Of Horns and Halos

Old squeaky knees is at
it again, now that the heat of
battle has cooled, analyzing
the relevant facts and figures
dispassionately. Working himself into
a lather, now that the demands for
clear eyes (a round of anecdotal antibiotics)
has run its course. Giving way to
an inevitable series of
intellectual inquiries, with vision that
the universe is orderly, that the laws of
Newton and thermodynamics, hold
true. Reducing the play to rules
and dictums, disillusioned to ran-
dom distribution and
Attempting to hide
subtle faults, or obscuring
supple virtues, or data points pointing to
larger truths. Hands hooked tightly to
the yoke of the impulse controls, managing
the alchemy and qualities unmediated by
the influence of others. Weaving
a tailored repeatable experience, for
a particular and enduring context, while
silencing the critics in his head. Like
some ardent champion, possessing
some magical elixir, forgetting that
life is a dynamic game, not a static
code, waiting to be deciphered.
An arcane art, of
mouse and man, of
horns and halos.

Watching a Snowman Melt


I saw the orange tabby again: She
letting it be known, that this is His kingdom of streets,
Her jungled concrete, His playground on loan to police;
a little vibration pump: implying…advising
that this moment shared, is sacred,
this locale, a sacrosanct chamber, temporary;
by this fact She does not scare, nor tempted by prolonging.


He looks back empty eyed, eyes the colour of onwards
with a hint of upwards, with a glint of pupil
teacher is on to the next prize,
foreign-tongued to why we hold on so tight;
Her trance: lacking significant,
only a reflect of a shared purposed experience;
His tracks: for you…they were never meant.


No shifting in reverse, grinding tired gears forwards
through: seasons of healing, seasons of helling,
seasons of hellions, seasons of rebelling;
shunned: to the absolute, sanitized: to the extent,
old giving way to new, natured…unnutured,
living and dying proof, us both
weathering the vicissitudes.


As the cold takes pity: a snowman succumbs to thaw
Oh winter ruler driven by delusions of deity,
succumbing to His thoughts, giving into gravity
(as we do); a half-crooked smile
becomes a half-crooked scowl: wondering if…
anyone notices, much (as we do);
wondering…if She registered, will be remembered,
if they hear His prayers full of piety,
wondering…if…(as) we all do;
well, that is, except for maybe, the tabby.

Chasing Summer

I see your morning dew-intruded full bloom,
of long-limbed days and short-nighted after moons,
wedded to the warmth
of a thinly veiled verdant fervour,
of a constellation of behaviours,
temperate in your habits
as I give chase with amorous interest.

Marking your midpoint,
isolating maximal insolation
with blistering anticipation
of the limp of your inevitable variable seasonal lag,
a sweltering monitoring
of the fruits of the laborious breathing
caused by your (Dolores) haze,
the kittenish coy coquettish come-hither
of these canicular hound dog star days.

In this lush forest of on prowl enchanted hunters,
allowing brief oblivion of the haunted reader
through charm and erudition,
pushing the golden language,
culling unrequited lines,
floating out words to see their buoyancy,
to see if those strung together letters are seaworthy,
serendipping toes into strange and unfamiliar waters,
swimming caterpillars through hairlike capillaries
of the in-your-thrall idea infirmary
these shaky pillars in the stealth distillery,
as patterned periodic piranhas prey and start to circle.

As I sally forth in search in prayer,
bringing up the rear,
flying too close to the subversive sun,
tracking too close to this shining beacon of authenticity,
observing the exertion of attention
that should have wrapped it’s dallying blanket arms around me,
weeded out four-leaf clovers now thrown over shoulders,
forever being the fleeting pleas of a lonely seven letters,
for the suckle of the honey,
the sun-kissed-drenched-filled-sational
of leitmotifs and nested meanings.

From your solstice tip to equinox tail,
as the shade of your shadow grows shorter,
as this undercurrent of darkness of the hyper-feminine ripens,
given a choice of varying dwelling places
inside the confines of the willful and repeated mind,
a fair-haired daughter of a widowed mother
fated to be captive
inside the inward unwitting recipient reformatory,
where uncomfortable confronts coursing ambiguity,
where old grey cobwebs are no longer mistaken
for a prismatic weave.

You’re my George Five re-personified,
fixated outside your palace for tick tick tick tocks at a time,
not blinking until I see the curtains creek,
until you play Misty for me,
until you sing your birdsong at dawn,
until you pen a letter that may never come,
until I pretend to park read de Clerambault,
watching the demeanour dampening and the skin show sallow.

Echoing the sentence of the draggled days to come,
your schlepped death leaving ones cursed and scarred,
forever trapped in the pages of a sadness sowing satire
in accordance to an inflicted tradition and culture,
in a meteorological reckoning of the daylight hours,
of what you represent, once were and will become again,
but if you dared to tell your tilted axised truth…
who would believe you?