The Organs Campaign - News from the front (lower extremities)

Another organ has succumbed to the devious debilitating sedition plaguing this body. My left knee has joined the ranks of the rebels, which now include the brain, the heart, the kidneys, the eyes, the ears, the liver, the union of the digestive system, the spine, the teeth and certain rogue elements of the immune system. Long live the revolution! On the bright side, there are rumors of some still loyal finger nails on some of the toes. Also, this gives me the opportunity to look in closely at the leaflets of the secret "Bionic Man" project I've been getting in the mail. Either way, the journey to a total spiritual existence (with some nice finger nails) continues.

My Eros and Thanatos

A little love song for my angioma :-)

I feel your warmth enveloping,
How fortunate to witness the developing,
Inner crust there riddled
Burning slowly as Nero fiddled.

How I long to touch you,
To caress the filaments through,
Your small being encapsuled
Getting ready to assault.

Time, the great river,
Is but a trickle to thy reaver,
Biding carefully each drop
As I listen for each plop.

When will I see you, my love?
How frequent should I check above?
I long to finally wake this dream
And be with you, my aneurysm.

The boy in the back room

Here's something I've been working on these past few weeks. It's titled "The boy in the back room".


I - April 2013

"... anyway, would you prefer a multi focal"?
"That's not very funny, you know. It's my brain. What is a Dysrhythmia anyway? I mean... J. Lo's ass!".
"Pardon? Did you just say...?"
"Err... yeah. I made it up. Do you like it?"
"I'm not exactly sure what to make of it. What does it mean anyway?"
"It's an exclamation, just like 'Jesus Christ' or something".
"How un-demeaning... for both. What's the reference? Hollywood glitz meets what exactly?"
"C'mon, it's just Jenny from the bloke"
"You're kidding, right? Tell me this is your sick little way of dealing with your stupid tumor."
"It's not a tumor. And it is funny and you can easily use it as an f-word substitute in civilized places".
"Because the reference to Ms. Lopez's behinds is much more subtle, yes; I see your point."
"Anyway, I'm not the sick one with the WW2 memories."
"Thanks for bringing that up. I was just getting used to being the only normal guy around".
"Anytime".
"Besides, I told you, I don't know if it is World War 2, World War 1 or whatever".
"You'd think the black and white would be a dead give away".
"You're certainly on a roll today, aren't you? It's not in black and white".
"Whatever man. Anyway, this is my stop. I'll catch you tomorrow at school".
"Sure. See ya' then".
'J. Lo's ass indeed', Patrick thought to himself. His school buddy Terrance was
certainly a strange one at times. They'd taken few courses together but that seemed more than enough to create a mutual base of friendship. Terrance had his quirks (what's with all matching pens, notebooks and book covers? Is indigo a sign of success in studies?), but then so did Patrick. Carrying his MP3 player around, even when going to take out the trash, seemed a bit unusual in his neighborhood,
but he didn't care too much about that. His music collection was one of his chief sources of comforts these days, though, admittedly, Patrick bitterly thought, a very significant source of grief as well. The damned contraption refused to sync with his computer, and when it finally did, there was always a song missing or the wrong album artwork displayed. 'J. Lo's ass!'


II - September 29, 1975

"5 minutes to curtain, Mrs. D.!", the man behind the door said.
"Thank you, Angelo", the smoky voice rasped. Looking at the mirror was an acceptable agony now. After so many years on the stage, there was a certain defiance in the eyes, the ever so slightly wrinkled smile twitched a bit as the ever red lipstick did its bit and the powder covered the rest of the "imperfections". 'Well earned imperfections'. The thought flattered and disappeared quite quickly.

A long road to get to this moment, to this glitzy cabaret. Faded memories of that long deserted house with its surrounding bushes and pink and red flowers still lingered, even now. The years of service in the front lines, that lucky escape on that cold morning partly hidden in Sgt. Hathaway's arms, the very long self-imposed exile, they all had a purpose, a meaning. Not only did they lead here, to this night, but they would also pave the way for a more secure tomorrow, and based on the arrangements that were made and a few hopes, a more private and comfortable existance.
"You're on, Mrs. D.".
There was still tonight though. The smile returned to the somewhat weary and now semi-mystified eyes.
'Break a leg, Blue Angel'.


