December 21, 2019 § Leave a comment
Do you remember what you came here for:
Green tea & Rock and Roll,
The convictions of a monkey’s mind,
Liberty for All?
What conspiracy theories?
Speak, I’m listening ~
the maddening musings of a misunderstood mind,
the babbling of a not very tortured soul,
Powered by paranoia,
Fluff, flowers, and verbosity;
Your life can be used as a bad example to others.
Where the rivers meet,
All the lights are blinding;
The trees are singing water.
Between a rock and a hard place
a Sanctuary of darkness;
in this other corner of the web.
Let me tell you about my boat
Because for some reason, you want to know me
I’m innocent, by standards.
I am your Painted Whore.
If you let me… I will change your world
One day I’ll be famous… I hope
Time to move on.
My assault on the world begins now
The reluctant nomad
on Journeys through writing
Making love to language
Scratched into the door,
a Chronicle of a life measured out in coffee spoons.
Peace found here ~
Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t
December 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
Everlasting, or so they claim
these short lengths of fiber optic glass
soaked in oil that never pours, only spills,
sitting cold, in dirty lamps.
When nothing is forever
Why would I believe the name?
Still I try
as the match flame runs to meet my skin
as the blue races to the cardboard’s end
a brief attempt at the frayed and blackened wicks
that are surely plugged with soot, and besides
all but one of the lamps are dry.
Nothing… nothing. Nothing
is forever, except maybe the blackness up the flue
which looks like it goes on eternally
Even the black stain of a year of candleflames
comes out of my nailbeds with enough soap
and thorough scrubbing
A crèche, of a kind
a home for foundlings, candles in motley, mismatched
I put my spirit to the task at hand
On knees that willingly kneel, I sweep
the tailings of a spent year
the broken pieces in hearth and heart and mind
On this longest of nights
on this shortest day, I bring out small stars
match flame to candlewick, candle flame to candle
On a whim, I touch the one glass lamp with oil,
that so called everlasting wick,
and as if to prove me wrong