-
Span Development, Chemistry, Physical Science --
Where are those titles i love?
Where are those boards i adore?
Belloc and Chesterton shelved?
Dickens and Dostoevsky dead?
Where are those pages that hold me safe and near?
-- forgotten--
Helmet and home covered in dust,
Yet these titles so bold? So bright?
So monstrous?

****

The Book Ends

Empty photo albums
Full of forgotten memories
Holding dear those times most sacred
Holding silent those things most secret
Holding back those heady tomes
Of times and triumphs not our own.
Holding them back? or holding them up?
Holding them up? Perhaps; but,
Maybe,
Only not holding their own.

On Voices One Only Dreams Of

-- Eliot, Frost, Hass, Butterworth --

I’m not one of them
But I want to be.
Here I am among them,
Yet I’m so far away.
Their words pound over me
Drowning me in their brilliance
Almost too much to bear –
I hold my breath, waiting
Waiting for that moment
When I won’t have to go back
Won’t have to meet with
My inadequacies.
Won’t have to hope that I too can say so much
Won’t have to be
Me.
Wont have – to be.
I want to break through the surface
And come back up again,
Because it hurts so much being battered
And I can barely breath and
My head – my heart – is filled to bursting and
There are so many things I think
They might come rushing out of me in torrents
Raising primeval forests black and brilliant – but,
Emerging, spews forth from me
Not Golden-tongued Glories
But coughs and sputterings,
Violent vomitings from a soul,
Sick at heart,
Discordant,
Dry heaving. Dead.
Life pounded out by poets.

"We are only falsehood..."

I wont stay here, you know, I said.
But here I am.
Here begging to leave, yet unwilling to go.
I wont ever go, you know, I said.
But there I go.
There hating the darkness, yet unwilling to see.
I wont fail, you know, I said.
But down I fall.
Here lying on the ground, confused.
What happened, do you know? I said.
But I dont know.
Cant see it here in the darkness
Here on the ground
There in my heart
Cant see it.

"The Road to Awe"

Burst bubbles
Broaden horizons
Hurting horrendously
But bringing
Brazen Life;
Liberating like
Swelling symphonies
Tearing to
Terrible bits
But Ah! Building
Such sweet
Sounds that
The thousand
Parts pound
Parched Souls
With water
Wrought from
Flaming Fountains
Sparkling Springs
Shining dark --
Dreams,
Crying, copper
Coated, for
Fortune, Friend,
Love, Life,
Light, Magic,
Magnificent
Meaning.