If my eyes are full of stars
Forgive me, love.
This swell of sinew in my heart
Squeezes magic through my veins
With each breath I take
Thinking of you, warm and laughing.
My once resolve to neverlove
Is so many ashes in the seabreeze,
For eager puppy I
Can only long for another look
Another touch that burns alive.
Posts Tagged ‘Magic’
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Realized
Posted: October 18, 1995 in PoetryTags: Bones, Dreams, Earth, Eye, Fire, Flowers, Genie, Horse, Imagination, Magic, Mirror, Naked, Night, Power, Sleep, Snow, Story, Water
Three nights I have lain awake
Storming through half-sleep dreams
And possibilities, thoughts,
Mental magical carpets,
Half real, half realized;
Doors half opened and swinging
Smooth computers peripherally
Analyzing and verifying
Believing yet incredulous
Of the panoramic impossibility.
The stark lightning of imagination
Energized and rampantly naked;
Leaping obstacles with merry, nimble feet
Barely touching – gracing – the earth.
A sweeping wave of everything
Reconditioning, revitalized
Colorization by raw power
Of a reality as credible as anything,
Dreams of genie lamps opening
Construction paper flowers blooming
Water falling, cities lit by their own fires,
Shadows mocking their creators.
Stories so rich in texture
That you live them overnight,
Morning comes when it comes
With the snap of the blind
And a sense of weariness bone deep.
Aches from riding warhorses,
Twinges from old wounds,
Bruises and abrasions that quietly throb,
That you don’t remember receiving.
Nights pass in a variety of times
Lying awake, or so I think,
Chasing reflections in mirrors,
Tuning in to the colored snow
Falling inside my eyelids.
Forgive Yourself for Evolving
Posted: March 16, 1995 in PoetryTags: Adam, Animal, Belief, Dream, Dwarf, Elf, Eve, Faerie, Fruit, God, Home, Imagination, Life, Love, Magic, Man, Power, Satan, Story
Perhaps my only true loves
Are those that are inanimate,
Or are animated soley by my
Magical imagination.
They love me like a god –
I give them life, they give me
Love without strings attached.
They could attach their strings
If they ate from that forbidden fruit
That Adam and Eve partook of.
But that is the difference
Between mankind and animals,
Plants, minerals, Elves, Dwarves, and Faeries.
We know we do wrong – we still do it.
Some barrier was broken and we keep on breaking,
We made god to subtly blame for our position.
(We call him Satan)
We told him to forgive us because
It wasn’t in our own power
To forgive ourselves for evolving.
We are now the chosen species of the planet
And, collectively, we all want to go home.
So these inanimate things I animate,
Infusing them with imagination and belief.
I can believe in them because it was I
Who made them real in the first place.
God didn’t make me; I made him
Just like I make a dream a reality,
A story my existence, and item alive
And bounding to and fro with innocent excitement.
Introducing the Muse
Posted: December 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Drum, Eye, Flesh, Flowers, Heart, Kiss, Magic, Soul, Sound, Spell, Spirit
I wonder, as the Poet,
if you care what I say here;
these words may only be
patterns or statistics to you.
The appreciation is when organs move
— some passing of spirit
through your flesh,
a Magick spell which,
uttered, or even read,
evokes a thump on the heart-drum or
a tangle of the air in your lungs.
When the eyes are slightly moistened
beyond necessity or that which can be played off,
when the lips subconsciously part or move with the sound
as if to kiss the flowering thoughts,
to sip from the cup of each syllable
— then the letters become words,
translated back into ideas,
reconstructed in a different mind,
personalized to a different environment
— accurately speculated back to
the willpower of imagination that birthed the poem.
My Muse:
she is a bashful widow who hangs her veils thick,
like laundry on a street with no electricity.
A glimpse of the rare beauty,
your eyes to her holiness,
always too quick for detail, yet
that soul-string hums
with some instinctual empathy.
I tend to stutter during introductions
because I never get it just right.
