A terrain of hills, valleys, and canyons
Greets him upon his return.
A ground of ivory-color dirt sits
In the shadow of a larger mountain,
Desiring to be dormant
For the next seven or eight hours -
Or the amount he can count
On his hands of crevices and calluses,
Without the shade of innocence
And glossed with sweat.
Such innocuousness! To become
A floorboard until the
Darkness that once ensconced him
Scuttles away from view.
With his back away, he eyes his
Reflection - rivers of cyanide and
Mercury upon the white terrain.
How peculiar - or are
Bizarre and enigmatic better words? -
That their eyes align better
In this darkness, as if in coveted unison.
The bass hid itself in the
Atonal texture of consecutive jazz chords,
Searching for an octave, but
Settling for a ninth - is that minor or
Major? Should it be as monotonous as the song of an
Apprehensive sparrow? Should it resemble
Like a rafter supporting a chandelier,
He counts the crystals from
Beyond the curtains. The light passes through,
But only the onyx images pervade
Upon each cut surface. Images of
Their inevitability, of his inadequacies and anxieties.
In a damp rope, he tied successive knots,
With each coming undone in the
Center of his palm.
A vortex of black and white could have
Faced him, but, rather, a path
Lay like a rug. The rest of the
Room - lamp, chairs, table, television - decided
To dissipate. Why not avoid a
Single step? From a bridge, he
Could gaze below the blanched frame into the water
And see the orange and white fish
Avoiding the bottom.
The tundra of the mountains stretches
About, ensconcing him, until only
The sky - this broken robin's egg - is ubiquitous.
Desolation - can such a word be uttered around
A map without roads? He stands
Before the edge of one canyon,
Awaiting the fir trees to extend their
Branches to entangle his limbs.
A sparrow utters its sole note, making
More noise than any alarm.
The Four Conflagrations of Anachronisms and Regressions
Can it be considered sinful, if
No one utters it from dry mouths?
The y-word he dares not say?
Of strong, metallic fingers, clutching
The thorn-covered branch, with the dried –
No, dead and without euphemisms, I say – Purple
The cuts prove to be inhuman,
Robotic and calculating his
Next move. In chess?
In cards? To draw one
From the deck and place it
On top, opens
Another epoch – of wars, of
Blood, of lead.
Clouds overhead saw the birds
But with synthesized tones in
Two jars face her –
Peanut butter and jam, of
Strawberries, blackberries, and mint.
Call it the worst juxtaposition
In the history of the world.
The stacks of bagged, bleached bread
Whisper secrets of the wheel,
Of Napoleon, and of narcissism.
He looked into her mirror,
Only seeing his reflection.
The onyx was gone.
Sunk to the bottom of the
Lake, as she fed
All of those secrets to
Her apparent cousins, who
Drew drawings of dahlias on
A chalkboard with too
Much chalk on it.
What is an epic? He posed
That question to himself, while
Perusing through volumes of
Questions already abruptly answered.
“Why haven’t you watered
The plants? Bought the groceries?
Paid the bills for stuff you don’t need?”
Your mother never bothered to teach you
Once he could learn to read,
The only questions he had to answer
Were his own.
The small typeface creates its own
Microcosm, of skyscrapers and pariahs,
Who wear ties and draw their words
On pages and pages
Or, are they just blank?
Blanketed with snow,
Filled with the insincerity of the lead
That once pervaded the air,
He knows the pencil is too miniscule.
Ignite it, set it on onyx.
The reflection now responded,
Watching the sordid but lucid remains
About its image.
B) What is there to say without being trite? I could say, that I want to but my emotions out on paper, but doesn't everyone else? Then again, I enjoy playing around with words, and poetry, rather than prose or a play, allows for more options.
In terms of influences, John Ashbury, Sherman Alexie, and Sylvia Plath are mine, for the moment.