Like a painting

I stared at her
like she was a painting;
as if I had all day and night
to drink in each and every
sublime curve and contour
of her exquisite grace.

She briefly gazed at me
as if I was a painting
that she didn't have the time for.
For me an eternity of ecstasy.
For her an incidental passing glance.

How much worldly fortune
if I could, would i offer,
for one more fleeting glimpse
of her exquisite grace ?

I wonder if I did possess
a painting half as beautiful as she,
would I settle for this work of art,
to worship and admire
for as long as i should like.

Or would I freely give this up
for one more moment's sight
of her exquisite grace.

Wheel of karma

Your end ?
My end ?
Where the hell's the middle ?
You say this.
I say that.
What the hell's the deal ?
In the end
It looks like karma,
and we're stuck here on the wheel.
You over there.
Me over here.
And where the hell's the middle ?

Right where it has always been;
holding your end and mine together.
If it weren't for the middle
we would fly off altogether;
and our karma would be done
freed from one another.

No need to ask the questions
of what and why and wherefore.
The wheel just keeps on turning.

The crucial matter comes to this;
Are we ready, willing, able
to let go our desperate grip
on karma's timeless wheel ?

This wheel it keeps on turning.
Now you are at the center;
you see and hear your fellows
lament their place upon the wheel.

And the wheel of karma;
it keeps on turning.
My end ?
Your end ?
What the hell's the difference ?

If the wheel is truly timeless,
no beginning and no end;
where am i going anyway ?
How long will it take
to get from where I find myself
to where I think I need to be ?
If all along the truth is this;
where I am is where I ought to be
therefore so for you.

My end ?
Your end ?
What the hell's the difference ?
Here we are together
on this timeless karmic wheel.
It seems the only way for balance
is to meet right in the middle.

Dream song

in a dream....

I was surrounded by many
desperate, troubled people.
There was much drinking,
drugging and violence.
Women were being bought and sold
and held ransom to the dollar.

I was afraid and confused
and wanted to run away
to save my body.
But in my mind and heart,
I wanted to stay
to help in some way.

I found myself called to stillness
These words came through me.

You already are what you seek.
Stand up, unbow yourselves.
Shake off that shame and self-pity.
Look up towards your father sky
to the realm that has always been yours

You already are what you seek.
You don't have to drink that poison.
You don't have to smoke that weed.
You don't have to sell yourself
for that demon, mister money.

You already are what you seek
Your heritage is fully within you,
and needs for you to come home.
There's nothing to build.
There's nothing to buy.
There's nowhere to go;
and there's nothing to do.

You already are what you seek.
Your radiant wings are fully within you
just waiting for you to decide
to fly like the eagle you always have been.

You already are what you seek.
I invite you to consider this message
that who and what you are fully
exists to the fullest within.

You already are what you seek
Stand up and stretch those beautiful wings,
and bring yourself clear to the edge.
Now take to the wing without fear or concern,
and fly like the eagle you always have been
in the realm that has always been yours

Technicolor sky

it was in the early days
when everything was technicolor
there was that explosion that occurred
only inward
then nothing
then something called time
interspersed with more implosions
sudden
mysterious
unexpected
too many implosions
with black and white nothing in between

and then
it is decades later
it seems i have awakened
from a black and white dream

i look up at the technicolor sky
all i want is to be back safe
in my black and white dream.

because that techniclor sky
it's too beautiful and blazing

filled with possibilities
lost possibilities
stolen possibilities
forgotten possibilities
broken possibilities

something about that technicolor sky
wants to tear this wounded heart apart
wants to make me look at it
wants to make me believe that
it can be a possibility

i know i can never go there
this body, mind and heart
just would not survive another
one of those implosions

so i stay here, safe here
in my black and white dream
waiting for the blessed end
when i'm called into that technicolor sky
with it's endless possibilities.

Aum

Aum

In the beginning,
the word.

Before the word,
the sound.

Before the sound,
The vibration.

Before the vibration,
the universal hum.

Aum

No beginning.
No end.
Only ever now.

