“She Hesitates” or a notion…dedicated to Xineann……whom I admire…and will never meet….

She hesitates because she sees the streets afire, ports
And fields are set ablaze, ashen air enough for firm distrust
Of voices so in harmony that something greater–smoke of lust,
Perhaps–makes cannon law
of fundamental truths abused as instrumental sports
That lead the populace to rallies and the mob to violence and hate,
The bailiwick of dark and stranger fruit;
neighbours seen as furniture
Within the garden; tables, chairs, and fine manure
For the flora to an end expressing nothing but itself. She may be late
In joining, friends, but she’s got solid reasons
For her reticence: So many voices can’t be right!
They say there’s truth in numbers, yes? The flight
From those few souls who’ve passed their seasons
Patiently may well have penned the word,
But broadcast and by distances alone, they’re never really heard.
You asked me why it was I stood there saying
Nothing, and it’s true, I might have made
A difference with a word or two. It was a trade,
You know–the moment for eternity–the laying
Of a track to future nothings, sweet and supple
In themselves, but not at all a match: I fear
For what I saw just now And you would steer
The conversation toward the obvious, the couple
In the restaurant window dining in the comfort
Of the moment, thinking nothing, doing nothing.
I might have seen it coming, fluffing
Pillows, nonchalantly pulling covers down, the effort,
Minor, meanings so innocuous with both our souls
On fire. So simple, then, so bitter, blue and cold.
Tonight, a window, yesterday a wall,
And tomorrow is not with us now;
We seek dissembling, signs to brows,
Mild salutes to those who call
For gentile willingness, who see the dawn in early light
And come away with knowing smiles, and even laughter
In the brief exchange, yes. At best, a hesitation after
Gilded intimacies have seasoned action: “Is it right?”
Should I have asked the question then and there and leaned
A little as we veered so far from middles to the open road?
There are so many, here, you know! So great the load
And watermark of birth in thinking on the chasm between
Desire and finer laws of gravitas, the will that conquers all remorse:
No need for lubricants for flaccid passion while all the soul requires
is common sense and oceans of the heart’s delight to hold its course.  

“What Was There, Then?”

What was there, then, about the sight of that fat squirrel?
There he sat, erect on hind legs, bold, strong, and sure.
I had something he wanted, and that cure
Was somehow here with me; if truth be known his borough
I had rudely trespassed; all I could have offered
Was to back up, leave him be, wish the best
To him, and his. The brisk winds attest
That winter’s here, and paltry offerings proffered
That I might make to his tree bound cache would
Make little difference in the end, yet, there he stood,
And there I was, a smile from ear to ear; I could
Not leave, nor did I think that I had the need or should:
We simply stood, the two of us, transfixed in the affair,
And in the end, I left with nothing but what was in his stare.

“They Move So Well”

They move so well, they troll; they stroll
From this side of wagers to the other,
“Done!” and back again, smother
Goosesteps with mother’s deep affection, roll
The wholes in one and on a paper napkin map
Contingent strategies in sporting bars of habit and choice
Their viscosities of taste and controversy, simulated voices
Registering rapt concern from teleprompters
for whom it may concern that takes the rap
When leaders do not function as they should.
If what’s within the box is not ajar,
It will be soon, adagios of alarm
As phantoms masked in mortgages, just as whales, must surface
By the waters of eternal Babylon to their height in purpose.

“What Is One for the Moment”

What is one for the moment, two, or three but ultimately
In time and through use musters darker gifts
And weight, the bitter sweet remuneration, the wings of mischief
In the innocent, prodigious pride in the stately
Damned who for the moment occupy stations of the lately
Crowned and periodically remain the arbitrators in the drift
Of clouds and sand dunes respeaking storms and monoliths
And what will occupy the seat of conversations, sedately
Phrased but to the stones; that the light is the light is my light
And not the shadow that I cast is my inspiration.
Higher yet, comes what is cast off by the mirror
That is my soul, and nothing of the shadows or
Commotion caused, but in the journey, in the majesty of earthly flight
From dust to dust, what’s left behind becomes my final aspiration.

