For some, it wavers, I fancy,
as does a candle’s flame.
In others, it is
compacted and hard,
unreached by the light.
Molecules from a veiled realm,
finding fate and purpose.
Unlucky are those without shields,
for their radiance flows freely,
a boon for all,
but soon tainted.
What’s pulled us so far from shore
Tethered no more to the drumbeat of the soul
Senseless we fish further afield
Stymied by the junk of jetsam
From others who’ve been here before
And shout for joy at fools’ gold
So easy for the taking
Then turning to tarnished tinfoil.
Funny, how it comes.
Boots in the snow by the mailbox.
A pause, and a seeing.
You know who your friends are,
and they’re not who you thought.
Seems you’re in the change of life, my friend.
High fives are in order.
No longer are they birds
in a guilted cage.
That house on the hill-
how many times
have you passed it and wondered
what goes on in their hearts?
Is it wrong that you want to know, voyeur?
And today you think,
cocking your head to the side,
of the Goddess who spooned out the land
and treed it to sequester.
This attached head
that hums,
as merrily we roll along.
That swells
at the scent of compliments,
but sees
the pricking needle at the ready.
That’s testy as a new bruise.
Has a black hole to do the vacuuming,
and packs a straight razor,
thinking of severed ears.
Walk with me today, I beg.
I feel as if there are corpuscles of sunshine,
even though the day’s light is grey-filtered.
It’s all bought and paid for, no?
So come, if you please.
I hope you are not afraid
that I might tell you secrets kept too long,
and all the reasons for a fateful change of mind.
Do you miss
Do you want
Something lost
Are you here to look
without telling?
It’s one in a million,
I sadly say.
But, star-crossed as we might be,
the future’s not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
There’s no one to adore it.
Too hard-shelled and prickly,
I guess.
Transgressions bought and paid for.
Still, there are soft surfaces of want.
In the shower,
(hotter, hotter),
there’s that brain stem shiver.
White-eyed,
photogenic as an actor’s orgasm.
Tell out loud
how good coffee lingers
like nicotine fingers.
Remember now
how a curly head kid
had to keep up with Dad,
no proffered hand,
in a strange land
of cigars and racing forms.
*Outta my way, kid.*
And men behind wickets
spat out the tickets
but seldom gave us money back.
And now, coffee cooling,
I think of tag-along days that are long gone.
And I remember how Dad always smelled of cigars,
though he never smoked one.
And how I came home from those days of loss
to a crying mother
and fights in the kitchen.
Don’t worry, baby.
It’s a long while yet
(He said)
Would you rather it be sudden,
or protracted and storied?
Either way, I’ll oblige.
Dignity. Yes we must have it.
No blubbering, quivering,
or hand holding.
Just close the door.
Snick the lock.
I’ll set an alarm.
Aremyfeetofftheground 