It is not all as we imagined,
the millions massed together
like crayons in a fish bowl,
Ethnic diversity to color the walls
in hues tolerating the intolerance
in multi-lingual multiplicity;
abstractions on concrete.
Here we are
like rejects from a wax museum,
melting into the cracks.
If I could reach through the glass,
and hold your life, just as fragile as mine,
would I finally see reality through the virtual?
We can’t count on the digital to be a balanced equation,
as the image presented is edited and selected to fit the frame.
A glowing life is put together by pixels,
so small, that we miss the point, of light.
Emotion is lost in the logic of our devices,
unable to calculate the risk down to the duality
of the binary choice of yes or no.
We present a pleasing image of perfection,
separated from reality by the screen we project.
Saint Anthony’s Fire©
I grew the fungus on the seeds,
into liquid in a beaker.
Chemistry is fun. Bonding
and numbers, until H2SO4.
Colors morph into the faces
of the monsters of my imagination.
Buildings breathe as I ride home,
watching the special effects
like an IMAX movie
on the back of my lid.
I am gratefully dead.
No. Wait. I’m
sitting in the corner.
If you touch me
my juices will spill out.
I am an orange.
Between The Lines
The image exists in,
and between the lines,
as they throw you for a curve,
if you listen to the silence
found after the words.
Pages of black and white
describe the shadows of understanding,
rendered in red by what You said,
as I delve into the layers of meaning
and find questions beyond
amid the lines, I try to describe.
Centrifugal effect pulls
fragments of broken dreams
towards the outer edge,
to stick to reality’s walls.
Standing in the center
a blur of colors blends to gray,
absolved, dissolved, and drained,
as my tears are pressed out
of my memories;
which are ready to clothe
my consciousness in a previous style.
I reach into the darkness.
Shadows of the past,
remind me of the faded substance
that I touched so long ago.
The dim figures
play tag with my emotions,
as the substance of the present
brings memories of the shadows
and the obscure fear of the future
becoming this history,
of faded forms in the darkness,
I no longer, can embrace.
Crossed In Love
Running through postmodern philosophy
and the darkness of occult obscurities,
fact and mystery blurred my vision
into false abstractions in my mind.
Images of an incomplete idealism
distorted my rhymes into clever foolishness,
and I realized I was lost in the meaning of my words.
The lines of my life converged,
as significance shifted from below to above,
as one metaphor left its meaning
on the pages of my life,
fact and mystery, crossed in love.
The Angel Of Light shines through her face,
as she blots with a dark brush
the same old ancient rhetoric combined
into compound splotches of postmodernism.
A free thinker conned into the captivity
of her own ideas.
There are many like her, and I was one;
confused by a world of fools
mixing paint for blind artists
smearing gloomy hues on themselves.
We could only paint in composite black,
the words illuminated by the dark light
of our spirit guide,
as we lose our way, in creative chaos.
The battle rages on through the night,
principalities and powers
draw lines around my soul,
as I walk the seen and familiar,
just a shadow of the real.
Darkness and light
soon to trade places in the morning.
The grey hour of decision has come,
and I lie awake with the truth,
caught in the crossfire
of belief and uncertainty.
Would you listen to me
stretch my words
across my instrument,
the tension of an era
in tune with a note of regret.
Vibrating with life,
collectively we strike a chord,
in harmony with each other’s desires,
we play the syncopated seduction
or confident contrapuntal
until the strings of love loosen,
and off pitch,
we forget the tune.
Walking in the shadows
of my world,
blocks the glow that I know shines
on the other side of my desires.
Were I to tear down the walls
of wishes for wealth and security
and stand in the light, exposed,
would I still cast a shadow,
stretching out across humanity,
of our need to be illumined?
Or would I simply disappear,
in Your radiance?
Deviations On The Word Love©
I Googled the word love,
and got the children
of Margaret Atwood
and William Shakespeare
looking for fun acronyms
for sexually transmitted diseases.
Human kind has tried to define
its longing for security and significance,
and come up with an ambiguous mixed metaphor
that we can’t resolve.
More variations than sonnets
finding their way to free verse,
and free verse deteriorating
into twenty second sound bites
of x-rated performance art.
They cut my feelings inside,
at least I know I’m alive.
The steel of my resolve
sharpens my anger
and I balance on the edge
of my sensations.
I may fall into depression or rage,
as I walk the boundary between
cold numbness and bleeding awareness
of the thoughts and memories
flowing from the wounds,
that refuse to heal.
I bare the scars on my arms
that used to hold them.
Cutting away relationships,
the edge of emotion slid
over the thin skin that covers me,
and my feelings bled, the color of love?
Candy coated water drops,
the sweet sensation
of playing in the rain;
hiding the tears of another season
that approached to soon.
Cold kindness shrouded in mystery
the color only gets darker,
as feelings freeze
like icy memories,
lost in the drizzle
of the syrupy sweetness,
that I knew.
A Voice In The Mass
Red, blue, green or gold,
lines in the Metro crossed
through the streets with no name.
Through its walls the city groans
and is ashamed of its pain.
beats down the walk,
as I stand at the entrance
to a world I can see,
broken in the law of entropy.
One man stands in this world of poverty,
as we’re building and burning down love,
and the glow of our cells shining in mass,
lights a way to commune with our call,
to bring peace to our world and hearts, at last.
The Creator’s Crystal
A shattered life,
the glass fell
as would inevitably happen,
so the clear fractured into frustration.
Pieces sprawled across the floor of reality,
so far, that no one could pick up
on the beauty that once was.
Only the Creator of the crystal
could gather the pieces
and melt them down
into a vessel to be used again,
to be seen as whole and perfect,
Years Of Pages
The old year staggers
into the blur of last night,
as we sang a whisky lullaby
to our conduct done in the fog
of our minds.
We retire those moments
and awake to time pounding
our heads with our day-planner;
glaring at us in blank whiteness.
This year is ours to turn.
Pages will fill with growth.
Friendships will age and warm,
and blow by, and die,
as we close the book
and its measured time,
that was turned into
memories, of rhyme.
Determined To Be Free
Time turns and the chosen
becomes the chooser.
in one causing the other.
Are the free determined,
and are the determined free?
Our will tangled in time and space,
and the First and Last
seeing the first and last,
in the moment, of the present.
I want to cry out
it’s on the tip of my tongue,
meaning missing in the moment,
breathing the smog of other’s words
only to cloud my thoughts in polluted plagiarism.
Sprawling arguments across intellectual property,
proclivity gives in to progress to produce a product
marketable to the masses of media moguls on Mondays.
Copy infringing on rights to make more of the same.