All that is

Aum

monkey-shines

1998....
while touring india....
exploring rishikesh
a popular hindu pilgrimage site
along the banks of holy mother ganges river
in the sub-tropical himalayan foothills

i had determined it was time to replenish
my supply of apples, oranges and bananas
feeling energetic and adventurous
i took myself across the eighth of a mile walk-bridge
to the "unholy" opposite riverbank
intent on checking out the marketplace
situated along a winding escalating path
lined with various market stalls and street-side services
which began immediately
at the foot of the bridge's other side

just at the base of the incline
stood a massive expansive tropical tree
some twenty-five meters in height
i happened to glance upward
to observe a troupe of monkeys
ten or twelve of them or so
collectively staring with much interest in my direction
from atop the tree branches

i shrugged and turned to continue along
leaving any thought of those curious monkeys
to drift away with the river's current
and the balmy sweet tropical breeze
it happened that the most delectible produce
was available in a quaint friendly stall
at the very top of the pathway
( in full view of those monkeys, by the way )

success....mission accomplished !

feeling quite pleased with my purchase
i began a relaxed descent towards
returning to my lodgings

as if on cue
from some mystical comedy script
in some movie i wasn't aware of being in
and at the perfect dramatic moment
a stunning, young, blond, scandinavian woman
passed me heading the other way along the pathway

naturally and of course,
i stopped and turned to admire her radiant charms

suddenly, out of the corner of my eye i saw him
the big bad boss monkey of that troupe i had seen
with the whole damn family not far behind

i froze in a state of....
i'm still not quite sure what....
but picture this if you will....

i was holding a bag of peanuts upright in my left hand
having been eating these freely with my right hand
and a common plastic market bag
with the day's fruit bonanza
dangling from the pinky finger
of the hand holding the peanuts

the boss monkey charged
with extreme malicious intent
huge impressive fangs bared
the troupe close behind

no doubt he intended to leave with his prize
no matter if he had to take my hand to do so

i agreed with him
he could have the fruit
he was welcome to the fruit
dammit, he and his family deserved the fruit
i was a mere pretender to their territorial rights

what occurred next seemed borne of an intuitive knowing
rather than any conscious decision
a still calm voice arose from within

" if you relax your pinky finger, you can save the peanuts !"

before i knew it, i had done just that
the mighty monkey boss had snared his booty
and with his scruffy band had scurried off satisfied
while i was still a two-fisted guy
with a monkey story to tell....including peanuts

as the gang of marauders hustled away
i became aware of a wonderful thing
there was that bag of tasty peanuts
still upright in my trembling hand

hallelujah !

and i most thoroughly enjoyed them
while muttering and chuckling away
throughout the rest of my uneventful stroll home

in retrospect....

i'm neither the first nor the last
wide-eyed, greenhorn tourist to come bumbling along
to have fallen for the well-oiled, well orchestrated scheme
of that clever troupe of larcenous primates

i'm still not sure how the blond bombshell
played into their racket
but she was in on it
i know it !

2013....vancouver island, canada
while shopping for produce this sunny may morning
i happened to spy a good deal on bananas
pensioner's instinct drew me straightaway to them
feeling quite self-satisfied as i reached for my prize

suddenly....
as if on cue....
perhaps the same mystical movie production
shades of india and those rascally monkeys
a pair of grubby, tobacco-stained, long-fingered hands shot out in front of me
and swooped up the bananas with a furious intent
there was no doubt i occupied the first spot in queue
there was no doubt that those bananas were to be mine
there was no doubt to anyone around or about
except for the woman who captured the banana bonanza
in her mind, they were hers long before i'd entered the scene
and....
in an instant she had paid for them and was gone....
much like those monkeys back in india times

upon reflection....

there wasn't much to be done
in each of these cases
but for time, location and species
what happened was one and the same

it didn't take long to get over my self
and conclude those bananas were hers along
i was a mere pretender to her territorial rights

i cannot begrudge her behavior and choices
just as i cannot begrudge those monkeys the same

p.s.....

come to think of it.....

that scurrilous banana-snatching woman of today
did somewhat resemble an older, more world-worn version
of that blonde babe from rishikesh

hmmm....

