on jazz

music is a narrow
word. that art
of sound. jazz
is a thin moniker
for black magic:
washing over white
lies like
fallen chains reclaimed
as instruments of spirit
speech. structure re
formed from some
enlightenment
reverting back to dark
drums, remembering.
the freedom of a fetish.
feverish
and spitting fire.

there, the skies
that float. scraped
by buildings. the rain
trumpets some
melancholy. a
dampness in dark halls.
precise. airless
and sinking, you,
pulled inward. friction
only in spare number
when it’s a freight train
blowing by.
you shiver.

this is never done. but
now. it screams
to a boil. echoes
multiply. a simmer.
and magic tricks
you into understanding.
this always was.

butterfliegen

as if
to re
treat, myself
to a luminous
past more
like happy
memories, or these
wishes for her,
to be, present
in a prescient
future I see
but cannot. it is
only now. with
out_her. over
there. in an
other life, yet
intertwined like our
wine, grapes
traipsing around
vineyards of time, inescapable.
as a kiss. though
we missed that
harvest.

and this, a
new season, aged.
are we any
closer to completion?

my heart, beats
it never forgets:
her rhythm
in my blood. in
my bones, her
reverberation,
an aching echo.
yet,
her laughter. always.

midnight musing

in this firstborn night, of
you I muse, of you
and your mystery.
outside the air stills, frost
falls in a glassy touch.
those distant stars that dream
my children and their quiet sleep.

moon turns to me, to you
and your face. your lips.
do they think of me?
my eyes, dark in the dark,
search for you. this long
yearning that unfolds. this
palm upturned for you.

earth that becomes your flesh,
my fire for your fire. desire
waxes, moon wanes stars
in its wake. these quiet moments
so long and wistful. your touch!
my fire for your fire. this night,
hidden the way hearths heat hearts.

unknown certainty

it is never
enough
to know
for certain.
unknowing
is a backwards
certainty, though
I’m not sure
I understand.
even still,
what I want
or need meet
in some middle
battleground
of crunching
thoughts and
combative feelings.

this irony of love.
paragon of heartbreak.
opportunities missed,
chances taken.
or not. unspoken
dreams. the tumult
of this timeless
struggle. still
I seek clarity. from
distant eyes, flamed
lips, smiling
mischief, her heat
subdued.

the far away

a wandering, less
in familiar forests, dark
and disparate. some seeking
of information in form
and sensation: a new season.
a different bridge
spans that unknown river.
we navigate. construct.
into frontiers tears precede.

a life as wholly capable as this.
a love unwrit by broken lives.
to carry a dream
unfulfilled unto its own illusion.

we cannot understand, even
with wonder.

eyes closed, leaping into
a crazy abyss.
the way we commune. consume
those flames of unrelent.
some circumspect
emotion trailing off
into wilderness. still
we follow. who
could write such intrigue
without narratives of circumstances
dictated? by some innocence?

love is a transgression.
we crucify ourselves nonetheless,
seeking redemption, some
form of understanding. even
where none is forthcoming.

intelligent negligence

intelligence, telling
in this negligence
of what’s
known: this
is not the time
to dress in petals.
flowered perceptions
perfumed
by lust.
must I really
think
there is some
     --one
     --thing
out
there for
me,
in this
with pretty
please topped
cherries?

merry meet,
merry part.

I have met
that part of me
that hates,
which loves,
who has no
thing to hold on
to, just
smooth-illusioned
mirrors.
fickle
like the sea.

imaginary

imaginary, an
image mirrored
as if
mind
is miraged. mislead.
to think
as truth,
yet
there are
only these
fictious
scenes enacted as
played stages.
playing
the self. the
fool.

a clown’s
act. in jest
of surety. so
sure
this is
real. fucked up.
like
a pile of junk
dreams.
I could’ve lived.

so
I do.

to reconcile, somewhat

to err with air within
un-circulated blood, air
in the veins or
water on the brain.
this emotion. inert
struggle turned innate,
internal churn of barbaric
words. backwoods
forwards towards
times forewarned.

this is as before. now.
before now when it was
as it is. within this.
circulated blood, platelets.
floodgates precipitate
outpouring of thoughts,
feelings. foraging for healing
words, vegetative speech
reaching for restorative fruit.

exposed wounds congeal
clotted blood, a flood
of water falls like
tears for fears
washed away. what
misunderstandings stand under
light of day. lightened compassion
lends tensioned fists un-tightened.

evol love

a simple act.
like opening the eyes,
as subtle as
the north wind, which
ain’t so subtle.
yet we beseech
an open heart
kept, as if
this tenderness
was automatic,
like waking up.

and don’t fuck around
with it. love
is such a selfish
immolation. cute
sideways murder,
so studied, pondered,
pandered to the petty
bourgeois masses.
nobody remembers
anything anymore.

just the last dead lover.
or mind-authority parentage.

ain’t it true?
that love is an evil word?
backwards, in a word,
evol?
love can be inside
out, like
ripping out your guts to see
history’s gas chamber. you
and that self, if only
because you can.

fantasies disturb
deep waters. therein
lies fear, reflective.
evil twin love.
a double-edged sword
seeks blood.
we give willingly.

rote night

it is at night
this is ritual. when we
invent some word
of mixed company. we
find some way past
time. inching closer
to fantasy. to
discover flesh
like the first time.
trying to enter the temple,
we need to talk to god.
this is the way and we
cannot let go.
even with sweat or tears.
and sometimes blood
or other parts
of a protein ocean.
this is the only time we
talk to each other.
to god?
we end in sleep.

begging belief

it begs then, to reinvent.
to begin again. not being
what was. it gathers
those rain clouds. sunny
elsewhere. we want to shine.
and way too long have we
missed, out of sight. hindsight
disappears in reared views
mirrored by this
tortured culture. we
look for hope, but, like
where?

we beggar our beliefs, lie
in a child’s face. what
world is this? it that is
born. infancies, toddles,
falls decades headlong
downhill until death do its part.
where do you find this
life along the way?
discounted, taxed, lotteried,
tuitioned, or miracled, or maybe
in the trash? this world.
which one is this?

billions of them. under threat.
imposing. at war over the way
you want to die. with life
somewhere between the lies.

these beliefs. we the beggars.
and it begs reinvention.
or something.
backwards vision of some
redemption.
or we die, lying
to the children.

unnecessity

unnecessity, in
essence
escaping, scraped
bottom churned golden
dust, must
needs wanted
mustn’t coincide, with
in l/imitations.
imagine: miraging
mirrors meant for no
one but me.

there are things.
they are perhaps un
true. or miss
lead. weights
upon a mind.

once,
upon a time
less
like these, but
f/rooted in
abundance, once
upon a wonder
ful life. and it is
inward. in
word.
and deed.

this history reads
like novel
concepts, except
it is off the
page, staged
in outer --

     space.

it’s
what’s needed, if
I must.

fall feelings

these days, air sharpens
the crystalline
light bronzed
against the autumned
leaves departing
for winter’s burial ground.
geese flock south, seeking
their summered spring boarding
in warmer pastures.

light is longingly drawn
out, stretched
beyond horizons
topped with reflective
mountains.

all things still, stilled
like distilled thoughts,
a season
fraught with naught
but potential for future
rebirth.

waves of placidness punctuate
these
moments, monuments
to planetary motion;
autumn is an emotion
and leaves
falling are feelings, crisp
with sweetness
as if
apples were really
eyes, beholding
this otherness,
this togetherness.

we all sink, suns
set and we rise
to meet this
new day.
always.