(cacophony perplexes)



The echos’ cacophony perplexes;
each false note harmonizes with discord,
a seeming pattern like rain on puddles.
A bending of self around the shifting
context of the time we find ourselves in.
The barrage persists all day and all night;
the words blast upon my psyche like hail
pummeling.  Flowers bend into the mud.
I walk along barren ground calling out
names at random in hopes that someone hears:
the wind, the storm, the silence devours.
What words we use to justify ourselves
are lost beneath the onslaught of the world.
An old path blends into a mottled ground.
Birds whip between rain and leaves, singing songs
beneath the backbeat of the storm.  Lightning 
scars what night is visible through the trees.
No one is near to hear these words I speak;
nevertheless, I say them anyway.
The mumbled sounds mingling with falling trees
somewhere beyond the  distant horizon;
is anyone there?  I storm off to look
ever hopeful that around the next bend,
over the next hill, I will find the one
true voice that has lured me on for years:
a siren singing between the  echoes.
Where we go, there we go; there we grow.

(from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 2003)

I Am. . .

(a self-portrait)
watched as the mirror distorts the page
through which I observe as I write these
 words in this notebook before I sleep
my escape as a rationale for dissection
from angles askew to a direction I’m in
the relative motion deploys my illusion
so yes and yes and yes again is given
to questions never asked aloud only
imagined in conversation not allowed
parallel trials’ debated possibilities
enacted within inner questions
which reflect back answers I desire
a refracted notion implied by minute
intricate inlays between convulsions
of my mind and yours and hers and his
(August 8, 2013)

Door

inside I long to vanish
like ventriloquist’s lips
mouthing toward another
to loose the proprietary
shackles to my skull
crushing my last thought
outside I wander lost
from room to thought
beneath a waning moon
a semblance of a hunt
a straight line pursuit
of my troubled heart
at the door I pause
like a tired visitor
unsure of the welcome
to step inside or away
to call myself home
uncomfortable with both
(August 1, 2013)

our lives swallowed in cliché


silence broke
across the room
like lines of frost
limning the edges
of a window pane
I don’t know what
I expected different
than what occurred
the bare acknowledgement
the sudden change of subject
the pissed silence
but something
something else
(July 12, 2013)

somewhere in this lives a frightened little boy

the daily semblance of calm
(a mask whereupon he rides
the volatile rage twisting
like magma beneath rock
until he’s able to dismount
with the casual elan of a cat
who has fallen awkwardly
but  still haughtily walks away
with a final slash and twitch
of his tail as if to say who cares)
allows him to breathe within the deep
panic rising over him like water.
(July 11, 2013)

52. A Smothered Fire Smothers Me

July 19, 1995
I desire, long for, crave calm,
my heart centered like a top;
but I careen about the town
like a drunkard down the road.
I pay too much attention to myself
and how these poems are read.

(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995)

32. A Solid Foundation

July 10. 1995
The drunk looks for his key
beneath a street light . . . an old
joke.  I laugh, yet fear I
search for something not there.
Patience is not enough when
nothing exists to be found.

(1995, from My Book of Changes)