Posts Tagged ‘Night’

On a Driveway at Midnight

Posted: May 7, 1993 in Poetry
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I
this poetry, on this midnight
runs through my veins:
all this hurting, my purple pen
is my blood,
each word a corpuscle –
and to let it out to the world,
sometimes my poetry is simple:
blood,
cut from my flesh,
bleeding my emotions free.
Self destructive
so that I can leave the world
with impressions of fire and intensity,
of feeling.
This is how I feel.
And a poet is a job of living,
breathing, suffering, sacrificing
money home security comfort
for the fleeting knowledge that I am writing.

II
I am smoking: I will die quicker.
I am drinking: I will die quicker.
But I am leaving what I have,
these words
the blood of my existence.
The blink of an eye
and the full moon is gone
waxing, waning:
soon so will I, another man
will die and fade into obscurity,
but these ideas, thoughts, memories
will not disappear quite as quickly,
eroded into paper or computer.
Crickets die – they begat children
to carry on their simple song;
this is human responsibility.
Treat this as information
of a life.
Swallow it whole or in pieces,
pass it along;
someone will find it useful:
the memories of me,
who and where I am right now.

Imitation of the Goshin Traveller’s Spell

Posted: April 16, 1993 in Poetry
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“I invoke thee,
thou diamond fiery very majestic star”
from your bed of night-pillows
and molten stardust;
your gaze may guide my deerlike footsteps
through the overgrown gardens
of my lover’s distrust.

Where You Are in the World

Posted: April 13, 1993 in Poetry
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a star winked out in the nighttime sky
and did not return my love
as I cast into the heavens;
a sword standing still
riding my mind like the hip of a warrior.
one oboe quietly mediates the tree’s disputes
about who is shading who
as I am walking through.
there is no medium for art
like the dreams dreamed when all alone
and happy with where you are in the world.
writing to be poetic, prolific
I sometimes wind myself soporific
scratching at the paper making nothing terrific,
just words that rhyme
a line at a time or three
cavorting in silent melodies
like those oboes, sleepy in the trees.

Song for a Bedsheet

Posted: March 24, 1993 in Poetry
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I am really wondering if I’m lying to myself – you see
I’m good at what I do and that’s lying to myself.
Oh I hurt and I’m torn and don’t know what to I can do
I need to talk-to-a-certain-someone and that one is myself

when does it end? all the questions and waiting
for the time to come when it has worked itself out;
I can’t stand the surprises, both the good and the bad.
I think I crave some stability – this now I can do without

…and my heart strains and pulls
– my mind says we’ll be alright
but I find I can’t hold on to it all now, tonight.
am I losing control? do I want to? I might,
my senses shrieking away – my hands clenched too tight.

I think I’m falling and falling –
I haven’t moved; I’m right here.
I remember when I went crazy,
I laugh at when I was clear.

I know I’ll continue at slugging away through the days
staying broke, lost and hopeless, just counting the ways
and the time that I spend, I record it and write
until I can’t stand my pen and I turn off the light.

Living in Myopia

Posted: March 22, 1993 in Poetry
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If I went blind from loving you
I could see all my pictures more clearly;
My mind would make up for my lack of sight
And although my eyes would be black as night
I would love you all that more dearly.

Lying in Wait for a Reaction

Posted: March 22, 1993 in Poetry
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a little girl lies in
her room at night
and she thinks of me.
who can it be?

I know who but
I’m not telling;
I have the secrets but
I’m not selling.

it is whispered into
animals ears – they hear
and clap their hands
because they understand.

Chess

Posted: March 8, 1993 in Poetry
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when the night has come and I
have shuttered my open windows,
it is then that I turn away from other things
to my room of books and hanging plants
hiding in the warmth of my possessions;
a dried flower to remind me of you,
a red blanket that I was born into,
a zillion and one things to do –

the air gets thick in here…
fuzzy little octopi squirm through the air
but they’ve always been there.
I’ll let you in on one condition
and that is that I won’t lie to you;
fibbing tastes bad, like a bottle of glue
and they’re stickier, too –
but you come in of your own volition.

how can I entertain you?

alone, I lay out in the middle of the floor
on my magic Arabian carpet,
and I dream and I’ll do that for you
if you come in and listen.

Lyrics for Michael Stipe of REM

Posted: February 27, 1993 in Poetry
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I have found my calling.
Perhaps I’ve found an avenue
to help myself understand the world;
I know what I have to do.

I must build until I find somewhere
where I think I’d like to stay,
harvest the land that I’ve chosen as mine
until my eyes turn grey.

I may be toiling past the stars
and plumbing the depths of night,
but I know where I’m going, not where I’m headed
and I know I’ll turn out alright.

Untitled Poem #149

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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A Druid has stood
In the green of my woods,
A forest of lines of verse.
The light from her eyes
Has given me my eagles
Which soar through my nighttime skies.
I hunt for the words
As mice run from an owl
And stand them in bowls;
Bouquets of flowers
to please me.