III - April 2013

He was having that dream again. His sub conscious, probably a bit too amused with itself, offered the experience with a glint of lucidity, which Patrick seized at. This time he would be more than just observer of his own dreams, he would try to direct the flow of thought to a direction his Id had been most reluctant to go - understanding.

The familiar bush fenced house materialized, as expected and Patrick caught a glimpse of a woman staring out one of its windows. He didn't recognize her, but he
was accustomed to that by now. The woman seemed fairly tall, blond and with an anxious look on her face. She was muttering something to herself but he couldn't make out the words.

Next was the bus station, but no - it was a railway station now. A creeping feeling of dread and a strong desire to flee began to overwhelm him, as he was struggling with his breath. Trying to relax, he thought about the
meditation technique Lilly Yang tried to teach him that sunny day outside the Social Studies library. Taking three deep breathes he closed and eyes and opened them again. He was still at the train station, a low hum in the background. "Hey you, you're gonna buy that newspaper or not?", cried the seller.
Patrick looked down: "War", shouted the headline of a skinny 1.5 Deutsche Marks paper. The hum was louder by now and he could almost make out the words. This was new, he noted. Why, though; what's different? What am I to do? "Can't help it", suggested the newsstand guy and faded away.

He was in Paris now, he was sure. Although he'd never been there, Patrick had a feeling of certain familiarity with the streets, the light, even the smell of freshly bakes croissants. With a start, he was awake. "Like moth to a flame".


IV - April 27, 1992

'Another damned curtain call. Damned that Roger and his "club"'.
"It's Mrs. D, you moronic little man! Don't you know who I am?!". There was no reply. The small snickering sound in the distance was certainly no reply to be considered. Adjusting the long shawl over the shoulders had a comforting feel to it. So had the extra lipstick - the best rouge this part of town. And it came with a price, as always. One of the mirror lights flickered for a minute. The delicate circuitry would need to be
adjusted, again.

"Mrs. D, can I come in? It's Jenny". The voice sounded slightly excited, even muffled as it was through the door. "Of course dear, come in, come in".
Upon first meeting Jenny, one would almost always think her out of place here. A slim, short woman with now graying auburn hair, she may have passed for pretty in her days. Those years she would hardly talk about to anyone but a select few. The memories pained her too much, she said, though it may have been the lack of any new notable ones in the years that followed that mattered. To her, the glory of the 40' and the 50', and, though she would vehemently refuse to admit it, the 30', has never truly passed from the world; at least not completely. Some, she seemed to believe, still lingered behind. That was one of the main reasons they connected so well. That, and the ever kindled, low flamed as it was, torch she was still carrying. They had a few conversations about it and Jenny did seem to understand and accept how things actually were though, most of the time anyway. And Jenny did look after her Mrs. D.

"You have to be careful, Mrs. D. Mr. Newsom there is... talking".
"That Roger always talks. He knows who I am, eventually. You know me Jenny".
"Of course I do, Mrs. D", Jenny said quietly. "I... You know you can count on me. Besides, I... I don't know... Mary and Joseph, Mrs. D. I don't know what to do".
Jenny was paler than usual, that was becoming evident now. Her lips were quivering slightly as she struggled for a deep breath of air.
"Mary and Joseph? What's wrong, Jenny? I haven't heard you invoke them since the airline strike of 73' and that was just because... Dear god, what happened? Tell me!".
"She... she is...". Jenny struggled for breath. "Jack Snipes from the Mission read the evening post and he knew how I'd felt, that is how I am and... you and..." Jenny could speak no longer.
"S-she is dead?"
Jenny managed a nod.
The view outside looked colder now. The easy lights and spiraling neons leading men to the "Diva’s Club" shone on just as darkly, luring the wanting patrons into the willing honey trap. But the taste has turned very bitter.