THIS BRIGHT LIGHT
Posted: December 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Bones, Closet, Coffee, Dr. Seuss, Eye, Fire, Flesh, Grasshopper, King, Light, Magic, Night, Red, Shadow, Vampire, Wish
Ah, this bright light —
I was a closet Vampyre,
dancing on cardboard tombstones
with flexible skeletons
who beat chopsticks on
overturned Folger’s coffee cans
— it shrivels the flesh
and weakens the bones.
I’ve heard of the process of aging before,
from people older than I
(that was all that mattered back then),
but I opened the door
just by living this long;
it was a voluntary process
to keep myself “sane”.
My closet life still lives —
the dust and cobwebs are real,
cardboard and coffee cans lay around
— it’s a mess just like I left it.
I have little time to clean up,
much less to dust them off and play;
something I swore I’d never say.
I wished to conquer this aging
in this age.
I watched the best voices of
previous generations
wither and fade,
mature and become jaded
as either adults or escapists —
I wanted to outdo them all
by keeping busy
preserving those things
that people forgot to remember:
those things that go bump in the night
and lurk shiny red-eyed in the closet.
This bright light
— reality for those who think it so —
is the bread and butter of adulthood,
and it cannot be avoided
through ignorance or rebellion:
they just won’t go away.
This revelation comes with
the exposure to aging;
the fact that changed my whole game plan.
Closets, shadows, mysteries and skeletons
beating Folger’s coffee cans with chopsticks
are for children and lunatics:
people who aren’t grown up enough
to withstand the scrutiny
of this bright light.
I hold to my original wish —
I have remembered so far
you must bend like the willow
young grasshopper —
Seuss did it,
King does it;
to each his or her own closet.
Oil your hinges,
dust your skeletons,
tune your Folger’s coffee cans:
Magick is the marrow
that runs in those bones,
and still fires the eyes shiny red.
Treaty
Posted: August 23, 1994 in PoetryTags: Ape, Believe, Black, Blue, Death, Dream, Eye, Flowers, Hate, Heart, Human, Imagination, Laugh, Life, Light, Love, Magic, Man, Mind, Mirror, Sea, Space, White, Wink
I’ve hated myself for so long
for other people
other opinions, other lives:
here goes my hair —
look in the mirror,
watch your steely blue eyes wink:
lighthouses to steer ships by.
Bring them home.
Home is the sailor,
home from the sea,
and the hunter,
home from the hill.
home to your heart.
Quit renting the space from yourself:
laugh and languish
with the rest of the apes called human beings.
Life is a dualism;
you are understanding
dum-dum balancing act of whatever.
Equilibrium is so nice.
So is the shift of the teeter-totter but
gain control,
remain under control;
O Captain, my Captain,
you are not yet cold and dead.
Breathe in and out,
live until the end.
It comes not from your hand;
it is not believed in your heart:
the sides of life and death
are one shot kamikaze missions:
one, then the other.
Enlighten the lighthouse.
Strengthen the beams of your winks.
Find meaning in living
to bank hard against the 100% house of death.
The Love comes:
a white ship,
a black frigate,
the swarthy faces of dream-lands sailors
set foot on the dry land
of your once-fertile imagination,
bearing gifts of gems and spices,
flowers silks and brocaded tapestries
unique to your mind and your magic —
so you trade them to the rest of the world.
These gifts are your giftedness;
these waves are your talents,
and when your life is lost,
you will trade no more in this heady marketplace.
Learn to be a good merchant of your wares,
a good businessperson,
a good man;
everyone barters and sings praise and stabs.
Be better: be the best
that your will and imagination can conceive,
then focus your lighthouse lantern
to illuminate,
to enlighten,
and to greater things to believe in.
Candle Flickers
Posted: May 25, 1994 in PoetryTags: Angel, Believe, Candles, Children, Fountain, God, Human, Love, Magic, Man, Night, Science, Woman
a candle can
move its shadows
like the magic
of an angel
if you believe
that it might be so.
one word
one attempted
explanation
and it’s war
so I give up,
keep my mouth shut
and rot
from the inside
out.
page after page
of meaningless meaning
to myself
tonight
to forget tomorrow
to rewrite
tomorrow night.
