You’ve stopped up my pen
my well, my pad, you’ve stopped up my pen, for I scribe on you every night,
pinning my anger to the ground, you hold fast
my million pieces, my puzzle, curiosity arousing me over and over
the horizon of this sparrow’s eye,
my perfect, my storm, I am wall-eyed and hooked wallowing
in the night so young an infant, the day still suckles with
my revelation, my special–burned into, an image, cloth
buried in a broken body
my mouthwash, my goodnight, I may never brush my teeth,
and gum your neck at thirty,
my lion, my lamb, doodles on the page became your name,
the softest thorns of the vineyard snag my skin,
my friend, my lover, your experiences, story, and knowledge
poured over an altar for me.
and all you get is I
will love you more than knowledge,
more permanently, more pertinently than life,
for life, for you.
Release: scribbling on hotel paper
it’s hard scribbling letters–much less letters
with hangovers on hotel paper
to escape our cameras: mine, yours,
photographers we subscribe to
and checkout line flip-throughs–
the price of gold and platinum–
I’ll tell you: rich with anger
the fuel, (that) fans, the flames, (of) the famous
wanting to release like the millions moshing.
Like paparazzi
Hiding in music you breathe your anger with-
fear-you try to steer clear.
It’s haunting like paparazzi
till you crash.
More than a Movie
We await green saucers hovering in the smoldering sky
But no aliens show their ships:
They are our species, of our sickly kind.
The Persistence Of [our] Memory is
Surreal, as I fell asleep wishing it all away by Manhattan morn,
Wanting to see twin sentinels guarding over the city again,
Not rubble under its cityscape.
We search for culprits and casualties
In the fog of destruction.
Waiting for the credits to run
So we can run out and kill the director, the scriptwright, the producer . . .
For we will “make no distinction.”
–
We are orphans crumbling of Babel:
Towers tumbling, imploding, upon themselves
Anger resonates as planes plummet,
Yearning for arms to hold us up
From attack from inside our country,
And from inside ourselves.
For You
Surrounded by those not knowing
What God has been showing
To this desolate planet beneath
Deluged in disbelief.
What can I change of me
To change some part of you?
Cycles through my brain
And I can’t contain, these thoughts of you.
This anger roars
And my temper soars, to new heights
As I face this question one more time. . . .
Lost they call you under the steeple
You’d never carpool with those people.
You don’t hear a voice and look away
Hoping Heston might ring someday.
What can I change of me
To change some part of you?
Cycles through my brain
And I can’t contain, these thoughts of you.
This anger roars
And my temper soars, to new heights
As I face this question one more time. . . .
Not amazed at your daze due to your past
So tortured, I try not to ask
But truth is truth and we’re all frail
Too much riding on this to fail.