"Mr. err... Mrs. D.? I...". Jenny stammered. Funny, it wasn't like her to make such a mistake, not after so long. "She was the last, you know? There will never be the like of her again."
"No, I guess not".
"I'm sorry, Mrs. D. 'tis the passing of things".
"Yes, yes, of course. In a way, she lives through us though, right? What she stood for, you know".
"What she stood for? She didn't stand for the like of... I mean, You can't really know her... you couldn't really know her like I did. She's nothing like you".
"Well, no but -- what's gone over you Jenny? I've never heard you talk like that".
"It's just that you don't understand, that's all".
"Help me understand then, Jenny".
"You -- I've known you for years with your shows and make up and hair pieces and what not. But she, she was a real lady. A true woman. The 'Blue Angel' they used to call her. I... I've...". Jenny wept silently, unable to speak.
"You've loved her, didn't you Jenny?", understanding dawning suddenly. "You were in love with her".
The shock was quite apparent by now.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. D", Jenny managed, "I'm not like you. I've got Harry and the kids".
"No, I think I'm right. You are like me more than you'd like to admit. Who would have thought? I always knew you were a fan. I mean, that's how we met at first, on the line to the box office. But it's more for you, isn't it?"
"More?", said Jenny. "It's not more. It's special. It's just me and her. You could never get her like I do. You could never love her like me".
Jenny stiffened suddenly. "Yes, I loved her. I still do. You -- You can't know, you weren't there. It was a different time and She was different and even I was different".
Jenny wasn't crying anymore. Wiping the remains of her tears, she was nodding her head continually, muttering to her self. "Yes, I loved her. There. I loved Harry but she... To hell with Harry. I loved her. I love her".
"Here Jenny, won't you sit down. Let me help you".
"No, don't touch me. Don't touch me. You mock me. I see you", Jenny raved. "I see you. You think you can touch her like that, with that dress and make up and hair? You know nothing. Nothing!", shrilled Jenny.
"I only want to help you. It's a terrible shock for both of us. Let me help you Jenny".
"No! Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"
Coming to Jenny's side, Mrs. D. tried to calm Jenny down futilely. "I said don't touch me!", cried Jenny, pushing away, moving askew the carefully placed hairpiece.

"What the hell are you doing, Jenny?"
"What I should have done a long time ago, when I first saw you defile her image".
"Defile?! Jenny, I really don't know what's gone over you but you really need to sit down and have a glass of water or something".
"No, I'm fine", Jenny breathed. "The world is empty tonight, so what is one less diva in the sky?".
With that, Jenny pushed and heaved, struggled and clawed. A few seconds later, she was of the room as well.

The story in the next day's Bay Guardian amounted to a small rectangle in the back pages, titled "The Fall of the Diva". Roger Newsom took some small comfort in the mention of his time honored establishment. 'Bad press is good press', he thought.


V - Late April 2013

"You're still thinking about going ahead with it, aren't you?", asked Terrance.
"No. Well, yes. I have to now, don't I?", said Patrick.
"I don't see why really. Switching majors this late is never a good idea. And this Psych crap! I mean man, I know you dig the chicks there and all, but come on! You need a graduate degree to actually work in it, you know".
"I know all that already, Terr".
Patrick wasn't sure how much to tell his friend. Close as he was to him, even learning some of the details of his more hazy dreams, or as Terr called them (mistakenly, but why correct him?) "Your film noir experience", there were some things he was holding back. Things like his growing acrophobia he was barely able to mask anymore. That was one of the chief reasons he did not apply for Psych courses already. The ultra modern design of the faculty included a spectacular
view of its surroundings, but for him it was like going through vertigo just thinking of those stairs.

"Anyway, what do you think of my theory? Doesn't explain everything?"
"Ah, yes. I can understand why you'd prefer to send it as an e-mail. Very scientific of you, J. Lo's ass. You didn't even check the facts".
"What do you mean?", asked Patrick, nervously going in his mind over the long and repeatedly re-drafted mail he'd sent.
"Well, for one thing, you got the date wrong".
"What?"
"She died on May 6th, 1992 and you were born on April 28th 1992. I know I'm better than you in Math, but even you can see something just doesn't add up right here".
"Umm, no, I didn't know that. Damn.", said Patrick, genuinely shocked. He'd gone through it all, it all fitted so well but the date was something he did not even look very deep into. He'd known it was late April-early May. He just knew.

