In the interim, my sentiments multiply, marking my dreams as I delight in the memories of your kisses
Conjuring thoughts and making wishes, seeing my delight grow with abandon, hurriedly, you are all I imagined
So when I look into your eyes, know that there is a longing, deeper than the depths of all surveyed, expanding like the skies
When I touch your face I intend to transfer the tenderness you give so that you may know of my true pleasure
And when I am holding your hand the moment extends, my love without end, creating a home in my heart, forever.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Bullets But No Gun
Life and love about my head, a harrowing calamity calling me
To a destination where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and I
Am not scared at all of the happenings, a page written in a book
Lost long ago, and it makes no sense to drag my face about the past.
You are a synonym for Sunday afternoons, family get-togethers and cookies and milk
You talk to me slowly subduing my angst and smoothing my mood to silk
Let me break bad and tear huge holes in the quilt
Let me be sad about the all the hopes you just killed
Yet I can’t be mad, it’s the world that I have built
Pulling me in, bleeding me thin, wasting my wants like water being spilled.
Maybe I could be the free one, roaming and shuffling these roads alone
The sole bastard too self-aware to regard the musings of the trite and dogged,
Dancing and twirling like a retarded danseur, my shoes too little and my attitude strange
Spitting pomegranate seeds into the wind to remind myself that it all comes back in my face, eventually
I am the conundrum of the multi-faceted, a Jack-of-All-Trades; Master of None?
I am the humble diversion of the wary traveler, where the hell should I run?
You can get ghost and leave me in the dusted sun.
You can play host to an assortment of friends swallowing rum.
And you can’t seem to see that this is just all too fun.
Turning you away, asking you to stay: Likely I have the bullets but no gun.
To a destination where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and I
Am not scared at all of the happenings, a page written in a book
Lost long ago, and it makes no sense to drag my face about the past.
You are a synonym for Sunday afternoons, family get-togethers and cookies and milk
You talk to me slowly subduing my angst and smoothing my mood to silk
Let me break bad and tear huge holes in the quilt
Let me be sad about the all the hopes you just killed
Yet I can’t be mad, it’s the world that I have built
Pulling me in, bleeding me thin, wasting my wants like water being spilled.
Maybe I could be the free one, roaming and shuffling these roads alone
The sole bastard too self-aware to regard the musings of the trite and dogged,
Dancing and twirling like a retarded danseur, my shoes too little and my attitude strange
Spitting pomegranate seeds into the wind to remind myself that it all comes back in my face, eventually
I am the conundrum of the multi-faceted, a Jack-of-All-Trades; Master of None?
I am the humble diversion of the wary traveler, where the hell should I run?
You can get ghost and leave me in the dusted sun.
You can play host to an assortment of friends swallowing rum.
And you can’t seem to see that this is just all too fun.
Turning you away, asking you to stay: Likely I have the bullets but no gun.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Excerpt: Genesis of the God Hand
The city loomed above him, the megaliths firm and dark in the distance. All around him the city circled, huge and silent, neon lights pushing their warm glow to his skin. He could see Enforcer lights whirling and flashing blue and red in pursuit of offenders. He could see the colossal Goldman-Hart Tri-Plex, a group of the three tallest man made structures in history, seemingly touching heaven. They were progressively taller than one another, with a difference of about two-hundred feet or so per building. Jonny slowed to a brisk walk, dumbstruck at the sheer magnificence of this place. It all seemed distressingly hypnotic to him, as if he was lost in the perils of some futuristic Edgar Allen Poe novel. Jonny could feel his surroundings breathe and shudder against the night, alive and clawing at him, hungry to crush him. He stopped to steady himself, propping against the side of an adult video emporium, bathed in the light of its interior. The sign read “XXX Sex on the Wild Side, Videos and more”. Almost stumbling backwards at the realization, he now knew his destination was no more than a hundred yards away, in the back alley of the next block, in a store called Zion Christian Books.
He made a break for it, running without looking behind to see if they were following. The box bounced at his side, and he reached down to pat it once more. He had to make it. His father had put considerable importance in the package. He still did not know what it held, but figured it might be disclosed to him upon delivery. Whatever it was, it was deathly urgent, for his Dad had to send him away with it, alone and with no explanation. Jonny thought it was stupid they way they figured he was always too young to know anything. But I’m not too young to roam the streets late at night like some god-awful super-spy messenger. My teacher always says that I’m the smartest in my class, and they’ve already said they’re gonna have to skip me a couple of grades because I’m more advanced than the rest of my class. Jonny wished that he could prove himself to everyone, and let them know how really smart he was. He would deliver the package without a problem. He had to.
