secrets.

I wish I could let you in
on the answers. But you know
I don't have them
and I don't even know
if they exist.
I wish I could gift you
with reassurance that
everything will be alright.
But then, maybe it won't?

Even if I knew the words,
they are only a scripted cue
from the magician for whatever
his confederates have been taught to do
in order to hide the trick from view.
It's taken years of practice and deception
to make it feel so terribly real.

I wish I could divulge
the secrets you are seeking.
(Is it really any secret?)
I don't know.
Always seems as though
the secret of happiness
is in being happy
and the secret of life
is that it must be lived.
Not even love can
make happiness.
Not even love
can make things right.
Not even love can cajole
the rain to fall or end.
If it could,
I would always have flowers
for your table and the
honey for your tea.

all's fair

She's not invested in splitting hairs.
she only disagrees because she cares.
a modifier dangling from her dramatic lips
strictly speaking she never trips
or, when waxing on grammatic, slips.

Her voice employs my breath,
implores my attention,
impairs my judgement,
invades my conscience
with armies of memories,
fits of despair,
declarations of war
and delusions of surrender.

I need no defense.
I am lost and giddy in defeat.
My residence razed
my menu fouled and forgotten.
Pride has no function in the aftermath of a slaughter.
I will not accept mercy.

untitled No.2

On the playground 
near the picnic tables 
we'll be the best of friends 
until the game is up,
the sun retreats  
and shadows break hard 
over boundaries
once so easy to discern.
Still, the rules are there
to be ignored,
like homework on the slate board.

Players in a seasonal pageant, .
we are. The children
of our own misgivings.
Soon enough the voices call
announcing curfew for us all
and they are not so easily deflected.

So, will I turn the table over,
scattering plastic slugs
and penalty cards before
I concede to defeat?
There is no tally of the score.
I won't regret another loss.
The end is simply preordained
and it's always fun and friendly
until everyone gets hurt.

blood and ice cream

Pretty is not the word to describe her
Hinting only at a larger truth.
Beauty is an epic masterwork
in chalk on rainy pavement.
A cruel condition of
her probation - like an ankle monitor,
reporting her whereabouts to philosophers,
court physicians and men of God

Someday is a promise
Empty and frail as fragrance
imprinted on a lonely pillowcase
or lip gloss on a plastic cup.
Tomorrow is a memory,
a tantrum of blind possessive desire.
Think on that
when she forgets you,
waiting in the sun
on the heat of the sidewalk,
the ice cream dripping on your shoes
and realize you would lie to that cop's face,
grab his angry gun
and die in the struggle
if called upon, to aid in her escape.
If blood and ice cream
are all you have to offer
and even they are not enough.


[Halt! Who goes there? Please feel feel to comment constructively.]

untitled No.1

I want to listen to the sound
of your fingers pressing
against the strings, false notes intact;
live, without amplification.
That is your voice, the story
that is you in all your glorious
and sacred imperfection. 
Read to me aloud from
the book of your life
a chapter at a time.
And when you are done,
start over from the beginning.
A never ending melody.
You don't need to be draped
in doll clothes or walk on stilts
to merit attention.

Your simple essence curls up
and purrs against my spine-
Pale bare legs and cotton khaki.
Sparkling water and crooked smile - 
thrilling me more than some sideshow
or spectacle; more soothing than
any ceremonial rite.

Sea Legs

To where is this schooner bound?
Are we at the mercy of the currents
and the wind?
It sometimes feels like
we are sailing alone, you and I,
with only the stars over head
to guide us. And then an angler
hooks the sun and drags it from
out of the water
and I see the other travelers
on board all around us
weighing heavy upon this feckless craft.

We did not book passage together.
But it seems our travel plans were
crossed by agents well beyond
the line of our horizon.
I will call you by whatever name
you wish; stay beside you
though rough seas and ocean storms
stress the frail vessel to which we cling.
And if, when we reach a port of call,
this voyage ends, I will remember
the joy of even that one moment
shared with you beneath the stars.

at the edge

Friends that find me here
at the edge of the volcano,
balanced on one heel,
are quick to offer the steady hand
and the knowing nod.
Relax.  I have already heard
the warning shots trumpet
like a fanfare from the symphony
of self preservation,
and it doesn't insulate me
from molten heat
or save me from the fall
if I lose friction.
The game has always been fixed
but that's because the rules are broken.
Everyone wants to win 
even if their desires remain unspoken.
So all you can do is wish me luck
and, if I slip and tumble below the rim;
if I disappear from
this place of spectator safety,
say adios and console yourselves
by knowing I'll only get what I deserve.
But all I have is worthless
until I have given it away.