"Oh, apparently, and get this - I've found it on some obscure hard core fan site - there were rumors about her death a few days before it actually took place, but those were almost immediately denied by the family", said Terrance, rather triumphantly.
"But I've felt it. I felt that the date was approaching. How else can you explain the sudden increase in dreams I've experience, not to mention their content?", Patrick exasperated.
"Stress. Simply stress and fatigue", said Terrance. "You obviously have some Mrs. Robinson issues," smirked Terrance to a blushing Patrick. "Admit it, you always had a thing for older and powerful women".
"O.K, O.K. Suppose the date thing is wrong and the rumors were correct?", asked Patrick. "I mean, it's all so vivid".
"Two things. You're a student for electrical engineering without any apparent artistic streak in you".
"I'm not sure I entirely agree there, but O.K. What's the second thing"?
"You can't carry a tune if your life were dependent on it".


VI - December 2015

It was snowing early this year, global warming notwithstanding. The street lamps seem to sweat as the melting whiteness drizzled around them, adding to the occasional human breath vapor. The relatively dark corner, packed with overflowing dumpsters and dotted with broken bottles, was quiet, at least.
The nearby club, radiating now more in neon than fame, lent few of its voracious chords at this time.

Yes, some peace at last. An opportunity to light a hasty smoke and think. Those images were swarming his mind again, making very little sense: a house he could dimly make out among thickets of geraniums, a semi deserted bus stop with the sign "BERLIN -45" partly smudged by traces of smog and what he could only term as 'the peek'. It was a memory, he was quite sure enough of that, of a door quietly
opening to reveal someone waxing the hair of their legs.
His own.

Facing mortality

They say that when a man is faced with mortality, whether his own or someone close to him, he may react or respond to it in fairly predictable stages. I'm not sure about the order of things, even here, but I know there is denial, guilt, fear, depression and finally acceptance. So they say.

Am I still in denial? Is this my "regular" depression or a more serious than usual bout of pain? How does my anxiety relate to it all? How much of it does it really matter?

I've recently, perhaps too recently to be writing this post, received rather alarming routine check-up results which continue to point to the deteriorating chronic failure of my kidneys. In addition, they've found an abnormal cluster of blood vessels in my brain. So who's going to 'off' me first? I know the brain thing sounds promising (it's a regular time bomb in there) but so does the 'creeping death' style kidney. My bet is on a third, as of yet undiscovered failing organ (or maybe just a car accident? that could be disappointing after all this medical stuff...).

So yeah, I have to deal with my own mortality. The thing is, between Eros (which stands for the will for life in classic psychology) and Tanatos (same thing only for death), I've always found a certain appeal for the latter. I do not want to die, but how bad do I want to live? What do I have to live for? The answer for these questions is not so obvious to me.

I have one thing to draw comfort and hope from - I know that other people in far worse conditions than myself have found the strength to face their hardships and with a will for life greater than I have thus far felt. Perhaps I should take this as an opportunity to change and challenge what is left of my life, to truly live before I truly die.

Here is a link of a man I admire very much, and not just because of the reasons he'd made the recording, but because of how he lives. Here is Professor Randy Pausch in the famous "Last Lecture".

The Greener Grass

Let the normals have their fun
Laughing clearly on the midnight run,
Criss-crossing fast parades
Masked in custom masquerades;
The greener grass a lonely witness
As they slowly bake to crispness,
The dullest music pours aloud
The little hearts it then enshrouds,
Pausing smiles and driving sorrows
Slipping by their stainless hollows;
Emptiness is held within
Right beside the biggest green,
Bringing chill I feel so well
Venting through this cushioned hell;
My story ends and theirs begins
As the gallows test its springs
And there, at last, strive to remember
We will never see September.

