Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Selected Works III

Thirteen (Regret)
New York City has been a fantasy.
There are millions settled within its limits.
They breathe a concert of reality and illusion
And exhale allusions of Renaissance.

Naturally unexpected culture is intrinsic,
Loving homes carved into high metal is the custom.
Labor tires itself to sleep on the fortieth story.
The city ceaselessly fights for that beauty.

Intent beautifully sings in every native’s vernacular.
Decency and arrogance seem equally effortless.
Inane thoughts can flee from the city eventfully,
And endless meaning will never leave its mother’s side.

Incredulity is an unconvincing invention.
Utopia only exists in plain and promising doubt.
The city might be a warm content for a refugee.
Forgive the children that discover that it is novel.

Seventeen (Prophecy)
The pioneer is a forgotten man,
and he walks the unbeaten path.
He guides himself with falling stars
and clears his mind under the sunset.

His articles are tarnished with dust,
and the evenings have become colorless.
These days move him further from the city,
and make his dirty nails matter less.

Fourteen (Lightning)
My sights chance a look up at the sky. At this moment, 
every bit of sound and heat between here and there is
falling out of the sky in a dazzling streak. 

A second passes. On the next, the din reaches out, and a
tremor shakes apart everywhere. My hands reach out for the
whirling flash of an instant. Just as soon, the elusive ballet of
light in front of my eyes begins fading to half as many shades.

My eyes crank shut to find the show on the covers of my eyes. 
A ballet of little, blue memories dance on my private screen to
remind me that the sky crumpled and broke until it fell with a
terrible of crack. This recalling finds a dimmed and flickering end. 

There isn’t the trembling anymore. The last bit of memory of the blinding
radiance flees. As it is gone, the night returns to that certain purple.

Selected Works II

Nine (Incidental)
Her smell is stuck to my sheets.
There is a mess that she left in my room,
And there are lights that she left on.

The marks from her spine are on my covers.
There is the scent of her product on my pillow;
It's from the way that she laid there.

Her heart still beats under the floor.
There is still my blood on the walls.
She forgets to say goodbye.

The Ides of July
A friend near to me sleeps on a knife;
He keeps me within an arm's length.
His face relaxed in an utter loss of strife;
None could know if he would have the strength.

For soon will be the morning of the Ides of July.
In a blindness of the devotion that is around,
The notches in my back will become awry.
He can be under the crown.

Judges, Sixteen
She drags a smile across her face as she breaks every bone purposefully.
My firm resolution is to linger in consciousness without a fight.
A razor scrapes across my scalp, so goes the last of my might.

Eulogy describes all that's next; my incrimination flows uneventfully.
Words draw themselves from me without any intention.
My hands are painting the antagonist with immodest affection.
Russet eyes watch a man unafraid, a sense of completeness. 
Under the weighted blade, I taste my smile's sweetness.
Gone are the walls and the deceit; my loyalty unswayed.

Selected Works I

A surname mocks with desolation.
Damned to endure her sweetest arcane.
Her passing thoughts stir elation;
A libertine's flash cannot sustain.
Exigencies resume where they began.
Torment moans with reticence donned.
Yet Madmen's desires arrest that man.
Moments rapt to a kind demimonde.

Waken for this and every night.
It's not tomorrow yet.
A moon and the stars still hang
Over a million wishers without regret.
Mere echoes are silent nights
As dynamics erupt with fires.
Sleep will be a dreary lull
When stars are desires.
Rouse for any single moment,
Let it be the meekest elation.
An unresting conscious enemated
by the sweetest hibernation.
Insomnia mustn't be shaken.
Awaken, awaken, and awaken.

5 knocks
With her hands pressed against the wall,
I plainly hear a gentle song of a small bird.
And a refrain echoes through my room,
yet at night, it can barely be heard.
She is ladened with a faint breath
As a songbird whispers of grievance
Because this will never be my night.
And the melody is merely a reassurance.

Ten, Expected

Afloat for an hour;
Her spirit drifting all away.
The mind fallen in shower,
Her words casually lift array.
Dreads to say a word,
Even a single ounce.
So it stands to occur
A love to renounce.