Love is no longer
a good enough reason
made to bow to religion,
made to bow to science,
cheapened
and losing the battle
to the evolution of humankind
into the machines
they build,
the laws they build
to worship.
lost is the love of man
of woman
of children
and of God;
love is
the fountainhead
of meaning.
there is a love
for everything good:
if it is good,
then there is love.
some things that
have been found
to be good
are still used
but loveless,
lifeless,
perverted from
their original use
because
love is what
was original.
A Plea for Relaxation
Posted: February 17, 1994 in PoetryTags: Believe, Closet, Frog, God, Happy, Light, Magic, Science
People treat themselves like natural resources
(yes we are as part of the ecosystem —
we can be useful)
but expenditure like the burning of a ton of coal
to light one lightbulb?
I ask if this is necessary;
there is a chorus of affirmatives
from the millions who know no better,
who know nothing else,
who bought and will buy again,
who sell this idea.
Accomplishment is one great feeling,
but conversion of a ton of coal,
folding your diploma of success
into the paper airplane of your resumé,
forwarded into the next office,
the next buyer’s grabbing hands
leaves little room for meaning besides
fleeting appreciation and a closetful
of dusty awards that mean nothing.
A rusty mailbox doesn’t care if it rusts;
frogs don’t care where they croak from
or where they croak to,
or where they croak.
Life doesn’t seem to care
scientifically
where it is going.
But I disagree —
Something knows and always has known,
and it watches
and has its own opinion.
God is dead or at best
holds appointments on Sundays,
priests just do their jobs;
it is a profession: their work.
God or magick or belief
is no longer a requirement
for happiness or success.
The Cataclysm of the Mirror
Posted: November 17, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Anger, Beast, Believe, Bird, Blood, Cigarette, Fire, Fly, Glasses, Godzilla, Hope, Lightning, Magic, Mirror, Vomit
I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.
Santa Claus
Posted: November 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Alcohol, Child, Devil, Dreams, Imagination, Knife, Magic, Night, Promise, Road, Santa Claus, Sleep, Song, Wine, Women
Between the Devil and the deep blue sea
there is me and a bottle of Smirnoff™ Vodka
destined to drown me in Davy Jones’ Locker.
The pursuit of happiness, wine, women, and song
goes on like the road that never ends, so long
that it sends itself laughing away ‘till you’re lost
lonely and livid at the stupid kid
that let himself grow up into this;
I learned to eat, sleep, work hard, and miss
being young, strong, and full of inspiration,
dreams, songs, and wise magickal imaginations.
My thoughts were real, my dreams weren’t fantastic.
They were attainable goals – feats of magick.
People had done it and I was going to do it,
going under, ‘round, over, or right through it.
Twenty-two and going under in a different way;
the ocean is grey and the Devil is calling –
bastard chased me through nightmares
every night of my life and the knives
that I cut with shine bright like a promise
that I have chosen unwisely; I’m falling.
Surprising? Dreams don’t come true
and you can trace the cause back to
when you stopped believing in Santa Claus.
Untitled Poem # 159
Posted: April 25, 1993 in PoetryTags: Heart, Magic, Mind, Smile, Time, Untitled
the heart is a marvellous thing.
it does not think with logic –
it “thinks’ in magic
so your mind usually takes
a bit of time to justify
what your heart says is right.
meanwhile your heart is smiling
and has its arms crossed
over its chest, very comfortable
especially if you’ve listened.
Dazzled Dizzy
Posted: April 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Beautiful, Dawn, Dolphin, Fly, Hope, Joy, Laugh, Magic, Water
I have no gilded card to send,
no quill to write beautiful
words that still say I’m so sorry.
sometimes the daybreak dazzles me dizzy
but it has never been as beautiful as you, Dawn.
and what have I done? crushed the wings
of an angel like brushing powder from a moth’s;
I only wanted to help you fly as you should.
the closest pair of cupped hands
can’t hold water unless you work magic,
and perhaps what I wove was wrong
but not a lie; never a lie.
these same hands that I hold empty now
of you I hope to fill nowhere else but here
with bouquets and baskets of joy for you;
summoning dolphins to dance with you;
tickling babies to laugh with you.