The Pack

I wrote this for my parents' wedding anniversary. There's a wider context for the theme and imagery used...

The trees whistle softly
Attending to my lowly ditty;
Pray, rest beside me for a moment
And this story I will relate.

Here they met so long ago
Two cubs we'll come to know;
On yonder meadow they did wed
And by the elders tied the thread.

They paced the hills and flew the mountains,
Exploring dales and vales uncounted.
They knew the moon and stars and sun
And on and on they ran and ran.

Through the annals the pack they grew
That grizzled wolf and bride, those two;
Cubs they bore under the trees
Yawning playfully in the breeze.

The pack is now a veritable clan,
A great host has joined the run;
Its howling fills the darkest night
In union seeks to cast its light.

And there you'll find them still,
Finding warmth to banish chill,
Together with their mighty pack
To the summer lands and back.

Aftermath III

Our eyes barely meet
As we pace to the door.
You're walking me,
Or perhaps I escort you,
The longest hall a third stranger,
Familiarizing itself with the echo of our footsteps.
We don't linger by the sofa
Nor the kitchen table,
Blushing silently under that newly laid shroud.

As I reach for the knob
I can feel you smile, just so,
And finally ask,
Quietly wavering in afterthought,
"And who are you?".

Stop the Killing in Congo

In the past few years a genocide is being perpetrated in Congo. Fueled by blood diamonds, petty politics, ignorance, corruption and racism, it has claimed the lives of over 4 million people. Our people.
These are the same people in Darfur, Kosovo and Bosnia; the same people who underwent the horrors of the tsunami in Malaysia and hurricane Katharina. The same people.
Thousands of women are ethnically raped and thousands of children are recruited with the sole purpose of killing and dying. This must stop.
How? By simply not sitting on our hands. Call your congress man, call your senator, call your local MP. Ask around for effective, corruption-free NGOs that can help. Now that you know you have that responsibility.
Africa is the birthplace of the human race - don't let it become its grave.

Aftermath II

Darkness overtakes us now;
No longer able to flee its heavy burden,
We are numbed while you nibble carelessly at my ear.
Exhaustion of the spirit resumes,
Revealing itself a little fuller and fouler once more,
Reflected in your face and mine though we may yet try to hide it away.
I grow weary of you and me all of a sudden,
Our toils now seem vain and inadequate for our purpose
And the online dating service smiles sadly, expectantly, inwardly.

Aftermath I

Readdressing your wounds
I find myself wandering
Across the vast mistake that led us here,
To your bed.
Its size now diagonal to the depths,
It beats over our glistening vessels,
Frolicking in the mystical vapors coming out of our pores.
Reaching for breath, you untangle yourself,
Free once more to roam the bedroom,
Poised like that hunter of old.
And I, a simple gatherer by your measure,
Tend to the burning fire of the hearth and my ankle,
So sprained in our exploits as to defy the notion.

Second (The second episode)

