"16 mm. Star"

I wish life was like the movies.
I wish reality was in black and white.
If it was I wouldn't have to deal with these,
feelings that aren't always right.
Life is too damn complicated.
Simplicity seems so, so far.
And as the black and white reality is faded,
the more I wish to be an old film star.
Do you remember when bad guys wore black,
and the good guys were truly good?
Now that I'm older and looking back,
I see life doesn't go as the movies would.
Now, I wish I could have read
the plot before I took on this role,
then I might have been ahead,
I might have still owned my soul.
But sometimes the lens gets smeared
changing reality from what it had been,
and then just as the audience feared
sometimes the good guys don't win.


"Blank Murals"

Eyes glazed over with a vague stare,
he sits with his head in hands.
"Its hard," he says.
As a freshly sharpened pencil lay still
on a stack of crisp, white paper before him.
"Can't think of anything to write about."
An unemotional void had left him
nothing moving, nothing to feel.
Certainly nothing to write about.
"The poetry is gone. It must have died,
probably a long time ago. Maybe it passed on
while I was busy dong other things."
He exclaimed as he thought to himself.
He glances up staring at the bare wall,
no one is around, the room appears to have been
empty for some time, possibly years.
However the apparent lack of an audience doesn't
hinder his thoughtful conversation.
" I must be gone. I must have died,
probably a long time ago. Maybe I passed on
while I was busy doing other things,"
he said to himself.
Then with an odd air of certainty, he yells
"This must be Hell! There's no Devil,
no burning red lake of fire. Just life here
with no emotions stirring, no hate, no jealousy,
no love, no feeling at all."
Succumbing to the strength of pure exhaustion,
his head sank back into his hands.
No poetry was written. No emotions were painted
with the soft touch of led on crisp, white paper.


"Renounced Confidant"

I never see you anymore, we haven't spoken in years,
and the words don't come like they used to.
Hell, in fact,
they don't come at all since that night.
Anger grew out of control, and oh lord how those beers
sent our tempers out on rampages through
our past, bringing dark memories back to light.
The words were harsh, and tones
razor sharp on that November evening.
However; cuts from disparaging comments were soon forgotten
but the scars of a friendship and lost love
never quite faded, pain only slowly easing.
Years have come and gone, you've had
to do yours, and I've too moved on.
Now, old and barely reminiscent of our younger
selves. We find each other on the same street corner,
same time, same day. Together once more,
if only for a short awkward while. Words are spoken.
So how are things? Happy? Did you get all
that you had wanted? Still angry? Who me?
I let that be done a long time ago.
Hardly the same anymore,
can't say I even remember why.


"Dominance and Submission"

Hardwood chessboard floating,
into the vast emptiness of existence.
A queen stands beautiful, and
proud, elaborately decorated alabaster.
In opposite corners,
on opposing ends, a
king plans his strategies through,
a cold marbleized gaze.
An unavoidable conclusion.
An eternity cleansed, washed
floating away in a resurrection of human triumph.
But for now, a silently
restless world moved only by influence,
of those not involved.
All soaking in the misery
of poor pawns' blood.
Seconds and years pass grinding,
wearing down the queen's ramparts.
Rooks blinded by a deteriorated strength, desperation,
stares out, oblivious as the knight approaches.
under the moon light, the
sting of a spur provokes
horses' hooves to gallop
shortening the safety of emptiness,
and the reach of Death's reapers,
for the Queen and hers.
Faster and faster
the rump and clump
the rump and clump
rump and clump,
the horse's hooves draw the
knight closer.
An ever increasing, thunderous,
sensual pace, time draws near.
Knight has arrived on the
Queen's land.
Suddenly the swoosh of the sword,
an orgasmic scream,
the echoing thump of decapitation, silence.
Eternity flails her arms wide,
swallowing the dead into her bosom.
A blood stained afterglow.
Anguish and submission left to comfort,
the remains of the Queen's fallen redemption.
the defiant lie dead and dying,
on beautiful redwood killing fields.
With satisfaction, and holy glory
the king smiles,
he rules complete once more.


"Obsolete Motivation"

It came to me some time ago,
and I don't mean to sound
so obviously redundant,
but there is very little light in the darkness.
No, I don't speak of candlelight,
or the warmth of fire light.
For even a small child can
make that association.
I speak of the light, the light that
shines in a person,
who carries the will and desire
to live through just one more day.
Stand on any street corner in
this great U.S. of A.
Watch the people go by.
Watch the dead walking,
carrying on like the living,
going through their daily routines,
like ghost on a moon lit night.
They appear oblivious to the fact
that they must have died some time ago.
Stand on that same corner for a bit longer,
and watch the people. Watch them as they go by
running around in corporate America
pilling up their wealth, debts, rags and riches
all in the hope to become God.
The American dream. Watch those lights
flicker and fade. Only dullness shines through
their eyes as they try to remember what
it was they were ever working for.
Watch the darkness consume
what once was human.
Watch the dead live their life.
Now lights are faded and gone. We miss them,
but can't remember why.


"Night on the Town"

I saw an old man die tonight.
His distant, hazy eyes frozen under the
florescent glow of street corner light.
A homeless man's life he had led,
sleeping in damp alley ways
never in the comforts of a bed.
His clothes tied on with nylon bands
clutching ever so tight,
to the two dimes in his hands.
After the old man's last breath
I heard the raven's call
and felt the silence of death.
The old man had merely ran out of time,
it could happen to us all. So,
with little else to do, for no reason or rhyme,
I reached deep into my pocket and
into the old man's hand I dropped one last dime.


"Choosing My Reality."

Perhaps angels choose their dreams.
Dreams of winter evenings and Fall colors.
Perhaps these same angels dream unbearably of
dispassionate mortals thinking only of insignificance and it's allies.

Penetrate O-zone, fallen sky, dreams of stars beyond humankind

I embraced the spirit's wonders and theories.
I found myself lost in its vast knowledge and dreams.
I explored this place of reality and imagination,
where truth is blended in a delightful concoction
with fiction and other details of nighttime slumber.
If only to know light shinning deep within the void.

Beyond mortgage repayments, and electrical this' and that's
I found one truth. A dream. Much more interesting than
low cholesterol and a rousing game of musical chairs.

I found.
Within my heart, time is my rose.
The little rose is my music.
My music, my life and soul, the
song of an angel's dream.

..........

"The Unfinished Dance"

Life and Death stand in a room,
Life with her glass slippers on,
Death with his reapers gone.
Life extends her hand,
and Death accepts it graciously.

The music it begins to play,
while Life and Death begin to sway.
Two things together that should not be,
a love of Death,
a life with thee.


"History Books"

Do something witchy.
Do something freaky.
Leave your mark.
Make them remember you.
If your going down,
go down grandly.
Make a big red splash,
leaving a stain on the memory,
of those left behind.
Do something crazy.
Do something worthy,
of my admiration.
Leave you name
on the tongues of the meek.
Write the words
on the pages of history.
You haven't lived,
if no one knows.
Do something dark.
Do something sublimely.
Do it beautifully.
But what ever you do,
burn them with your memory.
True immortality.