I may have posted this poem before, but I don’t feel like searching the blog for it. Either way, I like it, and I’m trying to unite my music with my words. If you’re curious, here’s the song that accompanies the poem.
Love in Articulo Mortis
Regrets packed in tearsalt,
I hand them to the porter.
I’ve been here before,
love in articulo mortis.
I board the train on a night
darker than I’ve ever seen,
cloudless, the moon judging
me with borrowed light.
The signal blows and I’m
tossed into haunted sleep.
When I wake, I look out
on a ruined landscape.
Without a word, the porter
hands me my things and nods.
I step out onto the platform,
a stranger in a dangerous town.
So far, I’ve only checked off #1 and #7.
This has nothing to do wit the poem…I just like it.
To Do List
Turn monsters into flowers.
Make eggs cry.
Discover a new alphabet.
Eat my way through a marble statue
Bring worms to orgasm.
Find six keys and five doors.
Encourage a germ.
Visit my oldest hate.
Dictate a letter to a fish.
Fall from a high ledge of butter.
Exact revenge for trees.
Find a reason to love.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is stay….
I sleep inches away from my enemy,
but I’ve been trained not to panic
and to count my breath when she sends
out her siren call, pre-recorded but still deadly.
(I’m Odysseus, but I do pretty damn well).
Temptation isn’t a sin and resistance
isn’t a virtue…at least, not anymore.
Now, it’s just life, slowly marching on,
and the man trapped behind enemy lines
is no hero as he carefully chooses his steps,
just as the man closing his eyes in the same
room where she lies deserves no medal.
I’m sifting through some old writing and occasionally finding decent poems:
A bell rings somewhere in the distance
as the mist drifts in from the lake where
I last saw you, your face sparking
my memory, waking me in the dark
and charging me with the voltage of guilt.
The bell rings out again, and I close
my eyes, allow myself to walk toward
the sound that resonates in the leaves
and flows like liquid into my dry mouth
that opens to speak your name again.
I’m slowly moving back into the writing world…
“Did you accomplish everything
you wanted to accomplish?”
the angel asked. We were sharing
a smoke and wandering through
the ruined city, one of the many
God decided wasn’t worth saving.
“Not really, but it doesn’t matter,”
I said and passed the cigarette.
The angel smoked thoughtfully.
The sky cracked open and poured
out blood, so we hurried under
an awning of a burned-out building.
“This was all supposed to go differently,”
the angel said and fluttered his wings.
They were damaged–he would never
fly again, but we didn’t talk about that.
“I imagine so,” I said and watched
the blood fall, thinking about my life
that was fading like exposed film.
Soon, everything would be gone.
Until then, the angel and I had half
a pack of smokes and each other,
and that, at least, was something.
I’ve been quite busy lately, what with three jobs. I took a few weeks off from writing, and that helped me focus on getting adjusted to my work. Gone are the days that I would be wracked with guilt over not writing (and thank God for it).
I had a little time today and wrote this.
In Case of Emergency
In case of emergency, she said,
kill me, and be sure you drink
my blood before helping others.
I stared at the blasted ground, the cold
sky, the misshapen hump of land where
we stood and tried to solve the problem
that had plagued generations–what to
do when disaster strikes in the form of
something we recognize intimately.
When the time came, she died without
a sound, and with stained lips, I roamed
the streets, offering her as sacrament.
I’ve been less consistent in posting lately, but I’ve been writing a lot. I’m not teaching this summer and I’m home with my children, which takes up a lot of my time. It’s not difficult to find time to write, but it is rather hard to find the time to post something.
This piece emerged during a freewriting session.
He emerged from a blur of antics
and drank heavily of the stuff of mid-life.
He doubled-spaced his pain and edged
the margins of doubts where the girls
of his escapades lived and drowned.
Garbed in gabardine, he outwitted the cat
and dusted for his own fingerprints.
The paradigm had shifted yet again,
and he luxuriated in the bath salts of time
out of joint, the busyness of laughter,
the flags of passion wilted, half-mast.