There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. He
couldn't count them all even if he tried. Well, at least not out loud. There were moons and
forests and brooks, songs and parodies, lost and familiar, snowy peaks and silent deserts;
kings along space shuttles and strange looking insects ("are those things doing what I
think they're doing?” he mused. "Eww"). Crisscrossing the "platform" were rivulets of
dynasty mixed with ketchup, which was the best way he could describe it, or try to
comprehend it for that matter. His old master told him of these moments and warned him
of the danger the hid behind their sheer sense of "overwhelmness", as he termed it. He
claimed that the 'unknown is generally feared among mortal men and that this is but
natural. But the real dangers lurk in the places and moments where the unknown meets
the familiar, mates with it and gives birth to reality. For that reality is never quite what
you'd expect. Some of it may look familiar and comforting', he pointed, 'but look at the
gaze in its eyes and you'll find terror there, if you seek it'. Knowing about these moments
beforehand hadn't really prepared him for this, he had to conclude. So, finally, only slightly
holding his breath, he took a small step in the direction he thought was forward.
The lights, even those on the platform sides, seem to flicker for a moment and then
returned to normal. In fact, he realized, the lights were pretty much the only thing that
was normal around umm... here. That somewhat curious and rather obese ogre at the
entrance for example was unusual, but he decided, trying to control his breath, not to
think about that one too much.
What did bother him at that instant, however, was how the floor seem to turn slimy
somehow, though he didn't see any apparent reason for it. It looked the same
mesmerizing red-blue-and that other color he couldn't quite name tiles that accompanied
him since he entered the chamber. Of course, he wasn't particularly good with colors
anyway, but somehow he felt that wasn't the main issue at the point. The lights were
somehow... friendly? Certainly compared to that welcoming committee that awaited him
at the entrance. Teaching the acolytes how to smile did not seem to be a high priority,
he mused, though they did seem quite courteous and polite. At least those who didn't
pout quite so blatantly at him. Adrian didn't have to use their services, of course, but they
were the most readily available under the circumstances and that stood for something.
There was also the small debt they owed, of course, but he was also courteous enough
not to mention it. At least not out front anyway; he did allude to it in the most general of
terms. They didn't seem to comprehend all his hints and allusions, only the least bit
inconveniant ones. Even then, though, he'd --
"Lord Adrian?” a voice said.
"Yes?"
"If you're quite ready, sir. We are assembled".
"Thank you".
They stood next to a long rectangle table, the embodiment of a committee on earth,
though they would, and had, denied such accusation rather fiercely. "Please, be sitted",
said the Chair. There were only two of his brothers there, he saw, as he was sitting
himself, mumbling the Blessing. The others were a woman, her hair tied neatly behind her,
making her association a bit more difficult to discern, and an elderly man in acolyte robes.
"Lord Adrian", said one of the Brothers, "May I introduce Lady Clara Shift, head of the local
order, Adam Arkand, head of ceremonies, acolyte Joseph Kley and myself, Peter Yone of
the memorial fund".
"I am honored", said Adrian. "May the Muses bless us".
"Indeed", responded Lady Clara. "I trust the accommodations were... satisfactory?"
"Quite so, thank you... again. You were most kind". Adrian thought he heard a stifled yawn
out of the acolyte, but he let it pass. "You know why I came here", he said quietly after a
few too many seconds of loud silence.
"We do", said Lady Clara, obviously not too happily.
"And?” Adrian inquired.
"This would not be easy. Do you realize the importance of such a relic, especially here and
now, just a few days before the anniversary?"
"I do".
"And still you ask it of us as if it was a trinket", said Adam, rather angrily.
"I'm afraid I must insist nevertheless. The Plectrum will be returned unharmed, I assure
you." Their looks suggested quite a bit of mistrust. "And the Yellow Cloud itself, of course".
That didn't seem to improve their attitude. "I will leave you to your deliberations then".
No response.
"Err... Could you direct me to the exit please?"

Contention

I often ride this not-so-tall a horse,
Back aching, leaning crumpled,
Dashing to the rescue of the forsaking muse.
Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal.
My armor is light with feathers,
Tempting with the bull's eye
Of its elegant V shaped neck.
My sword rusts there in indignation,
Forgiving as natural to it as believing,
But I smite it just the same; just.
I often amble in these burning pastures,
Speeding at impasses and slowing at the gates of hypocrisy;
It would do no good to challenge that one in this weather, surely?
The mills drive by, now fully content by their wheels,
Spinning giants atop, lowly dwarves whispering behind their noble brows,
Chit-chatting in the easy breeze of mid afternoon strife delight.
Circling the florid mound, the mare recruits the stony aperture to her aid,
Casting swift slippery shadows across the ravine's edges and into the crowded center,
Frightening sleepy scorpions long not in use and dreamy emo children,
Whinnying as I caress the reddish mane, gawking at dark slit within.