Struck Dumb
Posted: January 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Blue, Dreams, Drums, Faith, Magic, Mind, Ocean, Sea, Sky, Water
sometimes things will strike me, strike me,
strike me solid with a beautiful thought.
I thought that all these things were really real
but now I’ve blinked and they’re not.
that’s just my lack of faith, of faith,
of faith in what I truly believe.
I believe in the movement of drums in this music
like the water-flow through a sieve.
dreams came and went with the ocean, the ocean,
the ocean of sparkling blue and screaming sea.
the sea so flat so far and so much a sky of its own;
I stood on the shore and watched it be.
I don’t understand when you say that magic, magic,
magic’s gone and it’s left me behind,
far behind and lonely for its pretty paintbrush touch
while we argue what’s in each other’s mind.
Untitled Poem #143
Posted: January 21, 1993 in PoetryTags: Child, Circle, Magic, Mirror, Ocean, Sky, Untitled, Wind
sometimes it all comes full circle:
a beautiful sky that you can’t see the end of
in any direction; even the ocean
mirrors me in its watery face.
I believe in it all now, the magic
of the things nobody sees,
of the things children tell us;
the wind remembering who I am.
A Dream of a Ship
Posted: November 9, 1992 in PoetryTags: Believe, Bones, Dream, Eye, Magic, Mother, Night, Ocean, Rock, Ship, Sky, Stars, Tears, Water
I sag into my bonds,
bound to this wooden chair
with water from my eyes
six inches deep on the floor.
I feel all alone on a ship
gently rocking, back and forth,
water rolling, sighing
from bulkhead to bulkhead.
my head is down
and my hair is in my face but
if I was to look up,
my pupils would birth stars;
they would burn their way to the sky.
my hands are tied with
my own intestines, wetly coiled;
every movement
wrenches my stomach
in dizzy circles, hollow
like an airplane ride.
the chair holds me up,
gives me something to be tied to,
roots me to the deck; an anchor.
my mind hurts from
holding these stars,
squeezing my eyes shut and bearing
the sting of gas
leaking through my eyelids.
sails snap in my ears;
I grow a mast for a spine,
grasping handfuls of air
through canvas fingers.
I grow old and feel my hull
rotting as it surges
through these black waters.
I grow very tired from dreaming
of the sound of surf
on rocks, a shore.
tired from creating all this magic
for no one to see.
below, I flash open my eyes
and stand forth from the chair,
wet bracelets hanging
from my pale chafed wrists,
and I climb slowly to the salt air
of the deck of my ship.
I balance on the railings,
ignoring the spray of rain and sea,
and the call of oblivion
in the depths of the ocean,
my mother. finding strength
after strength after strength and
whittling them into kindling,
like so much driftwood.
teetering on the edge of falling
from the railing into myself
forever, I like being here:
I am myself — I have nothing but me
and my starry eyes and
my wonderful rotting ship,
intestines around my hands
and an emptiness in my stomach.
there are no more tears to cry
in the hold of the ship
for the toys I have lost
when I was younger,
refusing to grow up,
to grow old.
nothing can destroy
my beliefs; without them,
I go. I would let all the stars
that I have created
stream to the skies,
shrieking for me,
for what will become of me,
a bag of bones, a sack of skin.
I remember my stars;
they will remember me,
whispering my name
through the nighttime.
I have always wanted a telescope
To drag to a high place to see a star
Or two, rubbing my cold hands together
And shivering with my breath down around
My shoulders, waiting for the chance to sight
A poet, Robert Frost and friend, themselves
Looking through their star-splitter for a glimpse
Of something magic, some merry treasure.
