I TRY

I try so hard

I try so hard

I try so hard to love you

 

I try so hard to live with you

I try so hard to know you

 

I do not know you

I cannot rule you

 

Fact

 

I am blue not gray

I am just made that way

I will just fade that way

 

Now

 

The lamp’s down low

How low will it go

 

Into the dark

Our natural space

Our silly place

 

I try so hard

To win the race

To end the race

 

I try so hard

To find my place

NIGHT

The fat brain can’t get up today

The slow familiar dead end crawl

Nothing appears at the gate

The clock doesn’t move at all

Faces come stop and stare

Through the very vast night

Birds have gone to sleep for good

The wise limp instead of fight

Within this dreamless ancient place

 Music sour grates on everyone

Behind the door something waits

To  make a move and overcome

The children don’t exist at all

They shoulder guns and strangle dolls

They have never known another place

Where monsters don’t make the calls

While phony women shallow men

Pretend to dance a pantomime

They kiss the air and then themselves

They make a dash on a dime

The anesthetic must soon wear off

On all these wild-eyed toothless men

Who carry around a human form

And hand you a poison pen

The future must appear some day

Even in this airless room

When people will scurry out to see

The lost ambiguous forgotten moon

NOVEMBER’S CHILDREN

The way November falls on you like a bleak vision,

The way November rolls over you like a bone crushing incident

The way November empties you like a vampiric spirit.

November dances toward the precipice with gloom.

I love all her dead children blowing away in the wind,

such loveliness waving goodbye, opening the door

to the frozen heart of winter.

Blanket me in white.

Let me sleep a thousand years in your vault.

MY PINK IN RECLINE

I am the sexy beast,

a sad clown

facing

the constant wall

of repetitive repetition.

I’m a house in Missoula Montana

broken inside

my pink in recline.

My mailbox is clogged,

My friends are nowhere to be found.

What to wear to my tragedy?

The young girl’s cheek is hot,

I can’t even find her jacket in my closet,

I thought the worst, that I would forget it.

Skull folks always fear public perception,

I donate earplugs, the virginal haircut to them.

Horizontal hunters number their disappointments,

Under the lamp, a matchbook coffin.

THE SKY ANNOUNCES

The pain caves his brain

Like fast anxious fire

As

Outside,

The afternoon sun shines .

Nothing particularly untoward

reported . Only

A sense of the already been ,

The old islands of thought

Punctuated by angry siren swells,

stick figures and

Sweating somersaults of gloom…

But

There is a place and

There is a way that is

Better than possibility, the far-away sky announces

To this wreck it addresses

Whose head’s in the closet

In search for a bonnet

And  a perfect drink.

The light moves fractionally  (his head now out for a peek)

Yes, movement opens to a room in his parched

Brain, the pain subsides fractionally, and he hides for a beat

In  a synapse of reprieve  between his words.

‘Reshape this worldview ,’  the sky announces:

‘All is empty argument,’

Blinks the blue cool eye.

AUTUMNAL BLUES

And, yes

Around us everywhere

The golden note

Autumnal glory, as you please,

Messaging the possibility

That ease may arrive

All dressed up as Sunday.

I lay in wait for Godot

With the same stumbling quality

With no ideology

No compass, no certainty,

All the spiderwebs that lead me here

That left me here bereft

The question marks looming

The leaves used up

The casual way they spread.

Perhaps I am dead

Like them

I had a home once

Where I belonged,

Now on my own I beg

Something miraculous must come

Yes, like the glory around us suggests

We are something other than

Appearance dictates

And presses so hard against

The thin film to

Evanescence and escape

Only motion and peace

And no suffering in the end

There is so much time to contend

And I am so tired of calling for

Something

Something

I don’t even know

What anymore.

BECOMING

Sleepy in the afternoon,

sunshine bleeds thru my high windows.

Thank you for the transfusion this morning,

the digital dots that you connected,

as I sat by baffled by your sharp eye.

I felt like a statue (if statues could feel)

next to you and I was somewhat comfortable

with it. What is it about me? Have I become

totally redundant with age? Girls look at me now

with smiles that feel like charity, and I am

grateful for it. I thank everyone of them profusely.

Was it the aged Peter O’Toole who in a film begged

a girl for permission to sniff behind her ear?

I laughed then, but now I don’t! On the way out

modesty becomes us. It’s really all we have.