I have lied

I lied when i spoke of that night
I did not die as I wanted you to believe
Few men have done what my dad did to me
while engulfed in a fit of murderous rage.

He took me up by my seven year old neck,
proceeded to strangle my life's breath away.
I found myself sinking into a pinpoint of light
This was it, I was dying, no doubt about that.

The last I remember, as I began to black out,
were the eyes of the beast my dad had become.
Just at the moment it seemed life was over
he came to himself, then loosened his grip,
and i slipped like a rag-doll onto the couch.

I've told all the world it was murder he'd done
I just hadn't died through no will of his own.
But the pure holy truth, is that it was he
who saved me from death on that night.

I have so wanted justice, to see that he paid
for the suffering I have endured til this day.
Though I hung at the end of those furious hands,
I cannot ever judge the man who chose to let go.

I've cursed and damned him before all the world.
Now I thank him for each breath I'm able to take.

naked intentions

i arrived on the scene with naked intentions
and that's how i'd like to depart
whoopee !
so-o-o-o ???
how deep and profound !

who didn't show up
in dire need of nappies
and an insatiable lust for the nearest damp tit ?
and it's...."me first or else !"
is the name of the game

who cares to leave with a hiss or a thud
or a series of decreasingly discernable gurgles ?

naked intentions !
naked intentions !

it's what i presented to my first girlfriend's dad
and his to his ad infinitum
naked intentions are just what they are
at least they're not laced with cheap liquor
or wrapped in an old trollope's garter

or perhaps....???

just what do i sincerely
hope to accomplish
through this brazen act
of social intercourse ?

well, if you find me not naked
and unable to function
would you please strip me down
to my most naked intentions
and leave those intentions exposed
along with whatever pretensions
presented around or about
it's all better left unadorned

Ideas and notions

Ideas and notions,
they're all for the dreamers;
worth about as much or less
than your considered opinions.
You can't even wrap the fish in them.

Now tell me the truth
of what tortures your soul,
or muddles your precious good sense.
It's only the truth that shall cut it
and if you think you can cut it,
then let us commence and proceed.

You'll come to discover
that in order to share of
that bold expedition within,
certain words must by nature suffice,
and the rest will but clutter the way.

Now here is the trick if there is one,
using only the true words at hand
and discarding the lies that invite you;
follow them faithfully one truth at a time,
like crumbs of sweet bread on the trail;
and you'll find your way free
of the forest and trees.

You may also have something worth telling
to assist in your fellow's travails.
And at least if you've written
of what's truly transpired,
you'll have something to wrap the fish in.

invisible friend

"who are you talking to, billy ?"
my mum used to ask
"to my invisible friend !"
is what i said and it was true

well, didn't everyone else
have an invisible friend ?
someone that would always
be there through thick or thin

many years have passed
life hasn't gone as i'd hoped
i spend most of my time alone

still i find myself here
quite often it seems these days
talking and chattering away

if my mum were still here
i know what she would ask
"who are you talking to, billy ?"

the reply would be the same
"to my invisible friend !"
who's been with me all along

there aren't so many days left
i'm told by the powers that be
as i gaze at these last words
i hear mum's voice as she asks
"who are you talking to, billy ?"

"to my invisible friend !"
is my answer as always
"to my invisible friend....
who, it turns out, is thee !"

Psalm to sing

God spoke to me.
The message it is clear.
The psalm itself is silent
if the psalmist's voice falls still.

End of days

Look out there,
see that, boy ?
They want yer juice.
They're dry, them circlin' desert buzzards
All's they want's yer juice, boy.
But, don't you worry none,
'cause I ain't gonna let that happen.
Just do exactly what i tell ya
Ya got that, boy ?