You Called

My hands ached with sweet agony,
White, skeletal, splintered with bony fingers,
They yearned to hold it out from in;
My eyes, which once devoured your image in my stead,
Now sought to drown in it a-whole,
Occupying the mind's third fully,
Only to discover they were already scorched with it;
My temples, hammered by your treasured voice,
No longer seem to note the piercing feeling they there underwent -
For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst.
Aye, and then you called;
And senses shifted and blurred across my bosom,
My heart there raced and cantered like a rabid dog,
Turned loose upon the world in some muddy mire,
Dark as night and hot with flames that burn and burn the flesh away!
Aye, you called and ended life;
You smiled (for I sensed it in your voice) and folly flied;
You spoke! (And I could still hear it) and clove the heart right out of me.

"Hello?"

Dark Fire

Your golden hair now flecked with white
Shining eerie in the pale moonlight;
Come sit beside me, my dark fire
Let us sing and tell tales to befit this mire.
Your cauldron is so hot tonight
Steam rising to fill us fright,
Scents of honey spiced with wine
Peppered to perfection ere we dine,
Hollow shadows dance around
Driving light out of our grounds
For tonight, my dark, we feast
Upon the offerings of men and beasts!
Your icy touch so burneth me
That I relentlessly agree
To walk with you in your own path
So shaded, so doomed, so full of wrath.
O, dim sun, shall I compare thee to a rose?
Nay; a flowering fragrant black Lilly is thy pose!
Cowled with your beauty you walk
Gliding along the fireplace without balk
Mirrored in the gilded stand lamp
Your reflection flares in my eyes vamped
And so I can finally make flesh my plan
To spend my undying nights behind the sun
Here, with you, in mists we'll drift
Our swirling stygian cores to lift.

Crossing the Byway

Skewed, I list across the sideways
Lilting through the courtyard,
Hanging by a thread
Of a rose's bloody thorn.

She is gone.

I float again in the grieving wonder
An empty flame in thy midst,
Hovering and winking in the husk
Of what's left.

She is gone.

My troubled eyes see the image
As an omen for the crucified;
I lean against my Mary Magdalene
But she is gone.

I whisper to my self.

Failing to grasp,
I construe the light without the dark and thus I'm blinded;
I hear nothing but my old broken self
And she is gone.

I cross the courtyard once again,
Attempting to complete the journey for the last time.
Her enmity fills me
And I am gone.

Staring Blankly Across the Ages

I
Waiting on the arrow's uncouth edge,
The tinker lays her hopes unto the dead man's weight,
Stalling, in the corner,
While across the yard the smith wipes his brow,
His apron brawned by white hot flickers of fire.

Thus was our village, long ago.

II
The harlot wails for the stranger,
But I can find no peace there;
The church bells toll for evening succor
But my bed is empty like my mind.

III
Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.

IV
Brother, come with us!
We march tonight against the dark foe,
Liberty and Reich, emperor and redemption;
We face our own mirrors, O vanity!

V
Daughter, don't go outside today;
The acid flows freely out there, as it does here,
Nimbling across the attercop's creation,
Devouring foundations and fermenting the grander stage,
Set willfully, desperately, on the isle's fancy.

Writer's Block IV

Constructed, constricted,
The hand lies down unannounced at the side of the curb.
Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
It all connects upon this finely honed dot,
So light that a mountain would waver before it,
So small that the ocean forbade it,
So inexcusable that I cannot sleep;
Not anymore.

Obstructed, obliterated,
My mind takes in the surroundings in a long flaying motion,
Now undertaking a dodgy worthy task,
Now burying its outcomes deep in the upheavals of the past.
The foggy moors call out loud,
But if a man hangs to dry at the city,
Who will hear the call?

Petrified, pitied,
I sulk again at the now closer images that threaten to run down
Pillars of ribbons and scaffolds of grey,
Towering within my empty self,
Single, unique, lost.

Sun Beam

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
The bee asked the dark spider.
"I do not know, small prey", he answered
"But it is most unnatural to me".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Squeaked to herself the honey bird.
"I do not know, rose petal", she chirped
"But it is clear as clouds of rain".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the lover of her mate."
I do not know, beloved", he replied
"But it is all over in your hair".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the goddess of the stars.
"We do not know, our queen", they whispered
"But the deep wine flows freely in our midst".

"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked himself the ailing poet.
"I do not know, bloody lips",he moaned
"But at last I see it in full bloom".