writer

Projections 

Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.

Indebted 

When once I approach a bridge
I mount my fear by extending my hand,
as I did with my father years ago.
We approached a grated expanse

and I implored he catch me should I fall.
Safely then on the other side,
he having held me the entire way,
I knew I was forever indebted.

I still don't like bridges
and I don't like admitting
that something scares me,
but I hate that debt most of all.

Resignation to a certain fact 

It's intrepidity,
is resignation to a certain fact.
But it's haunting, too.

A countenance negated,
when for once a blank stare lives
as the mind in that moment,
with all blood let
and costly service rendered.

There is no roadmap for spells
concluding enduring sagas,
and the intrepid know that.

I'll admire from afar
and wonder on the strength of
those survivors as they quarter
amid the spent minefield.

They might say there is
no strength in tattered ends,
	all life is a process
	of will and action.

They might say that standing still
in the face of the unmitigated
is an admission of human frailty.

Respectively, I say:
	Let me admire.
	Let me reflect.

Stillness is strength

especially in the hour of the unmitigated.

daily constitution 

Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm.
It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing
that is alluring and energized...
And all resistance against the untimely death of a
leisure lap.

I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones,
but the worthy object is the daily one.
It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection,
and owes itself to itself as pride would without
the taint of sin.

The happy norm is
the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed
and it moves on and on in this sullen world.

My friend 

     Yes he saw him
     and knew his intentions.
     Yes,
     Yes, of course there 
     is an anxious flush.
     Handsome faces force
     their way into
     memories with a
     blinding speed.

Sweats breed
themselves
like fruit flies
across the faint 
worry lines of
his face.

     He steps on 
     high achievement
     like a laden stone,
     pronouncing something
     unintelligible,
     like it's 
     history's forgotten
     place mat.

All these indiscretions
and distractions 
that agitate him
to no end.
To no end.
That's the puzzling
part of it all.

     Sitting and hoping
     on some,
     while others he bare
     wrestles and bleeds
     dry.


Is this a coherent
picture of a man?
Is this a man who
prizes a coherent
picture of himself?

This man is my friend
and these words are
all the best I can do.

the Vapors 

We'd get so high,
project the foolish
and let the vapors
run us ragged.
Our incantatory 
howling an
extension of
iridescent smoke
plumes.
Parched and
pining, we'd
sip sublimonade
from circus spouts
and own up to
the awful,
as our tempers 
would allow.

The act of
incinerating
barriers
lovers never
broach is wild
work.
Those days are
of a kind
safer minds 
may never know.

Wishing when 

I spent my life
wishing when,
that spell whistling
at my heart.
A tug,
a tear,
and all the frosty drag it holds.

That bitter cold
a balm that numbs,
and reflecting
that a feeling
is more than
some quiet alone.

I accept that
ever after is
nevermore;
these things ourselves
tell us
that then shed
rhythmically asunder.

Each beat is a probe.
Our heart,
it's faithful prole.

And tomorrow,
as well as
all to follow,
will the frigid
beg for friction
and I beg alike?

Shadow world 

Heartbeats and shadows
patter, beating out the cadence
of the ancient lover's cry.
	
		Tense is the refrain
		secret endearments claim,
		a melting of resolve
		does not such deceit absolve.

Were all our failings so,
better that we might perceive
enchantments and phantoms.

		Oh! The tacit consent
		of sweet and innocent,
		erectors of sturdy lore
		set to avert the bore.

And then when uncovered,
pitiful in undulations, 
left to strip a quiet thrill.

		The last of those to feel
		may know of shadows real,
		such as is plain
		for lovers without name.

Mirror woes, Mirror waves

I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said:  far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.

The mirror woes and
the mirror waves,
present 
unsettled constitution
in sedentary haze.

Poor boy!
     Poor us for living.
     That he might know
     pain and pain alike,
     and that hate is forgiven.

In every moment a
reflection.
In each a rattled nerve
less sense, scant affection.

Poor life!
     Without meaning nor worthy lament.
     Grant that we might blanche,
     not persist and persist;
     yet from birth defiling only innocence.

Restoration is coming

I was inspired while listening to Donald Trump insist upon the need to “restore” law and order.  I hate to attribute too much inspiration to any one political blowhard, because the fact remains that the circumstances that created today’s demagogue existed yesterday and will, in all probability, exist tomorrow.  So Donald, don’t let this go to your head.

The restoration in effect,
of that ever-elusive state.
Where restful nerves and
leery eyes stick fast to 
hallowed ground.

How the calamity came to be
many manic minds never
settled.  It was, it is, may be
unto forever, but no never
mind.

The restoration will spread
like seeds along the distended
bloat.  And endure the 
sensation of prophecy fulfilled,
mouth agape and hands stolen still.