Magus

He comes alone 
in borrowed shoes 
divining his way 
with eyes blind
in their sockets.
Cloaked in threads 
stolen from deep 
and obstinate 
forests of sleep, 
pockets swollen with 
memories, he conjures trees 
that never were, 
with branches that twist 
and turn back and insist 
on devouring the earth 
which cannot hold him. 
Beneath a rind of alien 
stars, with alphabets of 
warm desire, he taunts 
the moon and bares his 
scars and dares the earth 
with stone and fire, and
dares the earth to rise 
and wake to voice his  
bloodsong, this daybreak.

Elegy I

I saw my father's face 
covered with dirt
his swollen lips bent
to meet the horizon's last embrace,
kissing his way to the land of the dead

Desire

She holds my tomorrows 
as if she were a porcelain cup
sweetening my dreams
with the honey of her eyes, 
waiting to be sipped 
by the lips of fate.

Enemy Mine

She sleeps in me,
a remnant 
of forgotten love,
consuming 
the air between us.
Choking  
with the uneasy rust
of abandoned things,
of nightmares crushed 
against silken pillows,
she sleeps 
in my absence
leaving me awake,  
breathing in 
the pure oxygen 
of halide dreams. 

Christmas Day

I saw this morn
through time and space
three sure signs
of Christmas grace:
First,
a falcon,
lost in flight,
tracing arcs
against the light
encircling a distant star
that once led magi from afar;
Next,
a meadow
where the night,
frozen, still,
and winter white, announced
a presence as of old
when shepherds brought
their lambs to fold;
Finally,
a child at play,
mindless
of the bitter cold,
making angels in the snow
as I once did long ago.
Each sign brought a blessing;
each sign had its say.
The season is upon us
with Heaven's child
on Christmas Day.

The Homecoming

From your 
parched lips
a desert of 
swollen kisses
declaims against
a promised land 
of fire and ash.
Your breath 
gives birth 
to star-time, 
the violet, 
purpling sky 
encircling 
the earth 
rises with you
and will set 
in the dawn 
of your coming. 
Cross over this Jordan, then,
if you must.
Return as a prodigal.
Begin this search anew,
this quest,
the crawling out 
of self 
into self  
to escape coming home
to a dried carapace 
Of bleached bones 
flaking 
in the wind.

Valediction

Thrash 
among dry stones,
along rivers choked
with forgotten dust. 
Raise up cairns
to mark memory's 
last embrace.
Sun-baked, withered 
and sere,
the desert thirsts
but you 
give back nothing.
The desert pleads 
But you 
give back nothing 
or what you give
is like death,
the smell of 
death, 
A final 
exhalation, 
then silence.

Junction

Your skin 
marks the boundary 
against day's emptiness,
an intersection 
where calculus of love 
meets multiplication 
of desire, 
white, pale, luminescent, 
a far field 
waiting for seed 
to take hold,
forcing roots upward 
in a tangled cuneiform,
tracing the rubric 
of stones and dead leaves,
a trail of blood 
seeking its wound.

Mirror, Mirror

The mirror holds 
my second self
The one I rarely see
He sits alone 
Upon my shelf
But does he dream of me?

Rejection

At the sight of you
I disappear
Into the shadows
Of my heart
Clinging
To your smile
As a flame clings
To its wick,
Waiting for the rough
Thumb of night
To snuff and smother
The light

Conquest

So many dead,
so many dead,
We cannot count
So many dead.
First a village,
Then a town
Bodies piled seven high
Now ashes in the ground.
Drag each mother from her child,
Each husband from his chores,
Old and young
Their song is sung
And they shall sing no more.
Raze the shelters,
Torch the fields,
Pull their alters down.
Praise our Lord
And do his will
Bring glory to his crown.
Praise our Lord
And in his name
Each sword becomes a flame
So many dead, so many dead,
We do this in his name.
And more and more
Around each bend
And more and more the same
Praise our Lord
And do his will
All glory to his name.

In Shadows

Darkness shone in Brightness
And Brightness did not know
Winter slept in Summer
And Summer hid the snow
The Moon is always with us
The woman and the blood
In shadows we bear witness
Through shadows we become

Love Poem

We make
A naked poetry,
A metaphor
Undressed.
The words are 
Merely simile,
Our sense
Is in the flesh.

