Sappho’s Fragmentary Grenade

I hold the cusp,

the impasse of geometric figures,

the ventricles of a Gothic spire,

to the haze of an integrated bisector,

in the divergence of forgetting

and creation,

to the breaking point in history

of glasses which saw with 20/10 hindsight

that Mayan calendars were simply

interrupted.

.

Of civilization–

though nothing can be said

against the meeting of ends

on a crescent moon

that make a wedding ring in suspension

for the marriage of comma and

colon; creates an entirely new thought

that leads only to the contradiction

of burning leaves.

.

In my hand.

Respite

Listen to this as you read (it’s the song this was written to):



As I watched, the floor

melted from beneath me,

leaving stars underfoot.

How long did I walk

along that constellation path?

Must have been miles

or maybe more. The Milky Way

unwrapped itself and I

took a bite.

Though creative thoughts wane

in the growing shade of

future days and glories yet sung,

the path long trodden gives no way

to any derivation,

rather pulling what it deems

a necessary cacophony. Horns and

bleating sounds bar the way

with fronds of every fiend

that could ever come to pass

tangling the feet of those on

their lonesome.

Yet in memory I see the path,

strive for its stepping stone means

of hopping up and down the river.

In memory, I am feeble

yet can move boulders

with the slightest budge.

Here and now, my spirit

is encircled; thoughts of comfort

cannot seep through.

But comfort is not the goal.

Nor those future triumphs.

How can such a passager

grasp me through its teeth?

When do those who torment

break free from their shackles

to exact their revenge? What should

bother to slip me from the stones

but my own failing?

Ce n’est pas possible

pour les enfants me

frappent. J’ai la grâce

de mon Dieu, qui guide

mes pas.

Psalm 4

Evening Prayer of Trust in God.

For the choir director; on stringed instruments. A Psalm of David.

¹Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness!
You have relieved me in my distress;
Be gracious to me and hear my prayer.
²O sons of men, how long will my honor become a reproach?
How long will you love what is worthless and aim at deception? Selah.
³But know that the LORD has set apart the godly man for Himself;
The LORD hears when I call to Him.
⁴Tremble, and do not sin;
Meditate in your heart upon your bed, and be still. Selah.
⁵Offer the sacrifices of righteousness,
And trust in the LORD.
⁶Many are saying, “Who will show us any good?”
Lift up the light of Your countenance upon us, O LORD!
⁷You have put gladness in my heart,
More than when their grain and new wine abound.
⁸In peace I will both lie down and sleep,
For You alone, O LORD, make me to dwell in safety.

Far more beautiful words than I could ever create.

Waning Poetic

Inspiration comes most difficult.

Once or twice, something comes

to mind in the streets

as I run

from the steam that threatens

to scald my face off.

Wouldn’t I look silly

without any skin?

If a cluttered desk means a cluttered mind, then an empty desk means…

Why scribble down frail thoughts in chaos?

The cluttered desk, my consciousness,

outlasts, and yet succumbs to a

barrage of raining snails and

an entourage of mint.

Desecrated by such words;

ado, I do adieu!

Doctor! It Hurts When I Do This

My intravenous,

glass frame that holds in

all of the wax,

burned down to the base

of the wick.

.

Your presence keeps the

EKG beeping, the

FMRI colored and

moving.

.

How, then, do the same

errors lap up the wax?

How does the defibrillator

keep solidifying the smoky

soup?

.

The wick is replaced,

the flame set in a

see-through strongbox.

Impregnable, screaming

for the stethoscope

to hear.

Undine Revived

A diamond fell down from the sky,

She landed on my face

Leaving only her liquid kiss while

She crystallized in my eye.

She and I have met before,

Down above the candle wick.

Her teases toss out javelins,

Each one hits the other.

No more.

Hyperbole Much?

I sat down at my desk and

My fingers turned to rust,

Leaving a dusting of shavings

For every cicada out there

To pick up and replace

My dissolving appendages

Speck

By

Speck.

.

Gophers followed my trail out of the forest,

Marked by duct tape to

Catch those spears thrown down by

The sun. How pointless bread crumbs are!

They found my home.

The house was sunk, also the car

And my garden became their salad.

The invasion threw a party, reveling at the man

On the spit

Who would feed their families

For a year or two.

.

Someday, my life will be labeled on a

Brass plaque.

Title? What Title?

This morning, the clouds rained skyscrapers,

About eight stories high,

Built in the condensation to

Illuminate the destruction of incandescent

Tendrils. Oh.

How they save the world with

Argon tapped inside,

Is it an echo, maybe a steak?

Sly like Mercury, making the Top 100

Amongst a group of seventeen.

Maybe a rough wall hugs me, pack and all

Including the scissors that got smashed

Nobody pay attention to this line.

On their way to restrain the wall.

The wall is still intact, but covered with flowered wallpaper.

Anyway, friends make light of the gutterals

Uttered. So I sweat out the

Ravings of a madman, you say?

Corpus Callosum

Today, from the cleft

Between the two halves of

My brain, a spark lit the

Darkened, pressurized mass of eels

Running around in my pipe organs.

You know what I realized?

This dirt I tread that sucks

Feet in and doesn’t let them go,

This house I call my own with

A grizzled hobo sitting

On the crapper

Complaining about the caviar,

Is

A

Watermelon.

The Fountain of Latte

The splinters of that iron grip,

Shattered like safety glass when shot,

Fell from their branches in winter shades–

Lead, silver, sky blue.

A grandfather peers at his hairs and,

Spotting sprinkles of orange, says,

“Oh my, it seems my autumn’s here.”

His coffee reaches into his mouth,

Grabs his budless tongue and

Drowns him in his lust,

Grants him new youth.