Sonnet 8th

Sonnet 8th

Harder Shells

She is as the beak of a tortoise:
vivid with burning-brown and golden scales
and a war-like hook sharp enough with poise
to puncture but just not enough to claw:
and so with the many little mellow wounds
she leaves my hands to scar overnight long.
I care for my hands, they aren't rough-hewn
like you see attached to the arms thick
of working men fresh from cement boulders strewn
and forged steel jungles, but my hand's nicks
are on their way to becoming soon.
It's not just my hand she bites,
but that pumping passion fruit meant to feel--
and so, full of holes, she leaves me to heal.

"Something Else" Sonnet 7th

"Something Vague"

Something. A vague realization
takes place the instant the word
is uttered. It requires imagination
to picture something like a star
or a bird or even a flock of birds;
all kinds mixing in yellow-brown
orgy and flushing rose and the card'nals
flying with the blue jays high above
the road you walk on. Altogether
a cloud, a smog of feathers and beaks
like some terrible hand of nature
come to slug someone, just anyone
dumb enough to look at you with intent...
besides me of course. I'm something different.

Sonnet 6th?

There Must be Something

There must be something
besides a moral elbow asleep
on another's naked shoulder tickled
as it were, with one or two spots
of dawn, which, as I thought
of something like a creature
padding low beneath the cover's edge
standing up to face my nose with his
ethereal deathly cataracts,
ended the dream with its typical
quick prodding nuances. Alone
in my cold bed, I am the traces
of muddy paw prints from my pillow
out the open bedroom window.

Juicy Fruit

So I'm in a poetical mood with no exact form or subject in mind. Thusly I open my book of "The Book of Forms" and pick something...today we have aww screw it. Sonnet the 5th.

"Juicy Fruit"

There is nothing in a stick of gum, "Juicy Fruit,"
to taste like the taste
of a slick plum plucked from the boughs
swaying in between breezes-the leaves
move too, but only as echoes and the fruit itself
is a decadent bride being led into the nest-
as if Man would flavour more fully
the pulpy flesh trapped inside
a dainty bosom of natural purple humor
if he ever had true reign over decay and birth.

I won't taste a metallic wrapper if I should taste
the real fruit, bite ravenously into the core and waste
not a second moaning for a second taste and feel
the juices and think: This! this is what is real.

Sonnet the 4th

This is Not as Useful

This is not as useful as it once was.
The faces on the pages -
which were empty pages before I came
In from the foggy world - are smaller seeds
viewed by a taller tree saying,
"I would like to reroot my frame again,"
Does not seem me. It does not seem to be me -
Is it so? The smallest morsel feeds
The strongest cedar or oak?
But God will
Have me see my seed in history;
as immoveable as a mountain range,
The faintest echo in my history
Overpowers the man I thought I'd be.

An Obligatory Update

Recently, I've been commiting some poems to memory, and as that memory serves me, I recite them as I feel like it. Here is the first...and I swear there was no referencing to aid in the typing.

"To Ireland in the Coming Times"

Know that I would accounted be
True member of that company
that sang to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
With ballad and story, rann, and song.
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered-hem
of her, whose history began
before God made the angelic clan,
trails all about the written page.
For in the world's first blossoming age,
The light fall of her flying feet
Made Ireland's heart begin to beat.
And still, the starry candles flare,
To help her light foot, here and there.
And still, the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon her holy quietude.

Nor may I less be counted one,
with Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
Because to him, who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
Of the dim wisdoms old and deep,
That God gives unto man in sleep.
For the elemental beings go,
About my table to and fro.
In flood and fire and clay and wind,
They huddle from man's pondering mind.
Yet he who treads in austere ways,
May surely meet their ancient gaze.
Man journeys ever on with them,
After the red-rose-bordered-hem.
Ah, faeries dancing under the moon!
A Druid land! A Druid tune!

While still I may, I write for you,
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye.
And we, our singing, our love,
The mariners of night above,
And all the wizard things that go
About my table to and fro,
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth's consuming ectasy,
No place for love and dream at all,
For God goes by with white foot fall.
I cast my heart into rhymes,
That you, in the dim-coming times,
May know how my heart went with them,
After the red-rose-bordered hem.

BOOYA!!!!

Sonnet (it's not the best, but whatever)

Frenzy

The old frenzied rage competes with myself;
not inside myself, but they bring me out
and into the world I have lived without ---
it's an odd landscape to see in yourself.
But all the love's lost humor and heart's shout
and the stern buildings hard to look above
make it sharp and painful for me to see
All of your nature's gentle artistry.
There is not a thing lives which does not love
in the quiet sense of a monastery.
The fires of rage are not complete
unless they have my heart to eat,
and eat it they will on feasting day,
the earth of my body in nature's way.

Wall Street

Wall Street

It's about pornography,
I say.
Whistling dollar bills
spreading wide their crisp edges,
pleasing men with their center folds;
desperate to own attention.

And the men
the men
The rum-stinking men huddled on the floor,
in masturbatory sweat,
watching the numbers flash by:

Cinnamon Buns is up 20 points,
Summer Melons is down 30.
growing
and shrinking.
Stock ready to be sold.

XFE
MAY
TWK
They aren't even women.
Not even places where people go to earn a living.

The building itself is proud,
erect,
and bursting with potential children.

I've seen money put on a show,
Squeezing in,
begging the blue ties for membership
to belong in the act.

It is about pornography,
and the illusion that you're really there.

Lines From Class

I wonder if anyone (including she) ever reads this blog thing? I'll leave you with that ambiguous little nugget :).

Modern Boy Meets Modern Girl

They connected on deeper levels,
and depths they were manning
required deeper breaths of breathing ---
she sighed before she said, (spanning

his space of breath, breath, breathe) ---
"Stop your breathing before you die.
hyperventilation is just excess,
And you know how I hate to see you die."

He ceased wheezing long enough to seat
in his leather-armed with the red-skinned flat
face for his ass in itchy wool padding
chair, and said, quite frankly and fast, "Fuck that."