Of all the things that earth yet whelps
a spirit stands by wonder of the mass
humanity cycles through the grass;
it springs by blazing lights
onto pavement struck by nights
running roughshod over skin and sin
a dancing has-been formed of thought’s chagrin.
Beneath the wan light, a man does dream of neon exits
too dull to see the dancer’s fed him by the bit,
because oblivion is just another state of mind
a symptom of the daily grind.
Across the bar, blue eyes murmur: the bitter helps.
“A man does not die of love or his liver or even of old age; he dies of being a man.”
“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
A portrait of the American writer Mark Twain taken by A. F. Bradley in New York, 1907. http://www.smithsonianeducation.org/publications/siycfall_05.pdf http://www.twainquotes.com/Bradley/bradley.html See also other photographs of Mark Twain by A. F. Bradley taken in March 1907 in New York on Mark Twain Project Online. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Lately I am stricken
as the plots to dear and mortal earth do thicken—
kneel, kneel lest it all too readily quicken—
for like the desert winds of old Sahara,
it burns to know the subtle motions Terra
should pass me by to other eras.
Rage, rage the old man writes
yet dead is light at the sour sight
of youth so bitter cast, paralyzed by fright;
where is devotion to seek out age
where privilege become but flesh and cage,
and still the younger cry: engage, engage.
born of flesh
borne by earth
choked divinity caught at the thresh
lay numb beside the kindled hearth—
fall down, fall down,
let vaulted rain yet drown—
the wriggling flames
of dancing dreams
cannot survive the niggling games
blacktop shadows wove within the seams—
lie down, lie down,
buried by the wetted crown.
The old man glimpses ore
in earthen womb, the stricken glint
illuminates thought of youth’s gold score
which held him up as on a splint
until time bore that nothing more
than dreams existed in the dint
of nothing, wielded like a whore.
A labor of the heart
Is fickle for breaks time may yet impart;
Yet hearts all given up to labor
May find that flesh bears yet no flavor
Such that withered bones
Gilded on those rusted thrones
Reach evermore for other’s flames
To find the hearth within lies tamed.
No soul, within mortality leashed
Can ill afford to rush time’s feast.
Ours may yet be to wonder why,
But think too long and there you’ll lie.
Life’s purpose is the lurking feeling
That man must find his own life’s meaning.
There comes a time that even stumps get tired
of the rot even time could not wrought
and the silence, dawning to the dusking gasp
just one touch, one hard-backed proof
too far, and yet, the only life
repetition drowns—necessity tragedy cannot realize.
It’s harlequin—
there’s no need to call yourself a man
you’ll never live up to the plan
someone rang the bell but never gave the word
now you’re slurring through sights those punches blurred
you tell yourself it’s just a few cheap shots
but kid, they’ll always have you on the knots
there ain’t no pulling up to them
just got to keep yourself above the hem
cause there’s no light
at the end of this fight
—only ruin.
Pollen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The world is filled with pollen–
a bloom of youth cast to wilderness
upon the breeze and berthed
within the roots of older things,
immovable objects time
withered for the show.
No highway through-way,
accumulations whiten the base
without ever touching soil, or soul–
light, oh god, where is the light–
the heady call of drifting lifeless hands,
a lightness in the weighted facets
breathless winds would howl.
Man, they say, the master of his own headwinds,
but each man floating high against the other
leaves no room to breathe.
We’ve choked it out.
Too young for nothing left to give
And Yet…
