accessory

i met him unexpectedly

someplace we both wanted to be.

he claimed to be a friend

of a friend

but turned out to be much more in the end.

his face could erase

all the empty space

in my head

and replace it all with humility instead.

i didn't like what he did to me,

or maybe i did;

it was too early to tell

and i was sometimes independent,

but my heart knew me well.

i found myself stumbling over him,

dangling from him,

and soon it became clear

i was into his ways,

and so went the days

as i took it all in stride

and for once, vowed not to hide.

he didn't require words

to dutifully inquire;

just needed a beat

and a place for hire,

a full-blown choir.

he struck my every chord

and i'd beg someone's holy lord

to keep him in my weary life,

by His will or by his own accord.

a long time ago

i cared for one so

but he turned out to be

naught more than shadow.

he haunted my nights

and it took an end-all plea

before i could break free.

this one knew the time

and without reason or rhyme

was nothing with which to compare

the desperations of despair,

for he knew me and although

i couldn't really say

i was his favorite show,

it wasn't hopeless as long ago.

he brought me to my knees

with the greatest of ease

and still i was unsure

if maybe i was tangled in something

more than my heart could handle

or just kindling a new candle

of adventurous aspiration.

could be my damnation

or my salvation.

come what may,

he was perfection

and his aura in its reflection

told me not to fret,

that he wouldn't sell his soul

for anything alive

or objectified.

he made a vow

and i didn't understand

but i know it now --

he won't drag me down,

make me cry, steal my crown.

he'll be

an honest accessory

and i shall then be

valiant exclusively.

08.2005

livin' to live is a peculiar thing

she hung boho ideas from her ears like misplaced string,
leftovers of fires started by the pretty boy in gold
who could promptly match her twisted baby blues
in a way that revolving-door sea never could.

he said, 'livin' to live is a peculiar thing
but what happens to livin' when we grow old?'
she flicked through her hung ideas, paying her dues,
trying all at once to do the most good.

she was more atune to the potential sting
of the boy's fires burning out, a premature fold
that would leave her floating in the free-fall blues
which come when her heart don't beat like it should.

then she let the ideas go and was left with the ring
of wanted waste, of stories never getting told.
the pretty boy moved on, needing new news;
he couldn't place his disdain, didn't think he ever would.

his fires went with him, flame to soot, and then
she was sure she'd not hang dreams of such a world again.

08.2011

spinning up violets and roses

even if we can't get out, we can still

be left with all that's here for a thrill,

our favorites of the day and what's more,

all the things we never knew before --

barber poles spinning up violets and roses

mocking the beautiful people in their beautiful poses;

faded signs stuck behind streetlights for show

on roads once run by horses and bankers in-the-know.

on the way down perhaps we'd notice the way

the sun catches in trees in the middle of the day

or even the shine off three-piece suits and magazines

who never understood how to sever the seams

binding them to earth that crumbles 'neath their feet

when we're on our way into orbit, young, complete.

and even if we can't get out we can remember the time

we almost had nice things, infrequently sublime.

didn't we leave a mark in place of our shoes?

they'll come around; we've overpaid our dues.

01.2010

the birds, the humans

the birds showed off in warbles

of approval and distaste;

to mate or not to mate?

the humans grew weary of love games,

energies gone to hurried waste;

they halted and left it up to fate.

04.2010

breathe and stand

it's a broken world
so we're bound to fall.
panic is unfurled,
a hindrance to all,
becomes our downfall.
it takes us down hard,
there's no looking back.
i play the wrong card;
can't avoid attack,
can't ever go back.
walls will waste away.
do not lean on one.
secrets of today
drown under the sun
when shelter has gone.
take a look around
to find your own place.
sorrows can abound
without a friend's face,
without embrace.
children always smile
but it can't mean much
when you walk for miles
without human touch,
without aid or crutch.
slipp'ry hands hang tight
for dear death or life,
clinging with all might
to anger and strife,
to elements of life.
when hope has crumbled,
when fear is at hand,
when faith has stumbled,
when nothing's been planned,
take a breath and stand.
grab hold of my hand.
i'm strong but humble.
i will help you stand.

01.2005

crumble

fortresses crumble;

souls are pawned;

proud men will stumble;

still i press on.

12.2004

redesign (once yours)

baby's on the phone again

producin' a seducin' scheme.

if you could see how he treats me,

how his boldness beats me down,

it's some poor soul's unfortunate dream

(but none of mine).

you can't make substance out of air:

(it's obvious when there's nothing there).

you can't make substance out of air

and he can't take back his words.

baby's gone home.

he's grey when he's alone --

i throw away all i've heard.

it is a feeling so absurd

(to feel as if you're never heard).

and then i'd be so much less inspired

after the fight, the fake-out and the fall.

i suggest to his heart

as my own stops with a start --

what if i mean nothing at all?

to mean nothing in the world at all

to the one person in the world who means something --

(what, if i gave to the game,

would i expect your heart to deliver?).

baby's on the phone again

and i'm all out of sense.

this makes me want to know

if i should stay or i should go

repaint the white picket fence.

a dream's redesign,

once yours, now only

mine.

07.2011

i'd find him words

the iridescent moon called my bluff
from his celestial tower:
'you truly don't look so tough
now; time has turned you sour.'
he glowed and sat there smugly,
and i thought grimly that my muse
must never think me so ugly
as when his inspiration i refuse.

it was nothing personal, but my hand
with lunar ink would not tremble;
even if stricken, all unplanned,
the pretty words could not assemble.
i thought it only right to endure the chide
of faithful master, who'd never suffice
to abandon the heavens he loves to abide;
even for me, no worthy sacrifice.

shaking knees stood on steady ground
and i made a fair bargain for peace:
i would write him letters to sway the sound
that silence makes when affections cease.
if he'd remain my muse when needed
and continue his ritual starlit dance,
i'd find him words, undefeated,
either for verse or prose, with a chance

to dissolve the distance, to make him swoon:
my dedication came alive in letters to the moon.

04.2010