A bit past the corner
of the building shaded
by noonday buildings, side by side,
almost on top of one another. And he straightens his coat.
The long, well worn gray piece has been erratically lightened by the sun
But in this chilly spring draft he doesn't care.
Each day they pass here
with their laughing and giggling,
they pass here with their little girl tales
and fresh little girl smells they don't know
him as he waits with the gray trench now pulled tightly, but he knows them. He knows them well. And he watches them. And he waits.
Gina is the first.
How could they know?
Nobody knew as she was walking home
alone from catechism class she was missing
more days than some, fewer days than others
and neighbors searched quite frantic parents tried
hard not to panic before the body was found, but eventually it was found torn and mangled. Left like a piece of trash on a cool autumn day.
Still, he waits.
And he keeps watching.
Some days he doesn't know,
something happens inside him and
watching isn't enough anymore till quietly,
he calls to them. Asks if they want candy, asks
if they want a new friend-- a grownup who will understand.
Unlike all of those too busy to listen and appreciate them, he will be different. Though most of the children move away, swiftly and soundlessly, there is always that one, confused and alone, left to fend for herself in this darkly mad world. That lost and sad and lonely child will remain.
This is the one.
The children travel in packs
like wolves now and practice using
household items as weapons
Mom finds her best potato peeler
in the right front pocket of an over worn pair
of blue jeans (size eight slim) and Janie has been playing
with and studying her father's gun. Joey learns bomb-making and terrorism 101 on the Internet and all around society cries, wondering why kids know too much and seem to grow up way too soon.
Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring.
He is always there. Fidgeting with
his buttons, fumbling with his fly. Watching
and watching and watching.
Because he can,
a bit past the corner of the building
shaded by noonday buildings, side by side,
almost on top of one another. His coat a long,
well worn gray piece has been erratically lightened
by the sun. But he doesn't care. There is an unbelievable dampness under his feet and it is spreading, and growing fast and furious.
He checks his fly.
I took the train from Florence to Rome
window seat facing backwards
touring outward, feet squared forward
toward the couple opposite
who spend the hours leafing pages.
Tourists too, more frequently
than me perhaps, they spare no glance outside
where Italy's wonders age
undetected, under looked.
I turn away unwilling to trade
small talk for railside rapture.
Made by markings and ancient tribes in consort with
Wolves and clans of secret desire, the passionate urge to pass the warmth
Of settled fire, by eyes and fond touch, by sighs
And huntress weary depths of fancy, by the children
Of born futures and circles of howling rant,
In the day and evening-tide way, by gasping teeth
And tender dissident metamorphosis, by the
Love of sunrise souls and dewdrop dreams.
In quiet repose and smiling passage from the caution of lamenting song
Unto the calm melodies of angels in gushing cascades
Of baptismal force. The hallowed sanctity of silent whispers
In wise advent and tender sense, persevering
By the wont of hungry souls and distant
Twilight years of revolving destiny, satisfied by the wandering
Compliment of wishes and butterfly delirium, by
Souls in transit from the living yield of moments
In passion and faith.
Ill satiation it may be
living in a phaeton bier.
Palpitant Jins and wraiths appear
with proffers that are shaped in your name
for my era in shame.
Temporal Rex is my driver
and Eros is my seraph.
I feed on motes of his hot coal
then lay to rest when I've had enough.
These two will pay my toll.
From trellised buttresses I hear
Faustus sybarites who sing
strophe yelps for the Surfeit-King.
Aroused from sleep I stand to find near
hands outstretched for my ring.
The phaeton halts outside your door
and to the wind I implore
to halt the spirits in their drove
and carry me to the upper floor
to you in the alcove.
On ambo you stand with a glow
and part my lips for a word.
A coal jumps onto your trousseau.
Writing and burning, upwards you're spurred.
Elif Lam Mim,
As it should.
Fades like a dream,
I felt it would.
When I'm eating lunch in the office breakroom I hear them
loud and clear,
"Chrissy said that Lori told her that Ashley said that her
boyfriend said and blah blah blah!"
When I'm standing in the grocery checkout line with peanut
butter, jelly and breadloaf the woman behind me yaks,
"Honey, did you find out how much the guy wanted to put in
the new kitchen? HOW MUCH?!"
Crossing the street on my afternoon walk
I must dive for safety from a woman SUV driver gabbing into
one of those things in her ear,
followed by a city cop doing the very same thing he should be
ticketing the nimrod ahead for.
They're everywhere! I can't escape them!
Business deals, pillow talk, hubby-girlfriend word fights.
People forcing me to listen in on the most intimate moments of
their personal lives when it's really none of my business.
The end is here! God save us all!
The world has turned into one giant phone booth!
It was visited upon me
in my early twenties—
the breakdown, that is—
as a result
of some very unfortunate circumstances
concerning a relationship
I had with a certain girl,
and it seemed
as if my whole world fell apart
with one fell swoop
when she said,
and yet I am much older
and more than a decade has passed,
and I am
picking up the pieces
of my intricate, jigsaw, puzzle-world
that she so recklessly scattered about,
and I have been left
to reassemble the infinite pieces,
one by one,
with each poem that I write,
desperately trying to find out why,
but the pieces just don’t seem to fit anymore.
we're all just trying to play our part,
make each other feel welcome
shun the ghosts
when once i drew from my quiet reside
i now find myself on the outside
you'll find me gone without a trace
drawn and tied with a hint of distaste
so go ahead, get nice and cozy in my place
and even if i hate myself for what i've done,
can passion bring me to the past?
and even if i hate what i've become
will that give me the strength to remember
how to flip the page
turn the rage into something you can never forget
and god help me if i can't remember before my funeral,
how to turn something like this
into something beautiful
I can't be with you for always
(As we both know)
A moment would do.
Out of a million moments
In your life's hourglass and mine.
I don't know what I am doing
Just that I care and love you.