The Artist’s Pennant
I
do seek.
What eddies
whirl until they pale
beneath, pushing purpose
to flowing beyond me continuously
losing myself to that maelstrom whose
swirling, turning, circling breathes
endless as it pulls me deeper
a storm now evermore
brewing within
this mortal
core.
I
do fight.
A recurring battle
reincarnated at each dawn
carnal as the blood which spawns
words without meaning to life again
to death as the cycle begins another turn
hands ticking seconds to the infinite
surrender, I might, one day if my
breath should indeed cease
but my feet march to
an endless beat to
the final hours
I do not
await.
I
am one.
Amongst the fallen
on the precipice, I am
that banner which stands listless
tattered, marking corpses overrun by
armies whose hands murdered all my
ardent desires and fulcrums I
lost, to be found yet again
as the dust settles in
to that silent
ever dying
din.
I
have lost.
Yet still I kneel
to that ruling hunger
synonymous to my nature both
destructive and creative at its apex
which commands my hands yet again
returning, I must then relinquish
fear once more as the sun
spawns dawn, so now
yet another battle
calls me again,
and again
I shall
begin.
Unto the darkness
You're god: rewrite the creation story
I am cold.
Not the biting winter chill that swirling storms will carry across your frozen tundras.
This is a frigid loneliness, one that births from the infinite darkness.
I am heat.
Not the heat that burns off the sun and scorches the sands, a scar upon the land you will so desperately toil.
I am a smoldering energy, one that rises from the teeming mass of accelerated collisions, life upon life and death upon death.
I am yearning.
Not the yearning that an empty soul will feel when a suffocating grief overwhelms your broken heart.
I am a ravenous appetite, a cavernous craving that bellows across the desolation.
They have trapped me here; they think me bound and bent and broken. But I am brimming, a simmering boundless coil.
I release, and unto the darkness I will shout with glorious purpose:
Let there be light.
I've been told that I am God
That these clouds beneath my feet
Poured planets when I yawned
That now these worlds are empty
And I am to fill up the broad
Expanse of a universe
But I still feel flawed
The heavens are around me
And I'm still feeling awed
But there's more work to be done
Before the night is drawn
So I'll start by moving
These stars and lightening rods
To create a place where maybe
Beauty and love will spawn
I've created many creatures
To share in this dawn
From giant winged birds
To a dainty little fawn
But I can't help but feeling
I'm doing something wrong
So I pushed against the mountains
Until I settled on
Gently rolling hills and
A lake to house the swans
And grace shined around them
As trees sprang from their lawn
Their lives took shape beneath me
And I continued to look on
Until it became apparent that
I had forgotten their songs
So I sent them down their voices
To cluck and carry on
But they still needed more
To be able to live long
So I set to work in making
A man for Babylon
He was to be leader
So he had to be strong
I gave him my creation
From desert to amazon
To care for and treat tender
But he became withdrawn
Slowly crumbling inside
He couldn't carry on
So I asked him what he needed
Before he was just gone
He asked me for a partner
To help hold this baton
He was so lonely
Again I was so wrong
He offered me himself
And told me it was bygone
So I made him opposite
With hair golden blonde
A gentle touch and manner
A place where he belonged
Together they were nurtured
And they grew upon
A light that shown brighter
Than the sun had all along
Glitter: a Murder of Juvenlia
[ 1 ]
Gray splices of wood
bind themselves on the chalk-white
shed door. The peachy bricks are
still warm from last night.
What a dim bulb, I think. It lingers
over the large green cans.
A dozen pedestrians
meander by, racing
to clock in for Monday morning.
The white shed doors intently
watch the people passing by.
Curiously, they are slightly split.
Heaps of black plastic
droop over one another,
anxious to be weighted and lifted.
A green vehicle pulls in
the space next to the cubicle.
A tall man steps out
and rummages through a cardboard box.
A glass snow-globe emerges from the clutter.
Tiny pages of glitter rain down
on a cramped-up underwater city.
The freeway carries on over head.
They don’t stop.
They don’t look.
If they knew, they would snap their
spines just to catch a glimpse.
I pour more tea into my mouth
as I stare into the open slit of the twin doors.
[ 2 ]
On the other hand,
the great investigator
analyzes shimmering drizzled dust,
hoping for unfamiliar
grooves and furrows.
The exhausted horse-haired brush
sweeps from left to right.
Wasted minutes slip
by suddenly.
They bring in the canine.
Several pieces of worn out sweaters are
set out as homework.
Stacks of small wooden
Brazilian dolls rest
on top to a frayed newspaper.
Splotches of calligraphy ink cover up
February’s headline.
The bedroom walls are still smooth and spotless.
Nothing has been
touched or even grazed.
Not even the linen is stained.
The great investigator gnaws on
the very end of his pen.
This illusive event procures
a multi-media fanfare.
Arrangements are considered.
Uniforms zoom by
promptly on cue. A shoebox
of Polaroid photographs
is carefully cradled.
They will be revised,
hole-punched,
and spread all over the graphers.
The front door clicks closed.
The house goes silent.
He sits on the edge of a quilted bed,
tugging at the corner
of a teddy bear’s brown ear.
He stares off into a
personal pocket of daydreams,
yet sees nothing
but her sun-freckled cheeks.
[ 3 ]
It is 11:23 now.
The sun is barely passing over the peak
of the buildings. I vigilantly
wipe down my office
windows with a foamy blue
solvent, lifting up smudges
that had over-stayed their welcome.