We're gonna make it outa here.
Almost nobody makes it out,
you know that, don't ya, boy ?
But we're gonna make it
sure as them dried-up buzzards
are droolin' and lickin' their chops,
as they swoop and oogle ya.
Just hang on, boy
it's gonna be one helluva ride.
Hold onto whatever ya deem holy;
'cause yer gonna need it, boy
Here we go, boy,
Here we go.

Aaahhhhh

There is no sculpture quite so sublime as
the exquisite curve of your neck divine.

Why i cry ?

I am crying now.
I don't know why.
Am i supposed to know
why it is i cry ?
I always feel relief and solace
when the tears run dry.

When i cry
I am afraid I'll die
I haven't yet
But still I dread the moment
when the stony dam of fear
can no longer bear the weight
of these tears I need to cry

Perhaps the reason why I cry
is that the earth beneath my feet
needs to taste the freedom
that these tears will bring.

I am crying still
for no reason that i know.
I pray these mournful tears
might wash away the pain
of whatever has been done
and that which I may do.

Solitaire

You play your cards so well
looks like you've had a lot of practice.
You seem to have a thorough grasp
on all the rules of the game.

As you cover every angle,
and you stymie every bluff,
and you bring the competition
to it's full and rightful end-game;
you're the last man standing
almost each and every time.

Though you leave the table
with a healthy jingle-jangle,
as the big winner of the evening;
you walk so cocky through the door
into what's left of the night;
you realize that here you are again.

Alone !

And the only game you've mastered
is the specialty of the house....solitaire !

Beloved mistress

Beloved mistress,
You who hide behind
those many silken veils.

How shall I arrive
at your sweet bosom ?
Life thus far has shown
how easily I lose my way.

I have come to cherish
the scent of your perfume,
by it's absence
on this lonely night.

Thief in the night

Not so long ago
I was convinced
you were the culprit,
the masked robber
of my sacred trust.

I now see
what was so clear
for all but me.
I am the scoundrel
who hides behind
this righteous stance.

Beware of me.
I am clever
I've fooled myself again,
and again and again.
So much practice.
So much expertise.

That bandit's mask I wore
The midnight cloak I bore
They lie burning
in a sacrificial pyre.
So that this thief,
who knows no other path,
will have no cover
as you encounter me
along your worldly way.

For some of you I'm sure
it is the lash which I deserve.
If there's mercy in your breast
pray for this naked plunderer.
I have been stolen from.
Myself is gone from me.

Ghost-white death-mask

Something whispers,
certainly not nothing.
A subtle impetus
to choose
to stir and rise
to place myself
before another gaping canvas.
the ghost-white of a death-mask.

She is my mistress
I dare not disobey
I know by now
she must have her way.
I go, because to not go
is to become that ghost-white death-mask.

Perhaps the truth is this,
I am that mask.
and this devoted labor offered
at the altar of my mistress
is the alchemy required
so i might return to life and living.

When my mistress beckons
I must go and gaze into
that ghost-white death-mask,
as she gazes into me;
and what transpires
is not for me to know.
Only just to follow
where my mistress bids me go.

No way out but in

Been wasting away in this hovel
for too many days to count;
wishing, hoping, scheming,
sometimes even praying,
for any way to get out.

No answer until this point.
The more I twist my mind,
the closest thing to a way out
is to go down deep inside.

There is no way out of here,
and never shall there be;
is the truth I have to tell.
If I've learned one thing by now
there is no way out but in !

The written word

There's nothing more cruel
than the written word.

At least one's hurtful words,
hurled in furious ire,
settle themselves to dust,
then disappear into the breeze.

But those written words
in your ancient sacred texts
prove the cruelest weapon.

They slice more swift and sure
than one's finest razor might.

As with any worthy weapon
innocent's blood must flow;
with those written words
the killing's out of sight.

