splattered green tea

a rivulet of blood seeks an iron
grate planted in an adjacent slab of
concrete
a dark red ribbon tying a sewer to
her wet, matted hair

a curtain of rain reflects
the lights of the city’s night
and neon creates black contrast
to the temporary life that shines
through a glass door

a tinkling bell sounds
entrance,
surprised patrons warily
notice
a tattered gray overcoat that
separates a prostrate life
from the rain
a fallen and shattered life
like a red and gold porcelain
dragon and its splattered green tea,
fallen
from small hands

strong, smoky smells of
ginger
and peanut oil
contend with
the odor of urine and
alcohol
and the
vomited remains
of
manna

rapid sing song
voices and busy
chatter
fill this false refuge with
deception and for a short time
the condemned laugh at the
black night

photographs of a brown color
resembling sepia,
plates of food
line a wall and
playing in the background,
our god is an awesome god
outside an old woman
gone cold
gives over to the night
the color of her portrait
long ago faded

somewhere in the streets
the wail of a siren grows louder
inside
lies are served up
hot
and steaming.

normal

the call came in as
we were sitting down
to dinner
between sobs
she said I should come now
he's actively dying
she said

my friend of so many years
not yet forty
loves his wife and little girl
and a brand new baby
a boy
the guys down at the warehouse
think the world of him
my friend
who will soon no longer exist

he told me it
feels like an execution
went in for an annual check-up
walked out a condemned man
sentenced to death and
only god knows his crime

the only people I’ve lost
are still alive
but to lose this man
we’re best friends
it goes unsaid
but we love each other
he’s someone I laugh with
cry with
count on
and he can tell me anything
even how much dying scares him

he’s gone by the time I get there
refused entry by some family member
I’ve never met
I sit in my car
in the dark
alone with my disbelief
while those inside
no doubt stumble about
in some horrific grief
that must surely come
in the presence of
one so young and dearly loved
now so newly dead

I look over at the light on the porch
as it shines out on a landscaped yard
a tree lined street
try to make some sense of this
a couple walking their dog
moves past on the sidewalk
from here
it looks just like a
normal house

narrative

I’ve cracked the window
to let the dark in
rest my heart
in the stillness that enters with it
rain comes
comes like the footsteps of
an unexpected friend
bringing welcomed news

my new life has arrived
even if it has turned up empty handed
still
that panicked terror
of so many years is absent
I fear nothing
neither living man
nor he who steals life
not even myself
at last
I have become who I am

so let the harlot gods of
my misfortune
titter amongst themselves
I measure tomorrow
for refuge
from today
and will sit quietly should loss
decide to quit me
though I suspect it stays because
it likes my company

but I have learned too of happiness
and its nature
it is a snare
a truss of perverse hunger
that keeps loneliness alive
even when freed of it
it will mock me with its apparitions
of tomorrow
yet I know with nothing to lose
there will be nothing to fear
just how long is dead anyway

thus am I reconciled to my fate
life will run its course
and I will let it run free
though it comes to me that this freedom
from affection may be captivity in disguise
no matter
this narrative of loss tethers me
to my doom
I will be alone
I will not trust
I will not love . . .

. . . and then I kissed her
the lies I invented drowned out by the sound
of my pounding heart
and suddenly I’ve wanted this for so long
she says she’s coming home with me
I ask her if that means what I think it does
she reaches over
gently lays her hand on mine
neither of us says a word
all the way back to my place
for the first time
in a very long time
I am afraid

I keep running out of metaphor

here, I’ll put my mind on display so that
you can peer through the
window of my words like
some peeping tom

open my life to walk-by business as though
I am some sidewalk hawker
soul for sale
soul for sale

let me provide you a view through the
transparent tissue of my heart,
its fluid passions pumping through
pipe and valve.

if you like, you can feel exhilaration
as fear and anger
race the raging current of
my blood

you can sit poolside
your slapdash toes splashing
in the love and hate submerged
in raw crimson lochs

perhaps
I will strip
the aging skin from
my body
reveal its factories of
knotted muscle and bone
pulleys and levers to make it all
work and move

or . . .

or rather come share
my days
my white hot
flame

listen to me laugh and cry
be afraid
be brave
weak
strong
watch me
feel me love you

If I Were King

Memory’s a funny thing.

There’s this old movie
in which a handsome rogue
played by an actor, Errol Flynn,
utters a romantic phrase to this woman he loves.
If I Were King, If I Were King, I Would Take You Far, Far Away.

I’ve never forgotten that scene or those words.
He became my hero after that.
Only it turns out it was Ronald Coleman
who was in that movie
and it was he who spoke the lines.

Memory’s a funny thing.
I remember you loving me.

Hope

Once more the ever-threatening darkness
comes as with a will,
bringing before it a desolate and
unrelenting landscape.

The gray, roiling skies,
the wind like a knife,
and the cold unforgiving ground give evidence
that life has disappointed
and deceived.

Before me lies a wasteland upon
which no living thing moves.
The way before me is littered
with the stench and decay
that once was life. I wander
this path of torment and loss,
no longer search for the home
where my journey began. I seek only
shelter from the killing environment.

Soon my weary spirit
weakens and my step falters.
As I surrender to despair,
as much in supplication
as defeat,
the thorns and sharp stones
of the frozen earth impale my hands.
It is there, on my knees,
that I discover the small nub,
a kernel of eternity and renewal.

No gardener am I but
I know this seed
for what it is: the rough husk
concealing long forgotten
visions of a life filled with promise and
expectation.

My broken and bleeding
fingers beseech the barren soil
for purchase and lay the seed
amongst the stone and nettle.
And then its cover falls
away revealing the miracle of
a small green bud already
unfolding.

The dead season
dissolves as if by magic,
washed from me by a warm
spring shower, and in the pool
that forms, the reflection overhead
is of azure and gold.

And as I lift my face
to the rising light,
God comes laughing and dancing
across a liquid green meadow.

seven stars

my grandpa said he used to
grab hold the moon
when it was sleeping on its back
and pull himself up
reach out and grab the handle
tip that ladle and
drink from those seven stars

being a kid
I saw them differently
they were a mama bear
walking the night skies
with her cub
I’d watch them move
from the north into the northwest sky
and back again
while a motionless earth
secretly spun

and just as grandpa
I would leap from star to star
my child’s heart traveling
the unknown
into the endless night
of space and its tiny lights

somehow
somewhere I lost that child
and I lost my way
I could no longer
look out on that black sky
mistook awe for fear
couldn’t figure out where
I fit in with that dark eternity

I stopped looking
sought those temporary distractions
that pull at us all
behind which we hide
when the dark comes looking
but sometimes life gives back
some of what it takes
and on this clear night
without fear I look again in wonder
as that bear and her cub still walk the night
and know that they always will

as my gaze briefly drifts
a sleek metal cylinder
makes its hurried way across the moon
my eyes follow its path for a moment
and just as quickly it’s gone

for a moment . . . I wonder if you’re working that flight

but nothing holds me now
one day soon that sleeping moon
will set and no dawn will follow
life and love but short moments in time
those seven stars
about as close as I can get to forever