Leaves of rust dot an aggressive sky
The blacktop and yellow lines that divide us…are covered with dew
Such as a, cold sweat from a fever that will not break
Friends to the right teaching from a treacherous dream
Tired and worn neighbors to the left…correspond to the dead
Across the great dissect…acquaintances no longer fed
With watchful eye, I sit on a weathered deck pondering…’where has my neighborhood gone?’
A mortgaged life singing her swan song
Original sin and I…obeying the wrong
I take the devil out of its box.
To make a big stand.
the ancients disregard the plan.
They do not hold me aloft.
hold me beneath.
I am only stones and bones.
A misguided sage song.
The ancients know…
I can only bequeath one.
And, one lust only.
Decadence for thoughts that are forever lonely.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.
She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
Crickets and alike hear my random thoughts
Unmasked in the under brush…there is no need for abandonement…
Just a lyrical understanding of loss
Salamander, squirrel, evergreen and barren oak know of cost
Reverberation from forgotten caves
Divots into the forest of rain
Landscape reminders…we are not the same
I am only invited to release the shame
How far down can I be?
From the life that swallowed me.
Wandering down the same faded lanes.
Looking for mythical messages…
In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.
Where antiquated becomes motionless.
Laying about without a sound!
I would put a name to the provocation.
But am not quite sure how.
It is an unequivocal ride.
That will not end.
Not end until a name is pressed in stone.
It is the longest of journey’s home.