In the Neighborhood

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

Thoughts in a Box

 

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I take the devil out of its box.

To make a big stand.

Yet,

the ancients disregard the plan.

They do not hold me aloft.

Or,

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.imageedit_37_3807268273

 

 

Black Cat Rules

Black Cat

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.

an Invitation

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

Neglectful Owner

These trials of worthiness,

remarkable or not…

are plain as day…nonetheless.

If it were a drug the shaking less intense.

Feelings like a neglectful owner to common sense.

Normally a good runaway…would be

in order.

Yet, the sneakers have gone since I put the blotter away.

Flashbacks of embryos on the floor.

With hatred always wanting more.

Pictures of sepia images bought with the beat of a leather strap.

All and none of the above, correct answers.

With the questions being all wrong…

a fifty year old swan song.