He saw the corner of Zion, and made a swift right turn into the alley. There would be a key in an old soup can near the steps so that he could let himself in. In the poorly lit place he came to a slow halt, nearly out of breath. His heart thumped like a bongo drum, and he felt the adrenaline rush, laughing out loud then covering his mouth with his hand in realization. He needed to be as quiet as possible. A few old aluminum garbage cans were set in front of him, along with full black plastic bags of trash. This seemed archaic to him, for he never saw his trash. It was incinerated as soon as it was thrown away. He remembered reading that there were landfills around that had garbage stacked to the heavens, and a smell that could kill. I guess these bags go to the landfill. He shook off those thoughts and proceeded to his task. He saw a couple of rats running back up into the darkness, and shuddered as if he felt chill. This is so nasty and disgusting. To his left, in between the trash cans and plastic bags, was the soup can. He bent at the knees and picked it up, looking it over. It read “Campbell’s” in bold cursive, and the name of the soup had been ripped from the rest of the label. In it’s place was the sign of the cross, sloppily painted in red. It was the right can. Inside he found the key.
“Boy, give us the pendant, and you may live to see tomorrow.” The can dropped with a silence shattering tinkle, and Jonny turned with terror in his eyes to two figures standing at the entrance to the alley. He could not tell which of them had spoken. Fear gripped him, and he stepped towards the door.
“Give us the pendant, and you will not be hurt,” the second figure hissed. The first one sounded more masculine, a strong bass voice. The second figure was less masculine, but more frightening. The words came out of his mouth in a metallic twang, like an electric guitar being plucked. Each word he said hung in the air, in a strange echo. At his last word, they stepped toward once, in unison. Like robots…or something…like a robot.
He made a break for it, running without looking behind to see if they were following. The box bounced at his side, and he reached down to pat it once more. He had to make it. His father had put considerable importance in the package. He still did not know what it held, but figured it might be disclosed to him upon delivery. Whatever it was, it was deathly urgent, for his Dad had to send him away with it, alone and with no explanation. Jonny thought it was stupid they way they figured he was always too young to know anything. But I’m not too young to roam the streets late at night like some god-awful super-spy messenger. My teacher always says that I’m the smartest in my class, and they’ve already said they’re gonna have to skip me a couple of grades because I’m more advanced than the rest of my class. Jonny wished that he could prove himself to everyone, and let them know how really smart he was. He would deliver the package without a problem. He had to.
He saw the corner of Zion, and made a swift right turn into the alley. There would be a key in an old soup can near the steps so that he could let himself in. In the poorly lit place he came to a slow halt, nearly out of breath. His heart thumped like a bongo drum, and he felt the adrenaline rush, laughing out loud then covering his mouth with his hand in realization. He needed to be as quiet as possible. A few old aluminum garbage cans were set in front of him, along with full black plastic bags of trash. This seemed archaic to him, for he never saw his trash. It was incinerated as soon as it was thrown away. He remembered reading that there were landfills around that had garbage stacked to the heavens, and a smell that could kill. I guess these bags go to the landfill. He shook off those thoughts and proceeded to his task. He saw a couple of rats running back up into the darkness, and shuddered as if he felt chill. This is so nasty and disgusting. To his left, in between the trash cans and plastic bags, was the soup can. He bent at the knees and picked it up, looking it over. It read “Campbell’s” in bold cursive, and the name of the soup had been ripped from the rest of the label. In it’s place was the sign of the cross, sloppily painted in red. It was the right can. Inside he found the key.
“Boy, give us the pendant, and you may live to see tomorrow.” The can dropped with a silence shattering tinkle, and Jonny turned with terror in his eyes to two figures standing at the entrance to the alley. He could not tell which of them had spoken. Fear gripped him, and he stepped towards the door.
“Give us the pendant, and you will not be hurt,” the second figure hissed. The first one sounded more masculine, a strong bass voice. The second figure was less masculine, but more frightening. The words came out of his mouth in a metallic twang, like an electric guitar being plucked. Each word he said hung in the air, in a strange echo. At his last word, they stepped toward once, in unison. Like robots…or something…like a robot.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Anything That Bled
He just don’t sing the dream, that makeshift miracle lives in his eyes, watching himself walk a path posers attempt to settle.
Just don’t seem right, the angle is a bit too high, and it’s getting hard to tell where he’s been and where he’s going.
It’s getting to be a little difficult to focus. He doesn’t see things like he used to, but when he closes his eyes it’s still there.
It’s still there, a beacon glowing through the pitch of night. More real, more tangible than anything that bled, the dream pulsed and boomed in his head.
Just don’t seem right, the angle is a bit too high, and it’s getting hard to tell where he’s been and where he’s going.
It’s getting to be a little difficult to focus. He doesn’t see things like he used to, but when he closes his eyes it’s still there.
