Long Day, Hot Shower

Today I was muted by the infinitely surd.

Today I sat motionless and couldn’t say a word.

Today was another gray, planetary herd.

Today I’d rather be a migratory bird.

Today I slaved at the construction site.

Today I created another good fight.

Today I accepted the dying of the light.

Today I don’t know wrong from right.

Today I came home with cauterized wounds,

Only to be deafened by a deluge of sound.

Hot water hit me and lifted this doom.

Déjà vu, a pattern of distorted womb dreams,

Freed my soul,

And enabled me to grow wings.

Big Trampoline

            I miss our sundays at the park by the lake

            With the motherly banyans in more than one place

            The indigenous palms that could bend and not break

            And the ones that had trunks like papiermâché

            It would come unglued when they started to flake

            And the baby manatees that swam there by mistake 

            Swimming right up to the sad little shoreline of clay

            Considering their options and then swimming away

            Afraid of the tangled ladies laying in wait

            They were just some old mangroves, and nothing to hate

            I miss these beauties like the leaves and their sway

            And the people who lived there like humorless gods

            I don’t miss them or their shimmering façades

            The towering fortresses that kept us at odds

            Purveyors of solitude, a circle of frauds

           

            They decided that the trees were obstructing their view

            So through much litigation and reddening hues

            They changed how the word “preservation” was used

            The bulldozers came and made everything new

            I hate new things when the motives aren’t true

            So the next time we have our sundays together

            We should go back to the park where the beauties were gathered

            And return something old to the glistening water

            And honor the ghosts of arboreal mothers

            We’ll fly in the face of the powers unseen

            And then we’ll make love on their big trampoline

The Gelding

I can recollect laying down crescents of iron

To collect my bounty of a filly in heat

Equestrian mercenary put out to pleasure

I made my salary of hindquarter meat

But my calling in life was to spill into battle

So I trusted the process and trudged through the days

They turned me into a warhorse with surgery

They took my studhood completely away

And I left those hot pursuits happily behind,

For the perfect pastures of an unbridled mind.

And now I can canter with scarcely a care

To god’s own mongolia or I don’t know where

To breathe in the bodiless elysian air

And hopefully fall in with a healthier mare

Nirvana

            i’d like to be a clear soul arriving at nirvana

            immune to a million forms of outmoded dogma

            or maybe it would end like an icelandic saga

            i could die in battle and transcend to valhalla

            in the real world i don’t go anywhere special

            i drive to my workplace enveloped in metal

            when it’s all said and done i return to my dwelling

            the events of my workday are seldom worth telling

            sometimes i get this outlandish sensation

            when i’m drunk at a nightclub with no reservations

            that i could turn into vapor and ascend to the rafters

            and live in the colored mists, forever and ever

            when i fall in love it’s a typical disaster,

            a cocktail of feelings and i’m easily plastered

            the woman involved gets panicked and smothered

            and i become even sadder when i no longer have her

            but as soon as we locked eyes the saddening ended,

            the stillbirths upon which my sickness depended

            could finally sleep the way nature intended

            and give me a taste of this natural rapture

When Glassy Rocks Covered The Land

            I once got lost in a country of wimples,

            When my heart was the captive of a woman of the cloth,

            The saintly mother of anointed whispers,

            Who couldn’t deny me the heavenly covers.

            I saw her phantom in the breath of a candle,

            And couldn’t resist her immaculate druthers.

  

            We lived in the valleys of sinuous motion,

            In fuzzy meadows and sweetwater streams,

            In raspy moans and volcanic explosions,

            In tiny rivulets and plunging ravines.

            We could’ve spent a millenium thrusting,

            Entrusting the rest to an unborn queen.

            And when there were fires they were higher than temples,

            And worse than the righteous tears of a child.

            They murdered the forests and scorched every shadow,

            And they burned in our bodies right down to the marrow.

            The least just war on record to date,

            Was nothing compared to what love could create.

            Where once lay the blankets of our lush vegetation,

            There is now just a crater of treasonous waste,

            And the remnants of what spread them all over creation,

            A matterhorn fallen from vacuous space.

            When two ones wanting was too much to stand,

            And was still more when glassy rocks covered the land.