Imitations of Izumi no Shikibu
Posted: May 1, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Death, Frog, Light, Magic, Moon, Mountains, Sky
Shikibu Imitation One (serious Buddha remix)
the mountains at the edge
of the moon shine wetly.
they have the viscosity
of freshly spilled blood.
the mountains have been torn and
thrown down from the sky.
they sit still, meditating,
slowly settling in the mud.
Shikibu Imitation Two (silly dance version)
I am a mountain
showered by the magic
of the gaze from a beetling moon.
squat and froggy I am.
the dark paths of my tongues;
they all lead to my gullet.
ha! quit watching me you stupid poet.
so I can get up and stretch.
Shikibu Imitation Three (acid ecstatic vocal)
death lurks as looming mountains
hurling the moon into the sky.
the ghastly light stings so I
reach out and draw the curtains.
Joe and the Magic Thanckx
Posted: April 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Cat, Eye, Joe, Los Angeles, Magic, Smoke
yes, please.
I would very
much enjoy
drawing your magic
green herbal reagent
deep into the capillaries
of my lungs.
I appreciate the
sparkle in your eyes
as you pass to the left.
do you know
you are wreathed
in your own smoke,
curling like a cat
around your shoulders.
yes, please.
the magic is waning
in the world
and I’d really like to see
Los Angeles again, Joe.
O little bag of magic rocks:
keep me safe
from scaly hands
and claws under my bed.
keep them away,
those unseen things,
that lurk in the holes in my head.
Hopes and Dreams
Posted: December 11, 1990 in PoetryTags: Boy, Dream, Dreams, Gold, Heart, Hope, Imagination, Joy, Love, Magic, Michael, Purple, Time, Trees
There once was a little boy
Who had dreams which danced behind his eyes
Of magic golden cities,
People merry under purple skies;
The trees and hills behind his house
Where the young boy used to play
Would welcome him joyously
Into their arms most every day.
The boy would lay for hours
Watching people living and dying
Delighted in the magic spent
To dream without even trying
But as the boy got older
His imagination began to soften
And out to the hills and trees
He wouldn’t come as often.
Plastic guns and army soldiers,
Matchbox Cars and other toys
Stole the love and keen attention
From the helpless little boy.
The sun set silent one day
Over the lonesome trees and hills
The happy boughs and glades
Wept and sadly stood still.
No one heard their hearts break,
No one knows how they cried,
But some dreams were lost somewhere in time
When the child in Michael died.
Stick Man and Rock Man
Posted: November 17, 1990 in PoetryTags: Beach, Magic, Man, Rock, Sand, Stick, Woods
I remember stealing through the woods
admiring the trees all the while
catching a magic glimpse of you
dancing alone with a smile.
walking along a seaweeded beach,
I play in the sand with you.
I build you castles for your delight
then walk home with sand in my shoes.
Why?
Why does it have to be this way?
When the fabric of my mind is beginning to fray
Like a bolt of lightning, straight from above
I ask myself, do I deserve your love?
Why?
Why is it always like this?
We laugh, we argue, we fight, we kiss.
I can’t believe it, that you really care
Almost like a game of truth or dare.
Why?
Why is it so hard to say goodbye?
You can make me laugh, you can make me cry.
It’s such a great feeling being in your arms;
Cover me, smother me, in your charms.
Why?
Why can’t I understand
That magic I feel when I hold your hand.
Like electricity through my veins
Soothing and healing my many pains.
Why?
I really believe you’re heaven sent
Hold me, love me, through and through
I’m so lucky because I have you.
Why?
The mystical smoke entwined itself
Around the gnarled boles
Forming the legs of the vast giants
Which towered above the leafy floor
Of the timeless forest.
Eminating from three gold braziers
Intricately and craftily carved,
The mist and odor of incense
Wafted through the boughs
Of the ageless forest.
A leaf free triangle
Marked at each point by a bowl,
Set in the midst
Of a seemingly vast
And endless forest
A plaque is centered
Within this magical glyph
Untouched by nature or time,
Or mankind’s speculative laws,
Within the ancient forest.
Upon the plaque
Is written one simple word
Understandable by all
Bounded by nothing
Within the antique forest.
Peace.
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