It's also out of mind.

sweet home again

dear god, i just want to go home
i wish that those of you who care
could share these sobbing tears
dear god, i just want to go home

are there any of you listening
who know what it is i cry for
for reasons that i will never know
i've always felt unwelcome here

when i bow my head in prayer
and let the silence still my woe
dear god, this only do i know
please, i just want to go home

please, i just want to go home

oh please, dear god

i just want to go home

notes....???

on this auspicious day i choose to leave the shingle in
there'll be no bartering nor banter til the sun goes down
it's a holiday for me and mine that only we shall keep

these words

these words they are just what they're meant to be
for thee, whatever needs they serve to stir thy breast
for me, a trail of crumbs of bread to guide me home again
for thee, portents of mortal threat toward all you hold as holy
for me, a clever way of marketing my wares for daily sustenance
this game of life was well in play long before the rules were written
the vital stuff of legend, conquest, gods and demons has held it's sway
throughout those many days afore the minstrel or the poet took to pen

pass on by

if what you're lookin' for is
someone to tell you how it ain't

pass on by

if what you think you need is
some gentle words of comfort

pass on by

i've been sitting on a heavy load
of just exactly how it is
and it seems to me it's gotten
to be time to let it rip

pass on by

you and i and most folks
can see the situation clear
if you got the inclination
and you got the dime
there's at least a nickel's worth
of just about anything you want
so you can occupy your time

pass on by

if it ain't down and dirty
and you don't really care to listen
it's so simple that it's easy

pass on by

Still running

From the first remembered breath,
I was running to escape.
I didn't need a map.
It didn't matter which direction.
It hurt too much for any fool to stay.

I'm still running fast and hard,
but I'm hardly moving now.
Til this day, the silence deep within
howls as cruel as anything from hell.

I don't know what was worse there;
the abuse and torture that prevailed ?
Or the culture of denial of those folks,
who saw fit to brand me as the villain.

Greetings....notes ???

greetings from within
this long forsaken tomb
I skip and dance along the
edge of the razor's blade
wondering, wishing, hoping,
sometimes even praying
that these glyphs I carve
into these forgotten walls
might touch one of you
thus your senses stirred

life-line

there exists a magick mystic line
suspended taut tween thee and me
it can ne'er be touched nor felt nor seen
most would declare it is not even there
ah but, you and i, we know too well
that this life-line is all there truly is

....more to come....

Not supposed to tell

I'm not supposed to talk about
those many things back then.
I'm not supposed to speak about
so many things I see and hear
around me here and now.

This voice has always wished for,
hoped for, prayed for anyone
to choose to truly stop and listen.

No matter what I should be doing;
no matter what the protocol;
I am going to scream of something,
one of too many things forgotten.

You cannot hear this scream,
but it's as sharp and bitter shrill
as any pain you might have known.

When I take myself back in time,
to that smelly mold-infested closet;
It's not so hard to speak about
the core of those black feelings.
It's just that words can't ever serve
to capture the horror and the terror
of what so cruelly happened there.

Sometimes the screams break free
into a flood of disconnected tears.
When the woeful sobbing ceases,
this grief and sorrow seems relieved;
and another living day seems possible.

   

that was that

i saw him for the first time ever
the one who stole my soul away
he came to me in a dream
i didn't know him
i had never seen him before
yet it was him
he is the one
why there is no doubt i can't explain
he knew exactly what he had done
he didn't seem sorry
or even indifferent
he just didn't remember
i was just another set of digits
on a page
just another page
one of countless pages
that passed before his bespectacled eyes
on any given day
of his any given week
an odd colorless fellow
cold and metallic
nothing special about him
but his brow
not so much wrinkled
more like etched
with deep angry furrows
they seemed older than he could possibly be
why ?....i cried
why have you taken my soul away ?
he briefly blankly stared at me
then turned away
as if to turn another page
and that was that

come as you are

Today i received a very special invitation
to surrender and forget all that I've known.

Come as you are !....read the instructions.
Come as you are !....nothing else was said.

A voice from within immediately agreed;
this is what we've prayed for all this time.

Let's go....let go....that's all there is to that !
Let's go....let go....then we'll be free at last !

Listen

Listen.

There it is

The hum of perfect silence

At the center of all that is;
or isn't.
An impetus greater than
whatever one imagines.

There it is.

No beginning.
No end.
Can there be a middle then ?

