Posts Tagged ‘Skull’

Threads

Posted: February 16, 2002 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

This is the way I take emotional photos:
Spat on to paper by the stylus at hand.
Clipped coupons of what’s come to mind
As I perform this audienceless exercise.
I hear the cacophony of voices
Opining inside my skull
Each struggling to surface and be heard;
To pick a thread with the eye of a needle,
Focus until it smoulders,
Then collapses in ashes into sub-consciousness.,
Is to draw these characters here;
It is to write stop-start to fill paper
Week after week and year after year.
These are scrapbooks, collages, shadowboxes
Of my dreams and my feelings.
These words might as well be wraiths,
But they may be looking to weave themselves
Into another mind.

Humbled in an Easy Chair

Posted: January 24, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Tonight the old feelings
come back;
the old feelings
of enemies — long ago
when humankind believed
and could see their mistakes
unclothed as Demons.
They crouch in tree foliage
and prowl like cats
or gargoyles on the roof;
they know they work through dreams
and they know we have forgotten
our humble beginnings
in the depth of an easy chair.

They come to crack skulls open
and to tinker with your subconscious,
safe in your self-imposed anesthesia
of TV dinners and microwaves,
of ottomen and furniture never used,
of blinders and bit and reins
grown familiar;
you’ve grown resigned.

Black Jack

Posted: June 6, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I
and when the madness comes
she creeps around the corridors,
pausing to stomp on cats’ tails
pausing to drive in rusty nails
and slam subconscious doors
behind my eyes.

II
it would be easy one day
to fall down and stay,
not moving, wherever I was
and not respond to my rescuers;
to get placed away for refusing to speak
or move or do anything for myself.
so easy and tempting, just for a week.
I’m sure they’d find something to do with me.

III
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE:
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE.

IV
the air was full of birds,
these pigeons and seagullls
that I had disturbed
walking along the beach by myself
wondering if she’s all by herself.
but putting that aside
would we have walked on by
all of this wild-winged fuss
if it wasn’t just me but if it had been us?

V
keep on going until the pen runs out
and finally I might figure it out.
I’m pulling apart flowers for answers
and neither type of petal reassures
me of this thing I’d like to realize
is right or wrong or right before my eyes.
this pile of broken flowers, growing higher
is colored like a cheerful winter fire
but dead without the red that makes it gay
is my heart, ashen cold and worn away.

VI
I’m frozen in the moment
that I’ve jumped from a high place
trying for the water;
it’s not enough to miss the rocks.
frozen
in the
moment.
it is stealing over my face.
look closely. there’s the rocks.

VII
I made it to 21. like blackjack.

VIII
that Catholic skull that I dreamed of
at least once a year since I was seven or eight
was me, laughing at least once a year
that I was still stupidly here.

IX
the idea of breaking
so many hearts,
of making the many upset,
of shaking alll of these folks;
it seems like the ultimate cannonball
in the jacuzzi of life.

I count the bones
rained from above
which sound like wood
dropped on stone
when they fall.

If I could,
I think I’d love
the long bones
most of all,
and the skulls.

Seven English Poets

Posted: November 5, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

seven large pillars stood alone
surrounded by heaps of moldy bone.
your skulls are marked with waterstains
but flesh in your poetry remains.
climbing slowly around the piles
holding, examining your whitened smiles,
wondering what of my poetry
when I have become as thee.