Thursday, December 20, 2007

Final project: Liasons, Lost and Found

What else is “end” for, but to signal the end?

What else is “end” for, but to signal the end
Of an often-sought six-letter word:
A race to the finish of “friend”?

The spelling on which I have grown to depend
Is seen, yes, but seldom heard.
What else is “end” for, but to signal the end?

“I before E…” Do the letters contend?
Wouldn’t taking turns be preferred
In a race to the finish of “friend”?

“Two vowels, both alike in dignity…”
But we’re forced to pretend in an ending no less than absurd!
What else is “end” for, but to signal the end?

Is it fair that E is left to append
While I gets to take lucky third
In a race to the finish of “friend”?

And what if E’s me, to the gallows condemned –
Rejected, deserted, deferred?
What else is “end” for, but to signal the end
In a race to the finish of “friend”?


If words be woven by the somber soul

If words be woven by the somber soul,
Then thou hast caught me in thy honest net.
For with such writings I have been made whole –
Too choked to swim away, mine eyes are wet.
If words be formed like dewdrops on a vine,
Which overnight collect in glist’ning pools,
Then yours art such that do with sunlight shine
As brightly as the earth’s most precious jewels.
My breath was stifled with a broken flow
When misty eyes afforded second glance,
For as dear Ashley read another go,
We laughed until we almost crapped our pants.

I’m sure you’ll make the perfect stupid wife:
Hell if I’ll be there, but have a splendid life!


The eavesdrop

Watching, waiting for the sound,
Hearing ears and eyes abound.
Quiet sobs ‘scape from your lips—
Drips of which he vilely sips.


You cannot hear my sleepless cries

The ceiling here is not my own,
But, barren, presses dark as night.
The corner where the glow-smile shone
No longer sheds that soothing light,
But madly scowls— teeth bone white.
And underneath these starless skies?
A tear-trail that my thoughts ignite.
You cannot hear my sleepless cries.

The lines denoting how I’d grown,
A sticker marking each new height;
The drawings on the telephone;
The butterflies and paper kite…
All distant mem’ries now tonight
For aqueous and weary eyes—
For fists that clench the covers tight.
You cannot hear my sleepless cries.

And Mommy lying there alone,
Where battered dreams and ease unite
On perfect pillows— sheets a clone
Of ones that sweethearts do invite…
It isn’t just another fight.
Don’t try to hush me with your lies.
No, this time it won’t be alright.
You cannot hear my sleepless cries.

Now daylight breaking, blazing bright—
No time to say all my goodbyes.
Oh, I am sickened by the sight!
You cannot hear my sleepless cries.


An attempt

I miss the salt and pepper fringe that used to crown your head,
The grays of which—all buried now— are reddish-brown instead.
Your eyes that once were sunny skies seem overcast these days.
The hedge above your lips has grown in some… nonstandard ways.
You passed your diet training, but I rather liked the fat.
What good is poking fun now, when there’s nothing left to pat?
And for God’s sake, will you throw away those lumps that you call shoes?
Or next time I come visit, you’ll be meeting my tattoos!



Green tears suspended from a limb;
Has beauty ever seemed so grim?


10 Russell Road
Exploring rhetoric

The carpets are covered with drip-stains.
The bookshelves are layered with dust.
The back stairs are sprinkled with crumb-trains,
The bathrooms embroidered with rust.

The bedrooms are crowded with pictures,
And none of them signify much.
The couches and tables are mixtures
Of memories that he would clutch.

My daddy’s alone in this household,
My daddy who rants on the phone,
My daddy who opens his billfold…
My daddy is simply alone.


My quiet spot

The figures passing do not know
I watch them from my quiet spot.
My quiet eyes look down below.
The figures passing do not know.
They press on, trudging through the snow.
But I am quiet, lost in thought.
The figures passing do not know.
I watch them from my quiet spot.


Double Lento

conflicting signals from the brain
restricting higher judgment
inflicting words of wild disdain
addicting: no confinement
expecting all to fix itself
projecting hopes, deflated
correcting errors— (ordered shelf)
respecting’s overrated
believing every uttered word
deceiving motivation
perceiving progress; naught occurred
achieving isolation
it just keeps coming out like this
pit helplessly against him
spit callously like drool or piss
shit out with no retention


Fisher on the quay
Terza Rima

Two gentle eyes peer down from overhead.
“It’s you,” I think, and dare to breathe once more.
The covers sink as limbs adjoin the bed.

They sink, exhaling air from out each pore
And emanate into the darkened space,
Expanding, banding, drifting to the floor.

A hand appearing on my moistened face
Surveys the damage of its swollen streams
With tenderness and unassuming grace.

It leads me, then, into the land of dreams,
Where worries wash away into the sea;
Where ardency is always as it seems;

Where you reside, collecting all debris
Upon the shore of my unburdened thought:
The rescuer— my guardian esprit.

“If ever your poor heart is overwrought
With troubles that reach past the sea and spray,
Remember, then, the moment you were caught

By this man, your dear fisher on the quay.”
Awakening, I find you by my side,
Asleep beneath the drowsy shadows’ sway,

And suddenly, with shutters open wide,
I weep for wonder, filled with pride.

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