My hopes have all retreated to the place
where they were hidden well before you came:
before I knew the beauty of your face,
before I felt the softness of your name.
The place is small; my hopes fit in it well
along with my desires and my dreams;
outside of it, a spacious living hell
has blossomed in the world, or so it seems.
At night I curl as tightly as I can
into a ball of weak, defeated flesh,
protectively enveloping the man
with whom you used to warmly inter-mesh.
The end of my defense is where I start
to fortify that little place, my heart.
Archive for March, 2009
The Siege
Friday, March 6th, 2009Running Together
Wednesday, March 4th, 2009Our paths converge on roads we often run
alone. We run alone until we meet
a friend. At times the strides of two are one,
and partnerships evolve on lonely streets.
There’s time to speak as miles are passed away
in friendship that is forged from step to step,
and times when we have nothing more to say;
yet silent cadence brings a sweeter depth
to friends, to partners, sharing life and pain.
Our paces mark the seasons, year to year.
We run through searing heat and soothing rain;
we run together long enough to hear
the rise and fall of breath, the beating heart
we miss when paths diverge and we must part.
Vision of a Parched Spirit at the End of Living Waters
Wednesday, March 4th, 2009The climb is still the climb; the mountain looms
above the plank of barren steppes. The sky
is creased with orange sunset. Subtle plumes
of clouds in crisp and bitter blue imply
that god is still dividing firmaments;
at least god’s portion lingers in the air.
God’s equity has never made much sense
to anyone who’s ever said a prayer
of hope, when there is nothing in their throat
but dry and empty words. All words are vain.
Such prayers of hopeless vanity denote
a soul trapped in a mind that’s gone insane,
which hears, halfway to heaven, angels sing
beside a long depleted mountain spring.
Love Scene at a Small Cafe
Wednesday, March 4th, 2009Her mouth retreats behind a steaming cup;
our first impassioned kiss is washed away
by tea. Her savor shows; she glances up,
our bliss now intermingled with Earl Grey.
Her lips escape the smooth ceramic touch
of that which holds a warm familiar taste.
She smiles at me. I think she smiles too much
with just her mouth, with lips my lips have traced
too soon. The waitress breaks my fading trance.
I order eggs; she orders eggs as well.
We smile like some obligatory dance,
but now her eyes have fixed the broken spell.
They flash with passion’s promises; they shine
in this cafe, forever hers and mine.
The Curse of Love
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009Say “love” again; pronounce it like a curse
that curls your poisoned passion in a ball
of naked flesh. Your spell becomes perverse
the moment that you think the word at all.
Say “love” as if the power was the word
or, like the scars and wrinkles of your skin,
bears depth. Such marks can only be obscured
by magical futility. Within
your shallow beauty, stretched too pale to hide
the malice of a life of seething hate,
there beats a ghostly pulse; your heart has died.
The spell of love you utter is too late.
It trapped me once until my soul discerned
that love is nothing given nor returned.
A Vision of Modern Music
Monday, March 2nd, 2009Sing songs that burn your heart like matches scraped
across the rough contingencies of love,
that flare in revelations calmly raped
before the crime is taken notice of.
Sing songs that freeze your heart in static hell
where zero is the absolute of pain
which suffers no deception, tolls no bell
until they drive your fucking mind insane.
Sing songs that stay the course; your left your right
converge into a point. The point is death,
although prophetic voices out of sight
sing songs drawn from a deeper, living breath.
Sing life; sing death. Each melody is wrong,
devoid of passion’s purpose in the song.
Cold Running
Sunday, March 1st, 2009I knew at once the wind was north by west;
it slid between the houses and the trees,
obliquely intercepted me then pressed
my fingers through my gloves and tried to freeze
my hands. I flexed my fingers as I ran
to move my blood into constricted veins.
The chill attacked as soon as I began
to move, like water, challenging its reign.
The stream beside the road was choked with ice
and yet it flowed, regardless of the threat
the wind-chill made. Defiance would suffice
for me as well. I started to forget
how cold the air, how liquid I’d become;
and ran toward the welcome of the sun.
This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”
The Blue Terebridae (Part I)
Sunday, March 1st, 2009“The auger is a fairly common shell
that’s found from Carolina to the coast
of South America,” Professor Dell
explained, though I was sure that I could boast
of something no one else had ever found.
“A blue terebridae?” he said. “There’s no
such thing.” And then he started to expound
his knowledge of the species. “I can show
it to you,” I replied to cut him short,
at which Professor Dell became perturbed.
“I’m fairly busy,” was his last retort,
by which he meant he mustn’t be disturbed
by anyone without a PhD
who’d found a blue terebridae, like me.