The timeless whirring of
timeless clocks,
which have no hands
or numbers,
needs no direction
in which to flow.

The hum of perfect silence

Only ever always now
So loud
you barely hear it.
So quiet
it awakens everything.

Do you hear the hum
of all that is,
or isn't ?
Are you so busy
with the times and dates and schedules
of your worldly machinations
that there seems no time to listen ?

To the hum
of that which is everything,
and nothing.

There it is.

Listen.

gone

is there any way that i can touch you
that doesn't skim right off the surface
of your exquisitely contrived veneer ?
is there a plea which i might utter
that could stir you from within ?
if there is than this is it
i am lost and i am dying
and whatever reason that i'd had
for hanging on til now is gone

i am so close to you
if you were but to still yourself to silence
for even less than what it takes to draw a breath
you would feel this desperate longing
you could hear these woeful sobs
you would know that it is you
i reach out for at this crucial time
but it seems there is no way
nor ever has there been
to find that space between your chosen moments
to let you know that i so need you

if there is a plea which i might utter
that could stir you from within
if there is than this is it
i am lost and i am dying
and if it isn't you that turns to listen
to this last fading faltering plea
than it is over
i am gone
but for the wasted hope
of that brief silence
i am dead
i am gone

shiny badge

give someone a badge....
or something that shines like a badge in their mind

why are you here ?

why are you here ?
where have you come from ?
why have i been so cursed
with someone so brilliant and true
there's no time for your curious mind
no place for your eager inquisitive face
your light
it's too bright
it burns like the truth in the night
what am i supposed to do
with someone as bright
and as honest as you ?
i can't even kill you
though we both know i tried
you just didn't die on that night
which i guess was a good thing for all
but you were still here
constantly blazing that blistering brilliance
of your need for the truth and the light

i'll give you all that you need in this life
and more, so much more, wait and see
you'll find what it is that you're seeking
by the absence of all that you think you might know
the light will be turned on by forces of darkness
and truth so disguised by layers upon layers of lies
you'll come to know love by that which it isn't
you'll come to know peace on your knees
as you pray for relief from the pain and the aching
of too many days on the pilgrimage trail
and too many stark cold lonely nights

Three strikes you're out

My sweet mum, she was a saint
just as everyone's mum surely is
eight feral kids to feed and clothe
and a husband who liked his drink

my sweet mum worked most evenings
at a neighborhood greasy-spoon diner
in a rough part of our blue-collar town

my sweet mum was loved and revered
by the folks who frequented the place
it was the local biker gang's hang-out
and where cops would cop for a break.

By the time i was twelve years of age
I'd been before the judge three times
"I dunno, young fella, he pronounced;
three strikes you're out in this game.
I'm gonna give you one more chance,
your mum, she speaks quite highly
of your love of school and your art.
Let's hope we don't meet here again !"

Well it turned out that one of those cops
who was friendly with mum at the diner;
we had met at least one other time
as a result of one crime or another.

One evening he came to our door,
on the night my mum was off work.
He was holding something in hand.
It seemed an odd box of some kind
I still picture the smile on mum's face
as she called me to look at this gift.
It was a 'painter's box of colors'.
with words written on a tag;
"Good luck to you, Billy; remember;
it's three strikes you're out in this game !"

long lost love

This painter's box of colors
had been my true and only friend.
She was my love, my only hope

I shudder here, huddled, hunched
down here within this mausoleum ?
embracing my dead lover

a chill jolts through my being
colder than winter's ice
so long ago i'd laid to rest my beloved
believing she was lost forever

Painter's box of colours

That bond of ancient secrets was now broken.
with a thousand voices screaming in my head,
and another hundred howling in this heart;
I fell to digging with these urgent hands
the earth was old and cold, filled with grief.

I kept clawing until there was no more to dig.
There as I had left it, but for mud and scuffing.
A painter's box of colors, in my mother's scarf.
As I gazed upon this forgotten box of dreams,
a cellist drew a mournful wail across my heart.