A Valentine’s Poem

Posted: February 10, 1993 in Poetry
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I give you handfulls of candles
to set your skies ablaze with stars at night.
they’ll make you create and burn your hands
they’’ make you scream with hurt and let you fly away
into their flames – your mind.

do you think you’ve driven me so far away
that I won’t think of you on Valentine’s Day?

and in these candle’s flames
what constellations will you draw?
will you place them all around your heart
and think of me?

The Skeletal Tree

Posted: February 8, 1993 in Poetry
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there is a tree at home
in the Wooded Area,
a community so old
that it has no sidewalks,
no curbs,
and many trees.
there is one tree
on the corner of Dupont
and Silvergate Streets
that is hollow underneath
its splayed boughs.
it is an upside down cup
or a limp starfish
but sometimes at night
the branches underneath the bowl
look like skeletal ribs
and the drooping limbs
look like hanged men
in the dark.

Fireflies in a Jar

Posted: February 1, 1993 in Poetry
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I am still here;
encased in steel,
frozen in flesh;
I am still here.

the I, the me, and the one and only:
Michael, an Angel, this quality,
definitely the most beautiful man
regardless of position and opinion.

building and building my building,
my self: a tower of faith in feelings.
I’ve mortared each brick and laid each beam,
chosen the colors, welded the seams,
sweated past tears, made real my dreams.
I have constructed my cherished monster
and wobble like a weeble but I don’t
fall
down.
I doubt and I die
every day
sometimes I cry
and fade away,
but I’m always stuck with myself
so I’ve chosen to stick it out
until the morning after.

I’ve got to strip and scrub and look in the mirror
I get misunderstood and filthy bad-mouthing myself;
the more I scrub the more I bleed, feeling clearer –
addicting, this hurting and cleaning myself.

in that soulless mirror
is my only true friend
and he’s true as far as you believe him.
weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
I won’t scream anymore, I won’t make a sound
on finding my construction falling apart
snapping cables in the storms of my heart.

there is nothing that can ever take me away
I’ve done too much damage already.
twenty-one years old, a missile heaven-sent
and where god has thrown me I’ve made my own dent
to sit in and scowl or wave to my stars
as they streak by in the night, fireflies in jars.

Untitled Poem #142

Posted: January 3, 1993 in Poetry
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A shower, then sleep
enables a creep to feel clean
and to dream, napping soundly
through the rest of the night.

Untitled Poem #141

Posted: January 2, 1993 in Poetry
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I am coming to you
to listen and listen,
to fill up my eyes with you,
to make careful observations.
I am coming to you
so I can disappear quietly
when you have something else to do
or if I can be of some help…
I am coming to you
very soon, even now
as we speak I am sending my soul
forwards to find you, my friend.
I am coming to you
as a Bat and a Dragon,
as black as the night or of coal
and wishing that I was there already.

A Short, Balding Dwarvish Bard

Posted: December 12, 1992 in Poetry
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It was a time of Dragon’s fire;
Twas then the souls of Kings were born
From darkness, fear of Demon’s ire
There rose a hope for those forlorn.
The simple men whose lives were led
With doors barred shut and fires high:
Those women who did fear to tread
After the dark had seized the sky:
These common folk, no sorc’rous king
Did bring the Magic to the World,
But not in Swords or Magic Rings,
But in the form of boys and girls,
Who, taught the strength of father’s might,
And told the lore of mother’s art,
Grew tall and strong against the night,
Grew wise and bold and good of heart.
This plaque which no one sees the same,
Is said to be a craft of Elves
To whom the tricks of Magic came
With ease; it is one of their spells.
Yet others call it Dwarvish make,
Their skill with metal’s not unknown,
But who had such the time to take
And sink this plaque in fireplace stone?
It took not Dwarf or Elf to cheer
The Hearth, the heart of every room,
It is the men and women here
Who saved us all from Demon’s doom.

A Dream of a Ship

Posted: November 9, 1992 in Poetry
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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.

Breathing Pains

Posted: October 26, 1992 in Poetry
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waiting for you to arrive,
I close my eyes for the birds that rise,
flowing over my skin,
baiting the thoughts that cruise like fish
within.
I sink deeper into my steel water trough
to wonder when the night
will roll in.
the flowers I brought you have wilted
from the sweat on my brow,
but I am waiting, still alive,
waiting for you to arrive.

I count the turns of the fan and
stir the last of my ice
with my hand,
watching them dance.
I taste the water from the ends
of my fingers.
the salt and the cold comes
with chills of your eyes
if you tried to lie;
you’re coming here sometime.

I think of what I can’t see
past my reflection,
through the window’s glass;
where you said you were going,
where you might be instead.
these spinning spiders cobweb my head.

everything slow, slower, slowest;
these breathing pains.
a record skips on its label.
I’m watching these wilted flowers.
cut, they glower back at me,
slowly.
I’m wondering when blood will
run out of my ears
with the weight of all these
anthological fears.