“Within the Coup de Grâce”

Within the coup de grâce, the question’s simply put:
Devour paradise in this brief breeze, or live within
The pale that penetrates a lifetime. The phrases, phases in the winds
Of light bereft becoming fires jilted, plundered, these the soot
And garnish of vanities enjoyed as spice, meant to jolt,
To jumpstart, to reinforce the bottom line–shortcuts
Of weathered notions fully fleshed, fruition’s gains–neat, but
Missing something in the translation. Transition, reverend folks,
The longer, sweeter tide of thought stretched taut within me
Sees no sweet nothings, no grace notes breathing in or out
Of line with those who practice only basic chords, and love to jump and shout.
Rest, and put it to the test. Know this, attend! Simplistic as it seems
The truth will out soon enough. Within the endgame happiness
Enjoys dominion in this world, it’s true, but joy ascends the Next.

“I Am What I Attract”

I am what I attract, and as the loadstone
Draws invisibles so am I, and so I am alone today
And would it were not so I am not lonely. Yet to say
I am alone is closer to the truth. No sigh, no plaintive moan
No commonplace relief placates my throat; in my ear no tired voice
Complains or rallies decibels high against the whole; no silent sallies rent
Satisfaction in recompense for all I have left to all I did not willingly apprehend
From countless minions on the other side of time who made their choice
A solitude before we met. I am no stranger here;
I hold the key to my own prison,
Lost in a mortal breach where nothing
dulls or swells the ever-present appetite;
No esoteric cause, no strange and caustic condescension to the rites
Of nothing here but simple vision in an arc of light, so listen
Carefully! You’ll hear the pitch and rhythm of the slaves
come home from exile along my shores intone
The presence deep within the luminaries in the night
that are forever in themselves alone.

“His Witness”

His witness stares blankly at the glory of his station.
No interloper, no misinterpretation, no sweet confirmation
Of another’s fantasy; he has no genuine ostentation
In the claim no, nothing in the upsurge, nor delicious elation
In the simple fact: he is and while he is,
His heart does not forget to beat, his breath is steady,
The observer knows he is not ready
And therefore records of his
Being notwithstanding cannot be viewed as false
Insofar as he is not yet seen. His is an etching not in stone
Or glass, nor is it traced in memory; alone
And in majestic company with ineffable effects, the cause
Remains as do his signs that have no need of confirmation or reply
In answer for their presence; when his name is called, he says, “Here am I.”

“The Swarm”

The swarm commends the escalators, wise,
Perhaps, yes. There is no hurry here,
So many trains, so many things to fear,
And nothing moves but lies and alibis
In search of something less than action
More than brief delight, a light distraction
In a brief but numbing journey to satisfaction.
Cables flash, a sudden lurch, abstraction
Sends them tumbling yet they stand their posts
And are not moved unless it be the final
Transfer from incarnation through the wall; a spinal
Tap capped in increments, epiphanies for hosts
Who until now have given less than ought
To how they lived or what their sanity has cost.

“The Parcels”

The parcels sit idle by the door, and I in the chair
Browsing bills rescued from the mailbox, notes
From no one these days to no one since even votes
For what remains from each day are meagre, a flare
Or two by email, terse reminders of a sometime love; I stare
For seconds at the ceiling and back to a tiny screen to scan what floats
Across the little window on the world; yet another memory to dote
On as I think back to when I last called, when last I was there.
Among the many scurrying to work each morning,
Earlier than need demands, too late, in fact to make a difference
To the fresh beginning in what lies before them in a day already spent
On efforts in the shower to stay awake or worse, the lint
Of days gone by still lingering since the phone rang long after warning
Bells were lost on both the dryer and clothing and none of it made sense.

“The Guests”

The guests are sundry supine, but never mind.
Was it something I said? You’ll find so many walkers
So much weaker than yourself–stalkers
Loitering at the starlight dining room. So divine,
They think to be with me. They’ve asked to join
The wake, but these, my friend, have not been asked;
They brought no invitation. The door’s been trashed
The furniture, the dishes, all the silverware purloined.
Nothing says it quite as well as, “you’d be
Entirely welcome here beneath the sternum. Door’s unlocked
Because you know you may as well just walk
Right in and sign on the dotted line. Please
Feel free to tell me who you are. Bathroom’s down the hall and not far
Beyond, you’ll find the kitchen and some pomegranates–the door’s ajar.