August 2014

Reality Bites
Play Date
A Reflection of Pause
Our Furies of Creation
Dawn of the Dead

Final Call|
Skyfire's Kiss
Deep Horizon
All I Knew It Would Be
Glittering Gifts

Reality Bites

An illusion spoiling in the holiday sun.
A neck left exposed to the razor of reality.
Casualties of distance,
targets of circumstance,
love lived with selective blinders.

Skin laid bare to emotional wires,
blackened flesh, a brackish gleam
where the dreams lay tarnished.
tears felled in silence
from the shame on our face.

Play Date

Jazz just wants to come out of these fingers,
to shred the meter,
to startle, shock
these buttoned up chords
into a fevered submission,
to run satin ivories to sin,
to run with the wolves
deep
into the hoods,
to her dissonant rills.
An Oh my lawdy Lou!
to her bawdy complaints.

Jazz wants to sweet talk me,
to take me under the saturnine covers,
to cull my edges,
to trim the manic off my nerves,
to waltz quixotic through a frantic rap,
and leave it gasping
in its mediocrity,
in the cold blue spasm of syncopated rhyme.

Jazz want me dancing
on the bass,
on the boho line,
cross tapping our melody,
never playing our last expectant note,
never coming to the crescent point,
always pregnant with riff.
Ever walking the wire,
never too close
yet always on the precipice,
each goodbye left to gasp
at the juice left behind.

 

A Reflection of Pause

The earth winked at us,
Its reflection cool,
oddly metallic, liquid,
like the mirror on a bluebottle fly.
A sun’s shutter sparkled,
as if it took our likeness,
a perfect exposure filed away.

I had just returned the favor,
capturing the sky
in the stillness of a rain barrel,
metallic and liquid,
as the glisten from a dolphin’s fin.
I took its likeness and filed it away.

 

Our Furies of Creation

Father calls through the rock,
a great voice asleep in these colors,
their painted shadows - ancient blood.

Dawn sings on these soils
for the ghost trains,
for the next pony on the path.

Mother calls through the waters,
soughs in the canyons,
coaxing the sun in each warrior to rise.

They even our flames as they burn.
Father cries us in our furies of creation.
Mother cries us, coaxed to the womb of reborn.

Dawn of the Dead

Dawn crept,
necro-gray and vitreous white
in scleras of mist,
a fogged veil of swirling occultations,
a cataract to the rich blue beyond.

Opaque porcelain
stirred with eggshells, nacreous,
sliding over my skin
in a cold wet sheen, sinister
like the stale breath of yesterday
coated in a mantle of fear.

A bath water rinse
of eggshell stirred in a nacreous sheen,
opaque shades ginning,
their stale clammy breath
sliding over my skin,
congealing
a glaze of the dead’s last tears.

Final Call

Soon the silences will push upon me,
the muteness of my mind will scream
in it’s vacuum,
a riot of spittle on a wall of foot thick glass,
where once there was prose,
where neurons of ink flowed freely
from the latest starlight on tap.

I will be neutered of my lubricants,
scored and scalded b y a thousand suns
separated by scallops of velvet rope
from the celebrity of each thought.
Just another fan with a camera,
a hack with a pen and a grin.

Soon the censors will descend
and the braindances will cease…
Soft-shoe sliding from crescendos of tap,
the Broadway numbers gone,
a wanna-be huffing… cut from The Show.

And so the muse will be quelled,
from a torrent, to a babble, to a whisper.
The spigot will close
to a drip - drip - dribble
of dross.