New Poems

Twenty Crows

I counted
twenty crows today,
twenty crows
upon the wire.
Straight and black
with heads held back
And eyes

that glowed like fire.
Against the wind
they held their line,
huddled

in the morning mist.

Like a child's dirty

smudge
they would not budge
'til I scattered them
with a kiss.

Loss

Her bones lay still

and silent now

and all her dreams

have fled.

Her secrets left

some time ago
before her flesh

was shed.

She mingles

with the tangled roots

of weeds and trees and flowers;

rosebuds spring

between her eyes

seeking summer showers,

and when the rain

has passed away,

each petal sheds a tear,

and all her bones

cry out for love

as if she still is here.

I Want To Live My Inside Out
I want to live
My inside out
I want to sing
And dance and shout
And caper
Madly
Deep within
The outside
Of my secret whim

Silence
silence is
the lamp that lit the attic space,
the light that chased your shadow
down dark corridors of memory,
a sound between sounds,
a sound at the edge of sound,
at the tip of tongue
before mind makes words,
silence is; silence is
the figure in a black coat
taking count of moments
waiting to happen,
the doctor tapping
at my heart, a cat
outside my door,
and silence is the sum
of all uncaring angels, unanswered prayers,
absent gods and the tears one cried
in silence




The moral right of this blogger to be identified as the author of work presented here has been asserted.

The Waiting Consciousness of Dead Fish

The carwash is lined with several species of dead fish whose silvery teeth reflect the dreams of maiden aunts rusting away in the back rooms of yesterday's newspaper headlines. What is one to say? After all, any excuse would be poor justification, yet is has been observed that the gaze of a well-formed trout, though deceased to the point of putrefaction, was nonetheless so overcome by the sheer eloquence of one aunt's vision that he truly believed himself to be swimming upstream once more. And his is only one instance of the singularity and unique power of their visions. Other dreams which have informed what we might call the waiting consciousness of dead fish have been more violent: mad rape involving a sand goose and several other creatures of undetermined species; car accidents involving the most exquisite mutilation of driver and metal; the matter of incest in proper Boston families will be noted but discourse avoided; several murders have been recorded by a prominent philatelist whose drawings of same have been submitted to the Postal Authorities for consideration as a series of offset stamps, a perfect choice for those members of the National Association who collect topicals. (What the fish have to say about this matter will be taken up when their writ is prepared for court.) In the meantime, they rest fitfully while the soap foams and swirls about their plump little bodies, washing each scale clean so that it may be measured and fitted with a lustrous garment of finest cox-comb and coarse ground salt.