The parking lot is full.
Colorful steel glimmers from the
freeway rims.
The old white doors
seem to sigh as the wind knocks into them.
Then, I notice two men striding
over to the bin behind these doors.
The copper catch falls abruptly
and dangles down.
One of the men ashes
his cigarette on a red brick.
I stop wiping my window.
The thunder of bin-wheels echoes.
The men laugh about
something irrelevant.
I hold my breath.
They roll the crate further down the lot
until I can no longer see it.
The waste of the week
is imposed on someone else.
The white doors are open,
swaying back and forth.
The rusted hinges creak;
I can hear them clearly through
my pristine office windows.
The slamming of fingertips
on keyboards comforts me.
I fold the dirty yellow cloth and place it
on my desk. The blue
solvent splashes on my shoes.
My computer screen
blinks impatiently, upset
that I have gone on ignoring it so.
3 new e-mails furiously flash.
I close my blinds satisfied and go back to work.
[ 4 ]
Weeks have come and gone
like seasons. The holidays
were over looked this year.
In a busy office with navy blue suits
and intercom speakers.
Lost labeled folders get
trampled over by more recent
emergencies.
Somewhere else,
in a sterile house,
skinny cobwebs appear
underneath the bookshelves.
the television pushes fuzzy
pictures and noises
in front of his eyes,
yet he sees nothing
but her sun-freckled cheeks.
down the hall, beyond
the dark kitchen linoleum floors,
her door is closed shut.
It guards the Brazilian dolls, the quilted bed,
the calligraphy ink set,
and her snow-globe birthday gift.
Tiny pages of glitter
sleep soundly inside
the cramped-up underwater city.
I’ll be Damned.
I'm sorry to tell you this, honey, but please listen close.
It has something to do with where we’ll rest our souls.
A while ago, I sold mine to the Devil.
Not for money or power or love, though he haggled.
I gave it to Lucifer, I gave it for keeps.
I let him have it for a moment of peace.
And that ol’ naughty Satan, do you know what he did?
He snatched my soul; in it's place, a demon now lives.
So, sorry dove, but I won't be with you when you see those pearly gates.
I’ll be ruling in hell, sipping tea with some snakes.
No One Told Me
I never knew I could feel so shattered,
simply by leaving your room,
by hanging up a call too soon,
having my throat burning and clogged with a vigorous pain,
something that boils inside me
every time we have to walk away,
and I never knew I could miss someone while being just a foot astray,
a step too far has me clenching my hands together,
biting my lip,
trying to understand why I feel so strained;
why did no one tell me I could miss you like this?
Stranger Things ...
The stranger knocked upon the door,
A creaking, wooden throb,
And someone on the other side
Unlatched and turned the knob.
Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"
And, "May I use your phone?"
The person on the other side
Appeared to be alone.
An observation taken in,
No pictures on the wall.
He pointed somewhere down the way-
"Go on and make a call."
The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled
As wires were cut instead.
The gentleman began to sense
A subtle hint of dread.
A conversation thus ensued-
"So what has brought you out?
The rain has flooded everything,
And wiped away the drought.
Say, did you walk, or did you drive?
Why don't I take your coat?"
The stranger slowly moved his arms,
A sentimental gloat.
The water from the pouring skies
Enveloped cloth and shoe.
"Say, would you like a place to sleep?
I'll leave it up to you."
The person on the other side
Discarded his mistrust.
The stranger said his tire was flat,
And shed the muddy crust.
"The phone won't work," he also said.
"It could just be the storm.
Perhaps I will stay here tonight,
To keep me safe and warm."
The patron of the house agreed.
He hadn't seen the wire.
The chilly dampness prompted him
To quickly build a fire.
"You have a name? They call me Ed.
My wife was Verna Dean.
She passed away five years ago
And left me here as seen.
I guess it's really not so bad.
We never had a child.
I loved that Verna awful much,"
He said and sadly smiled.
"No property to divvy up.
The bank will get it all.
Say, do you want to try again
To go and make that call?"
The stranger grinned and left the flame
As to the phone he strode.
Within his pocket, knives and twine
In hiding seemed to goad.
A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;
Eviscerate him whole.
The twine would keep him firmly held;
The knife would steal his soul.
A lusty surge erupted hence;
A wicked bit of sin.
The stranger hadn't noticed yet
That someone else came in.
About the time a shadow fell,
He spun to meet a pan.
The room around him faded out
As eyes looked on a man.
A day or two it seemed had passed,
And when he woke all tied,
The stranger gazed upon old Ed
Who simply said, "You lied."
Reversing thoughts, the moment fled
And Ed said in a lean,
"No worries, stranger. None at all.
Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"
He looked upon a wraith in rage;
It seemed his little lie
Combusted in a burning fit-
He didn't want to die.
So many victims in his life,
Some fifty bodies strewn.
And now he was the victim; now
The pain to him was known.
The stranger fought against the twine,
And noticed by his bed
The knife once in his pocket left
A trail of something red.
A bowl filled full of organs sat
As Verna poured some salt.
She exited with all of them.
"You know, this is your fault.
We demons wait for just the day
The guilty take the bait
And play with matches one last time-
I simply cannot wait
To taste the death within your flesh;
The venom in your gut.
So now you know the way they felt-
Hey, you've got quite a cut!"
The person on the other side
Removed his human skin-
Before his wife came back for more,
He offered with a grin:
"Say, stranger, is there anything
You'd like to say at all?"
I looked at all the blood and said,
"I'd like to make that call ... "