…what to watch for…

until
the moon finds a way to go absolutely mad
the makers of time lose their way
or the smallest beam of light through the window onto your hand goes dim
this will be my holding of you
this will be my holding of you

ensigns and home and anything other than the lilt in you look as you laugh
are not for now


arf 07

...carving out the heart...

the ritual pants
short and quick sparks become seams
and at the seams split
a river melts into chasm
and fills the most poignant purses of the flesh

it is grey against violet reds
it is stalking the silhouettes
and breaking through the broken
only to come out
crestfallen
and less aware

but you and i both know it is more than that

it is warped
snow capped
and sunken
but somehow proud

disengaged and gone

yet wonders of the searching mind
are never far
call it home
call it bewildering sweetness

coming across seas most struggling
it is barren and teaming with less
than you know
offering open arms and singsong lullabies
quietly to sleep

and warning shots awaken
from seconds slipping by too fast to see
so that the aftermath
our laughter
the getting away from hearts and lungs
signalizes central caustic wrongdoings

and if the lights don't flicker
then forget it

it is a blemish scoring a secondhand goal
as frothing becomes

and we can watch our pasts trickle away in buckets
with all the subtlety of a marching band
parading across the mind

it is at times
impunity at the highest
and at others
the most realistic experiment with the forms
ever noted by historians worldwide

it is giving up for the dreams of it all
shining sunshine wishes through plate glass sacraments
and seeing nothing in between

i see homes i will never go into
and roads into hearts i will never now
and what it is is where it was
over there
behind my shoulder
that good luck thing i picked up as a kid
haunting
and materializing as much more than anything else ever did

blow smoke upon the earth
and wish it holy nights to come
nights behind hill beneath our forgotten cries
as moments of whatever weakness
slowly seeking the surface
are doused and made missing again
with a nod
and a screamless shudder

and if it were more than that
i think i would have
nothing more to do

but in some cases
the nightingale's caress
transforms them into the likes of which
has not been seen or heard from
since

behind every hunger there is a thirst
and behind you is much more
than me
more like a cast of thousands

all diving
cauterized against the fall
hurling each other toward the madness

all for the beautiful
empowering
landscape of the explored and mapped soul
because
as we know it
it is all the muse
for the world

arf 98