A broken life

Today I paid a visit to an obscure, neglected grave,
where lies interred the remains of a promise,
that could not be acknowledged while you breathed.
If I knew the language of the undone and unspoken
I might have found the key to set this promise free.

This could never happen until you passed away,
as the revelation of our contract would unearth
the shameful truth regarding our bond of secrecy.
I was bound to hold this promise and never air the lie.
A broken life was mine to live, instead of certain death.

home again

who's gonna throw my pitiful ashes
into the holy mother ganges ?
it certainly can't be me
and for damn sure it won't be you
so who's it gonna be ?
who's gonna hold it as their sacred obligation ?
who's gonna ken the need for this to come to be ?

i've seen so many nameless shadows
lurking round so many darkened alleys
down in the zone of the living dead
who's gonna take the time and care
to honour their remains ?
who's gonna give a good goddam ?

how about you ? or you ?
or any one of you who by the grace
of some heavenly higher power or other
still have a name that might be carved
on any cold hard granite tombstone ?

their ain't no number high enough
for those forgotten souls that can't be counted
yet each might gain some sliver of an edge
by the whisper of your kind and sincere prayers

pray for the souls of the nameless ones
who've been long lost in those endless alleyways
as you'd pray for each grain of silvery sand
along the banks of sweet holy mama ganges

without each and every one of us
that guide the sacred waters home
there'd be no river
there'd be no rain
there'd be no sandy shores
and there'd be no hope
of a home to ever reach again

two hearts

Technicolor sky

It was in those early days

when everything seemed technicolor.

there was that explosion;

only inward;

then nothing;

then something called time;

interspersed with more implosions;

always sudden

always mysterious

always unexpected

always crippling in affect

 

and then....

it is decades later

it seems i have awakened from

an empty black and white dream

and i am looking up

at the technicolor sky

and all i want

is to be back safe

in my black and white dream

 

because that technicolor sky

is too beautiful and blazing

so filled with possibilities

lost possibilities

forgotten possibilities

stolen possibilities

broken possibilities

 

something about that technicolor sky

wants to tear this wounded heart apart

wants to make me look at it

wants to make me believe

that it can be a possibility for me

 

but I stay here, safe here

in my black and white dream

waiting for the blessed end

and I’m ready for the time

that I’m called up there again

into that technicolor sky

 

and those endless possibilities

promised by the technicolor sky

will be for me

---

(2013)

special kind of love

i want to know that special kind of love
the kind i see up there on the movie screen
not the dirty kind
not the whisper and giggle in your buddy's ear kind
not the kind in those playboy's under my older brother's bed
not the jerking off and thinking of all sorts of things kind
not the cheap and boozy kind
the kind it seemed my auntie knew too well
i loved my auntie
not like that
even though sometimes her house smelled like farts, sour beer and really strong perfume
i wonder why the rank odor of those men would linger on her clothes
and in my nose while i was walking home
i used to stay there with her sometimes
to get away from my crazy father
i'm the only one who knew he was crazy
everyone else seemed to believe he was a fine and noble man
not me though
i saw it in his eyes too many times
how much he loved to hurt me with the burning from his eyes
i think this was his special kind of love
he would smile
only at the corner of his mouth
not in his eyes
not those eyes
those crazy eyes
this seemed his special pleasure
to hurt me with his burning eyes

i don't think i'll ever know that special kind of love
i think i was hurt too much by those burning eyes
i think i'm not supposed to know that special kind of love
i think my father never knew this kind of love
he had eight kids
but i don't think it was anything special what he did to have us
i think he couldn't let anyone around him come to know
this special kind of love
so he burned me with his crazy eyes
so that i would be just like him
and he could feel okay inside
for a while anyway
my father is dead now
but sometimes
i still feel those crazy eyes burning into my secret self
it's okay, dad, i'll never know that special kind of love
just like you wished for me
i wonder if it's okay for me to want it still

please, dear reader
let's keep this our secret then

sshhhhhh

don't tell him
please
he might wake up and come and burn me with his crazy eyes
don't tell him
please