I pluck a melting cube from the water
and send it sliding along the table
as I lay, my head on the back of my arm.
a cold green fire simultaneously heats
my uncomfortable forehead and
roots at the pit of my stomach.
I will wait with my breathing;
you’re coming here sometime.
I will wait for you to arrive.

Bear at the Back of my Closet

Posted: October 6, 1992 in Poetry
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I am the bear at the back of my closet,
warm and furry.
but nobody knows it.

I am the star cut in the flesh on the back of my hand.

you, however, are a fig-ment
of my imagination, subject to my rules.
and you are whatever I choose to make of you.

you are a grasshopper, or a shiny penny,
or a bunch of balloons third graders let go
with notes attatched to the ribbons.
you are roadkill, or a lonely sock in the trash.

I am the wildest man with this imagination;
the most dangerous with this pen.
I am, most of all, the bear at the back of the closet
whose winking eye has been mistaken for a star
that you use as a night-light.

Cat Hide

Posted: September 7, 1992 in Poetry
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I am the prickle
which makes your mother start
and cover your eyes
as if you, being young
don’t know the fear of the closet.

I am the voice that whispers
through the crack;
all that’s left when
the door is shut tight,
caressing you with words
from a green foot-long tongue,
slithering out from the darker dark.

I am the clothes that hang
from all the hangers,
swaying in the imaginary breeze
of a hanging tree in the moonlight,
the one they told you about at camp.

I am the nightmare
created by frustrated imaginations
living in the people
who inhabit your house.
I frighten your strong father
and terrify your poor mother
– this alone scares you.

I am the noise
so slightly out of place,
that each of you lies awake,
debating whether to see what it was
or go back to an uneasy sleep.

I leave your closet doors
open just a little
for you to find in the morning.

A Hole in the Sky

Posted: July 24, 1992 in Poetry
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I thought I saw a star fall
In Sherwood Forest.
I wonder what it means
About our world.

I swear I saw a flame walk
Through this grove of trees,
Stepping from curl to curl
Of the bark on the forest floor.

I cannot grasp what my mind
Is saying; not yet,
Speaking from the corners of my eyes,
Running past my nose
At odd times, odd scents, odd sounds.

Sometimes I feel that
I’m surreptitiously burying
My heart again
In the middle of the night,
Something someone is whispering
For me to do.

Lying awake as I imagine the fall
Of gravedigger dirt
Cascading in sodden clumps
Upon my wooden soul.

The light wanes as I write,
Listening to the stereo of birdcalls
Scratching at wood,
And the organs of crickets
Calling and calling
The stars to the night’s work,
All except one.

Untitled Poem #131

Posted: June 22, 1992 in Poetry
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I slunk from the sea
late last night
to stand in a moon-dappled room
under a broad-leafed tree
to write these words from the ocean,
dripping and streamered
with ribbons of seaweed,
leaving the smell of wet salt and wind
behind for the forest
whose paper this is.

Sore from Laughing

Posted: January 14, 1992 in Poetry
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I was born
playing racquetball
against a page like this.
sometimes this was all
I had to do
to keep myself warm
in the nighttime of the fall,
in the yonder of the blue
when there wasn’t you
to kiss.

Come, Friend

Posted: August 25, 1991 in Poetry
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Come, friend that crawls,
Thing that scuttles from faintest light,
Horrid apparition that hides its face;
Stand with the blackest night,
My skull revealed in awful majesty
Atop my cape of dark childhood fears,
Flowing in a wind of charnel fog.
I summon thee from the torment of years…

alley flower

Posted: August 14, 1991 in Poetry
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fiery stamen and
splay-topped tendrils;
multicolored electric octopus,
singing, gesturing in Indian splendor
inside a spherical universe of glass;
mysterious flower
writhing to the silence of the void;
infinipodal walker,
reaching and grasping at a terrible mirror,
constantly searching the circumference;
hot green stalks sadly follow
my curious fingertip
across the sky
as I trace patterns on the clear cage;
pink and purple fans dreaming
support the slim emerald-waisted dancers
teasing the fluorescent pollen
on the central stem;
flickering tirelessly,
chanting throughout the night
as I sleep.

Prayer

Posted: May 13, 1991 in Poetry
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window rattling monster,
go away.
I have no patience with your
fleshless screaming skull
plummeting meaningful to earth,
runnels of molten bone flayed
as streamers fly from a maypole.
gravel crunching beast,
leave me.
I am alone with my artifacts,
my talismans, my treasures and
think little of your rancorous immaturity.
I sleep upon your doorstep to dream,
shrieking names of blind polypous gods
shambling aimlessly in realms of ether.
I grope shudderingly for the covers
to pull over my too-sensitive ears.
rubbery night walker,
begone.

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