Musings

I saw you in my dreams last night.
I want to be ethereal.
I've seen you in wakeful hours;
where you breathe,
where you sleep.
How I'd love to be there!

I'll transcend reality
and taste of April,
hiding in the shadows
of timeless spring days.
Forgotten,
like a grain of sand
as it falls to the bottom
of the hourglass.

The Prophet

"I want to be a prophet,"
he said.
"I am not a man of faith,"
I said.
Paging through books,
black coffee
on Tuesday morning,
and I can't stop thinking
about things
that don't really matter.

He wants to be a prophet,
I want to sail the seas,
paging through days
of calloused labor
and clandestine longing,
dreaming of your arms.

He'll stand among the prophets
on the altar,
as I drink red wine
with the captain
and great kings
salt the earth.

Thanksgiving Daypoem

I planted
my garden
on infertile soil.
This year,
there will be
no harvest.
My withered
crops bear
no fruit.
I turn them
back into the earth
with my
cracked, dry hands.
I sit,
surrounded by
solemnity.
Next year,
I'll eat well
on Thanksgiving day.

This October, it's Wool.

Wake me
from transient dreams
of faraway places
and faces
of infinite familiarity
that remain
unnameable.
We'll feel
the otherness
of words spoken
in the distance,
never more
than faceless.
We'll dance alone
in great halls
until neither
of us can stand
on our own legs.
This October,
I wrap myself
in wool.

Without

Nicotine
can make my heart
beat fast tonight,
as I lie alone,
without you
by my side.
I'm left waiting
for cold Monday morning,
and colder
Monday afternoon.
Smoke curls
from my pipe.
The tobacco burns
with the framework
of my calm
collectedness.
This wool jacket
no longer
keeps me warm.

Wednesday's Sidewalks

I slept in
this morning.
Eleven o'clock.
Bright red
soda can tabs,
empty bottles
on my dresser.
I lose control again.
Vases sit
on floors
and shelves.
Dying flowers
drooping
in the smoke-filled
rooms
of smoke-filled
minds.
Close to
the exit door,
I make a left
turn, and walk
on Wednesday's
sidewalks.

Paper Sidewalks

Can't see Tuesday
from here.
Broken window silhouettes.
Losing time,
finding reasons
to find problems.
Nothing is good enough
but everything
sounds great.
Untied laces,
tripped up
on paper sidewalks.
Outlines of horizons
traced across my walls
tell the story
better than you do.

City Orcahrds

The open window
invited the breeze
into my room.
It scattered my papers
with its invisible caress,
and now I reflect
as the same breeze
blows in these
city orchards
through which I walk,
hands in pockets.
Longing.
Your arms aren't
wrapped around me now.
The leaves sway
above me.
I bleed.
I breathe deeply.

A Loss

They stared,
and were washed
with bewilderment.
This heart
was one that
could not
feel.
Eye contact revealed
countless broken promises.


When they stared
I knew
I would have to
lose something
before I could
count your breaths
while lying next
to you.

My inner circle

I left the door open
wide,
allowing you
access to my inner circle,
and now I'm left
guessing,
as you light your
cigarette
with my bright red BIC.
This morning
was wrought with fatigue,
and, two cups
of black coffee later,
the afternoon caresses
my being,
gently.