The New Car

"Are you going to drink your wine?" She asked, leaning across the table as if she already knew the answer. We were just finishing dinner at Angelini's over on Beverly Drive. Nice place, good food, friendly staff. Valet parking. We had ordered Bombolotti and the Trofie alla Riviera, split the whole Branzino, and shared a dessert with a little wine. Well, more than a little wine, I guess. Her taste ran to the Pinot Gris side of the house but I wanted something with a little more body, something a bit less white, but not necessarily a red. We settled on the Anselmi, still crisp but with more sweetness to it, a touch impertinent at first but with a strong soft finish. By the time we'd poured that last of the second bottle, her eyes were glowing and I was feeling warm and dreamy. It was just after 6pm and the sun was slowly disappearing in the west, wiping massive streaks of deep, translucent pink against the blue-grey horizon.   
"I hadn't much thought about it." I replied, watching a waiter move quickly across the room, one upstretched hand heroically balancing what appeared to be an entire roast pig on a silver platter.
"Always the decider," she said reaching across the table to take the glass. "Do you mind?"
I sighed and said, "You finish it. I think I've already had enough." She raised the rim of the glass to her lips and tossed down the last ounce of amber liquid like it was a shot of vodka. She placed her napkin over the top of the glass just as the sun finally set, oozing a line of deep coral behind it.
"Have you thought about the new car?" 
"The new what?"
"The new car. Remember we talked about it yesterday and you said you'd think about? Have you thought about it?"
"Not really."
"Well you need to think about it."
"Why?"
"Because we need a new car."
"We don't need a new car. We already have two cars. They still run fine. They're paid for ..."
They're both over 10 years old. One needs new tires. I want something new, something ..."
Expensive, I thought. Sleek, dark, and expensive.
"I don't know, maybe a new Volvo?"
We already own two Volvos, a black wagon and a blue sedan, both serviceable and civil, a little bit of Sweden on Michelin tires.  
"Of course, what I'd really like is a BMW or a Mercedes, but I know they're too expensive and we probably can't afford either of those."
Probably? Definitely. We can't afford Sweden or Germany right now. I watched the waiter slice and serve the roast pork to a table of six across the room. I think the diners were celebrating a birthday.  
"But the monthly on the Volvo and the Mercedes are pretty much the same, so what do you think?"
I didn't want to think just then. I wanted to sit back and finish eating the last of the creamy Pecorino Stagianato and dried figs on my plate. I wanted to dip a fig in the honey and pop it into my mouth.  
"Well first off, we don't have the money for a new car ... But I guess if we can't afford either of them and the payment is about the same for both then we might just as well buy the Mercedes, to be on the safe side." I smiled at her and scooped up the remaining pistachios decorating the dessert plate.  
"That is so German of you." She almost snarled.
"Why do you say that? Do I look German to you?
Do I have 'Made in Germany' stamped on my forehead or on my back or on my ass? Made in Germany? My parents would be surprised to know that. They always told me I was conceived on a hilltop in Wisconsin on a beautiful September night under a sky full of falling stars."
"I thought you said your people came from Austria"
"My Father's people came from Austria. My Mother's family hailed from England. Anyway, Austria and Germany are not the same."
"Used to be."
"But not lately."
Our waiter brought the check and smiled. "Whenever you're ready," he said.
"The lady would like coffee and I would like a shot of your best single malt." The waiter nodded approvingly.
"Amaretto with the coffee," she volunteered with a raised hand. 
"Certainly," he said, "and will Lagavulin be acceptable for the gentleman?"
It was my turn to nod approvingly, so I did, and he walked toward the small bar located on a wall at the far end of the dining room.
"Anyway, I don't think I'm the Mercedes type," I offered.
"You may not be," she said, "but I am." And she definitely was. 
In less than five minutes our waiter returned with the drinks.
"Cafe Amaretto for the lady," he said, "and your Lagavulin, sir. Will there be anything else?"
I shook my head and he adjusted our bill then hurried back to his post next to the kitchen door.
I raised the glass of Scotch to my nose and breathed in deeply, letting the aromas of salt spray and smoky peat conjure up a vision of Dunyvaig Castle in my mind's eye.    
"So what do you think? I mean seriously." 
"About what?" 
"About the car."  At that moment Dunyvaig Castle fell to ruin.
"We can't afford a new Volvo and we certainly can't afford a Mercedes. How about a Ford? Maybe one of their SUVs?"
"Are you joking me?"
"No."
"You must be kidding."
"I'm not." 
"A Ford. A Ford? As in F O R D? As in Fix Or Repair Daily? As in Found On Road Dead? You have to be kidding." 
"Oh come on now, it's not as bad as all that. Ford makes an excellent product these days. There is nothing wrong with Ford. What's wrong with buying something made right here in America. What's wrong with buying American?"
When I was growing up there were no Mercedes. No Volvos. No Beamers. There weren't any Toyotas, Nissans or Hondas, either. Every now and then we might get to see a Volkswagen but that was only because we lived in tourist country.
"Times have changed."
"And so has Ford."
"Well you haven't. Seriously ... I mean, seriously? A Ford? You think a Ford is as good as a Mercedes?"
"I didn't say that. Did I say that? Tell me when you heard me say that." The Lagavulin was almost gone but the warmth was lingering deep inside where it did the most good.
"It was implied." She said flatly. Her eyes were howling now and the Cafe Amaretto was almost gone. It was after 9pm in California. That would make it almost dawn on the Isle of Islay where the dark ruins of Dunyvaig Castle rose above the rocky shoreline to color the horizon like a child's dirty smudge.
"Do we have to decide now?" I asked as we rose from the table and moved toward the door.
"Well, we ought to decide something!" She was shrill but not really serious. 
"Have you got five dollars?" I asked. "I've only got a twenty and I'm not paying that much for any valet to move my car half a block."
"Even if it was a FORD?" 
She laughed.
"Even if it was a Mercedes."