It’s still there, a beacon glowing through the pitch of night. More real, more tangible than anything that bled, the dream pulsed and boomed in his head.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Peddler
The deliverer and not some shiftless common vagrant
upon a nightstand he spread sense shaped like dollar bills
gnarled fingertips laughing across wood grain, hoping
to find more texture in the reality it might buy
and his visions individually wrapped fortune cookies
breaking off to expose an axiom crafted lovely
not some nomad adventurer but a seeker of life hating
his plight but more bent to admonish a lesser path
the better craft, the debtor past, the peddler, last.
upon a nightstand he spread sense shaped like dollar bills
gnarled fingertips laughing across wood grain, hoping
to find more texture in the reality it might buy
and his visions individually wrapped fortune cookies
breaking off to expose an axiom crafted lovely
not some nomad adventurer but a seeker of life hating
his plight but more bent to admonish a lesser path
the better craft, the debtor past, the peddler, last.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Separate; Together
We are separate
ideal droplets of rain never meeting but the same
but the same
We are connected minus the frame
holding it together in opposing names
think it strange
Sit on the edge of the bed
watch my world turn around
Leaving a little piece to find
A little piece of me behind
We are separate
complex modules made to fit, flip and click
flip and click
We are connected minus the frame
holding it together in opposing names
think it strange
Sit on the edge instead
turning my world upside down
Leaving a little piece to find
A little piece of me behind
ideal droplets of rain never meeting but the same
but the same
We are connected minus the frame
holding it together in opposing names
think it strange
Sit on the edge of the bed
watch my world turn around
Leaving a little piece to find
A little piece of me behind
We are separate
complex modules made to fit, flip and click
flip and click
We are connected minus the frame
holding it together in opposing names
think it strange
Sit on the edge instead
turning my world upside down
Leaving a little piece to find
A little piece of me behind
Self-Same/No Escape
Another one from long ago...
Just as I stagger in, seems like I’m staggering alone
Just seems lonely as I smile ‘cause they know I’m a regular
Charles is familiar and I’m more than proud to say I’m back
And there she is with a shied grin, black pumps waving
And there she is with her hair pulled back and a red pencil skirt
And she, never looking but I want them to look, I want them
They should visit the new me in fashionable attire, crisp new jeans
A mean New York cap and coke and vodka in a plastic cup
I am abrupt and tattered dealing my face like a deck of cards
So someone’s fancy can jump free of the ground
Still sulking in one spot, one shot down gazing in amazement
At a crowded frenzy of blinded lies I am making friends with images
Knowingly bludgeoning my wits against a wall of recidivism
If God had designed the underlying mechanisms to regenerate
He would have made a failsafe, a secret place of escape
I want them to know my urge to hold my thoughts in their hands
All the twinkles of my stars as the hourglass drains of sand
Here I am again, a bustling drunkard minus friends
Shuffling in expensive shoes with no ends to lend, laughing
At stories of hollow conquests, little hedonist hopes throwing my
Input into the fray, throwing my love like a baseball, then fouled away
Steadying upon a stump of associates crashing their names in my head
I don’t remember names well enough, but faces stay painted
And in my fingers I fix a playing theme, I have traced the lines a hundred times
Escape is never to be had, and I know, I know there is no walking around it
There is sound that pulses like light through the dark, hanging like a halo
My God should be angry, my whimpers swallowed and subdued,
I never ask Him when I should, “My Lord, what must I do?”
The night is not an answer, it is only a clue
The roses seem brighter here, but how is that true?
Even with another destination, there is always you
Even in another place, you will remain.
There is no escape. Your self is the same.
Just as I stagger in, seems like I’m staggering alone
Just seems lonely as I smile ‘cause they know I’m a regular
Charles is familiar and I’m more than proud to say I’m back
And there she is with a shied grin, black pumps waving
And there she is with her hair pulled back and a red pencil skirt
And she, never looking but I want them to look, I want them
They should visit the new me in fashionable attire, crisp new jeans
A mean New York cap and coke and vodka in a plastic cup
I am abrupt and tattered dealing my face like a deck of cards
So someone’s fancy can jump free of the ground
Still sulking in one spot, one shot down gazing in amazement
At a crowded frenzy of blinded lies I am making friends with images
Knowingly bludgeoning my wits against a wall of recidivism
If God had designed the underlying mechanisms to regenerate
He would have made a failsafe, a secret place of escape
I want them to know my urge to hold my thoughts in their hands
All the twinkles of my stars as the hourglass drains of sand
Here I am again, a bustling drunkard minus friends
Shuffling in expensive shoes with no ends to lend, laughing
At stories of hollow conquests, little hedonist hopes throwing my
Input into the fray, throwing my love like a baseball, then fouled away
Steadying upon a stump of associates crashing their names in my head
I don’t remember names well enough, but faces stay painted
And in my fingers I fix a playing theme, I have traced the lines a hundred times
Escape is never to be had, and I know, I know there is no walking around it
There is sound that pulses like light through the dark, hanging like a halo
My God should be angry, my whimpers swallowed and subdued,
I never ask Him when I should, “My Lord, what must I do?”
The night is not an answer, it is only a clue
The roses seem brighter here, but how is that true?
Even with another destination, there is always you
Even in another place, you will remain.
There is no escape. Your self is the same.
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