Ethereal Bedrooms

I'm falling for phantoms.
Romance hides away
in the ethereal bedrooms
of my dreams.
And the days
are days of bleak uncertainty
spent choking
on self doubt.
I want to burn;
I want to drown,
yet hold fast
to delusions of my immortality.

It was real this time

Sun had set
on summer
for farewells
to old friends
and hound dogs
alike.
This time
I did it for real,
then stood outside
the gas station
staring blankly
at people passing.
I wanted
to go to hell.

Like The Old Years

I had to rest
and bury myself in time.
It’s summer again,
still loveless
as it was in the old years,
before the nights
were laced
with drunken half-sleep
and cryptic dreams
that remind me
of my countless
shortcomings.

Riding the Chariot

He rides in
on his fine white chariot,
expressing glamour,
class,
all of us invited
to join him.
I climbed up
as he took the reigns,
how I wish my will was strong!
We cover vast distance
in what seems
like moments,
and I step down
from his chariot.
Turning back,
I take a final glimpse.
A breeze blows,
and his fine white chariot,
now stained black,
turns to dust
and is gone.

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.