Tag Archives: Separation

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.

“I Found The Day’s Messiah”


“I Found The Day’s Messiah”

I found the day’s messiah breathing as if to pray;
No prayer, of course, no sign, no moon, no stars, silence—
Balm to souls and solace in a crisis
Of questions—so many hopes lay absurd, what they must say
Gives Animas to eternity and shields a simple fear, the terror
Of these days. I would not ask outright, “I have no words,” then,
Took flight so very tight in twilight when
From cancer and fallen branches—errors,
Really, to the whole—innocence conjures lasting alibis,
Sentinels that never come to rest, fruits of thought pressed
With violence enough to produce the wine—more from less,
Inebriation from what the old man once said. Patient sighs
Amongst the sparrows egg him on while sitting on a porch with me.
“Make peace with the Fathers,” says he, “from Sons of Adam flee.”


“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.

“A Single Digit’s Secret”


“A Single Digit’s Secret”

A single digit’s secret is the outward sign, then two; begin again
And all becomes nothing. Friction is the willing conversation of the elements,
Induction, intertwined interpolations; equity, evidence
Of heat expressed in growth and progress, in the main
A corner filigrée cut of crude credulity. Intelligence,
The Sculptor; magnificence, the Marble; both unknown
And evanescent. Potentials―crops and fruits―are honed
From ancient scans in sands and recipes, and what is sent
To press or put to bed eludes both novelty and ingenuity.
The poet knows what cycles reconnoitre in redux and La Ronde.
What will be has always been while what is seen
Is simple resurrection but with a difference, credulity
In the repeat, as when immortal rumours couched in histories set
Themselves as precedents while external forces hedge their bets.

“I Found Someone”


“I Found Someone”

I found someone breathing as if to pray.
No prayer, of course, no sign, no moon, no stars, but silence—
Calm to souls and solace in crisis
Of questions—so many hopes absurd and loosely bound.  What’s payed they say
Gives animas to eternity. shielding simple fear from terror’s
Bid to amaze. I would not ask outright, I had no right, then,
I take flight, taut in twilight when
From weedy wordless cancers’ branches—errors,
Really, to the whole–to innocence conjures lasting alibis,
Superfluous sentinels ever come to rest, fruits of thought-oppressed
Violence. enough that vine and wine is produced—inebriation of more from less,
A wrath, the test of what some old man surely spoke. Patient bluest sighs
Among sparrows egg him on while sitting on a porch swing, wisdoms all at once:
“Make peace with the Fathers,” says he, “prepare to flee the Sons.”

“The First Mistake”


“The First Mistake”

The first mistake, aversion. Primal anger twists,
Isolation glorifies mortality as eternity moans;
He told you nothing of it, then, but knew the ember blown
Was his, and further, that because he’d missed
Your words and pleased himself, another deep desire–
An anger–found its voice within him and the same
Became a mirror, and again the same a mutual denial while the aim
Of what he did was never seen or heard. You kissed the fire
Together, and in that flagrant fetid moment, she withdrew
To furnaces within her breast, the abyss, the lower rooms
Reserved for her and her alone and the chasmal maw he saw
Beneath them both. Righteous claims disguise’s the cause
That borrows breath too long and suffocates within its iron grip;
The mirror of the heart then obscured, complaisance rules the lips.

…art by George Condo…

“Relax, You’ll Get the Point in Time”


“Relax, You’ll Get the Point in Time”

“Relax, you’ll get the point in time,” and so I did that thing.
The longest hour stretched to endless days, days
To weeks, weeks turned vapid, decayed to patience frayed
Through scattered years, decades, and still the sting
Remains and the same drawn phrases, the declarations,
Statements, hackneyed principles, treasured
Piracy of imitation above experience, measured
Nothings by the annotated many, trifles in maturation.
No! the weight of numbers owes its audacity
Not so much to truth but to conspiracy and imprecation
And little or nothing to fact. Whether in the family or the nation,
The issue’s not found within the visible exoskeleton but veracity
In the flesh, not the gown but the woman and damned if anyone cares to know
Reality from Dover Beach or even beans
unless his last name’s Arnold or Thoreau.

“I Have No Idea Who Told You That”

…a poem written some time ago…

“I Have No Idea Who Told You That”

You know, I have no idea who told you that,
But I can confidently tell you that your story’s old,
And if what you’ve said is true your anxieties will fold
So neatly, fit so sweetly in my pocket flat
Against the credit cards—abuse the telephone
A while, and leave me with it long enough to burn,
And on occasion, yes! a Tuesday afternoon, absurd
As it may seem, I’d love to see you sitting here alone,
With nothing else to do but tell me what
You think I want to hear, and I’ll be
Your mirror for the time it takes a tea
To make its bitter way from boiling hot
To tepid, and the distance of two cigarettes,
Before I’ve had enough, and leave with no regrets.

“My People”


“My People”

My people came from Eire in ’47,
Two brothers from Cork Island bound
‘Ta leave the famine’s wakes and sounds
And trust the recent ocean’s fleets ‘ta leaven
Streams of freedom, scope, and newer hopes,
‘Ta guarantee a living less than grand
But more than nothin’ in the new found land.
America or bust, they took the rope
“In God we trust”―eloped and on an ark
They safely Ellis Island passed,
Thence to Illinois, whence amassed
Both wife and children till the spark
Of Civil War was lit, a captain armed
From Union’s peace ’ta carve a Kansas farm.

“Still, It Is Within”


“Still, It Is Within”

Still, it is within another winter’s votary’s thought at last;
I know I will not be with you here beyond the death
Of these same embers in the hearth, this house arrest
Of days and nights so beauty-worn. I am the fast
In winter’s moonlight bringing closer all who see
So little lit save in one another; days begun, recessed
Before their time. And so it is with graduated rest
From daily obligations, time enough to dream, at least to seem
To one another safe enough for one brief season, a familiar in the close
Encounter with so little interest but in the present evening’s run
To fetch a cow within, a log from out back, to secure the sun
But barely born. The moon grows reticent as the rising orb discloses
Evening weeds and as we build fires and take the steam.
The flame’s worn warmth is strong and so is loved…and so must it seem.