Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Bridge

I've watched her from the river banks
I knew her when she danced with dreams
White doves were there to dress her hair
And so was Madelaine

At night the people's faces danced
Like pearls colliding on the breast
Of fat Mary whose thunder laugh
Was just a thread from crying

Her sailors stained her cobblestones
With wine and piss and death desire
And sometimes blood for Madelaine
Whose laughter was the night

Her girls would lift their dresses high
and breathe the stars and kiss the sky
She'd smother them with whispers then
Embrace them with her sighs

Before the bottle dulled my eyes
And made me so I couldn't stand
I'd overact and play the clown
When Madelaine would cry

And now I watch from riverbanks
I watch it weave it's memories
White doves turned gray and flew away
And so did Madelaine

A dream I suppose.

Monday, June 22, 2009

The gem I found one lonely night.

The other night
I saw the Universe
and my place in it
and I believed
that the only embrace for me
was that of Lady Death
the Home I longed for
the desire I chased
the Love beyond Love
the you
when you were on the beach
and laughing
not in the yard
dark and sorrowful
and the me
that knew the inside you
not the me
who could
no
longer stand.

When the thought
crossed my mind
(this being of Lady Death)
I stopped myself
shook my head
and said,
well I guess
it's nice to know
Death's always waiting
there for me.

And in the morning I began to walk.

I walked under the bright winter sun
beneath the soft and majestic trees
beside the concrete creek
through the city's hive like catacombs
down dark alleys, behind quiet suburban houses

I walked
away from thoughts of you
and a him
and them
and everyone
I walked, I ran
away from everyone

and the hours went by
dancing as wind upon a light melancholy
and I saw half this town
that day
just walking and feeling
and thinking.

Early twilight came
and I found myself in the streets
which now I almost call home
when upon a winter's afternoon
a fellow traveller
stood outside his house
in a tattered robe, with tea in hand
and smiled a warm greeting
with a half cigarette dangling loose
from his lower lip
and we decided to sit
together
and watch the sun set over the day
sitting and smoking and talking
of our lost and lonely journeys
and laughing at the serendipity
which had brought us together
to share
this precise and perfect
Now.

No girl, no drug, no drink,
we said,
can answer the question of this void - this restlessness
we feel today...

So we smoked and were lost together.

Darkness crept beside us as we talked
and the first of the burned out city stars
began to show their bashful light
and even the traffic seemed quiet
in this moment
as gently we began to discuss
The Thing Which Cannot Be Seen.

Those moments when it first appears
a golden glow
a drop of rain
a happiness, out of place amongst the sadness
and we both understood that it cannot be understood
and in that we found an understanding
of Now's beautiful insanity
when all the thoughts of pain are shed
when the past and future disappear
when all decision and experience are filled with purpose
to arrive at a Now
to accept the Now
to fill yourself with Now

and we started to laugh
two mad men in a park
as it showed its face
and the stars all came at once
and the trees danced for us
and the RUSH
oh god, the rush of Now
of true and total freedom from thought
of delight in living, the reward of acceptance
the fire, the joy, of being acknowledged by Now
of a moment being created, just for you, just for us
we sat and we let it happen
and silence was everywhere, amongst the city's noise
and I could breathe in the delicious moment
without the pain of Her, the Limbo of me
the remorse or regret or fear or loneliness
because Now was here and it was enough
and all I had to do was not listen to it
not reach out to it, nor strive for it, grab it, shape it, own it...

all I had to do
was nothing.

And the evening was cold
there on the grass
and still
we laughed and laughed and laughed.

It just told me what to do,
my companion said.

As it did me,
I replied - thought this was not exactly truth
nor was it a lie
for I had not been given direction
I had been given - surrender.

Let's meet here tomorrow
he said to me
and I will tell you what it told me.

Okay, I said
and shook his hand,
and pulling my hood over my head
I walked into the blessed night
in search of food and lodging
and carrying with me the surrender
which had been granted me
by the all knowing Now.

I love you,
I told myself.

I cannot change that.

(and why - why would I?)

I'm a lost and brilliant demon
alone and alive
and if I let myself
(and if you let me)
I can shine
and be satisfied
with the all seeing
delightfully insane beauty
of
Now.

And so I surrendered.
(It began to rain a loving kiss)

So I surrendered.
(The door opened to a warm and precious friendship)

I surrendered.
(I awoke today -
back to earth,
but filled with

Now)






Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Pasture.

And in all those words
a picture is painted
of you
with lies for teeth
and violence for eyes
and you are sharp
angled
and black
and there is no escape
from art
or poetry
no retort
no explanation
only
nods and knowing
and her paint brush
only paints
what she believes
to be true

and that's not you.

And man -
remember?

How your words were once
as strong
as stone, as confident
as a stallion in spring
and just as wild
just as dangerous
where as now
you are a gelding
muted and grey
and old
chewing over chaffed and lonesome dreams
and wondering why
and how
your manhood was lost
when you thought
you were so young and free
and right
and every dawn was a kiss
a promise
that this day
you could exhale
this day
was the breath of bliss
which you would ride
into tomorrow.

********

And it's fucking getting old
being yourself
so you just
try
like Hell
to like it.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Hobo.

Being free isn't romantic.
It's cold.
It's no destination.
It's another hangover.
It's free fall and windswept and waiting to see where you land.
Some days
being free
means
wishing you were held down
and forgetting that you were back to back
at the end of it
and forgetting how the frown broke your heart
and thinking
this walk will go forever
and knowing that today
there is no warm and loving embrace
at the end
only more
cold
freedom.

And then
if you are lucky
you might
be the person
who was once loved
and you might think to yourself

well

freedom
at least
gives me the freedom
to love you
forever.

And with that thought
you dress yourself
in a friend's room
packing your contradictions
a ventolin
some cigarettes
and you exhale
last night's numbness
from your soul
and walk into the shivering dark
with a hood over your head
to show the world
you are hiding
from all the freedom
it has to offer.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

I miss my guitar.

Perspective.

I have a superstition, 
I told him,
that the fortunes of my football team
directly correspond
to the fortunes of my own life.

I said,
We're not doing so great this year...

You haven't been doing great
for the last thirty years, he said.

My life, 
like my team,
(he smiled a cold smile as he spoke)
is a lot more successful than yours.

His chin pushed forward
as he spoke
and
I saw the dark daring
of a younger man
in his eyes
and the easy carriage of arrogance
draped upon his soft leather shoulders.

You're right,
was all I could say
and later that night
I lay and wondered
if I was discovering 
a new joy
built
of humility
or 
if I was
truly
just 
a plain 
and 
aged
no one.