Some of my poetry is pretty dark, so be forewarned. If you want pretty poetry, buy a Hallmark card.

****

My

aloneness

burns

white hot

in the bottom

of my heart;

I search

for the blacksmith's

water.

My hopelessness

pierces

the sky

and in return,

it bleeds on me:

rain in an alleyway.

I turn my face upward

to protest

the wetness.

Its coldness flows

over me

as I lay

in a growing

puddle

and scream

at the heavens

to stop.

But the world

cannot hear

my cries,

for they

are

silent.

 

August, 1988

 

****

 

Pressed

under a fallen car;

jacks collapsed.

I no longer taste

the sweet air

for the blood

in my

mouth.

The weight

of my pain

falls

through me

to the ground,

wet and dank.

I lay crushed

on my

couch

unable to speak

or scream

for help.

Faces peer

through the crack

and breathe

my precious

air.

In their

indifference

I can see

the true

prison

of my life.

 

November 1988

 

****

 

Under the

crackling

ashes

of a crimson

fire

I lay,

sheltered by

its heat.

Underneath

the ashes

it is cold

and tame

and easy

to live.

Effort is

unknown

for the fire

provides

everything;

it only asks

for air

in return.

I pray

for the day

I can

reach through

the embers

and sear

my skin

to

the bone.

June/July 1989

 

****

 

Sitting

in the

booth

I peer

sheepishly

out of the

dirty window.

Through the smell

of strong

coffee

and artificial

maple

I can see

the world

rushing by:

a junior high

geography film

on fast forward.

My own reel

slows

to a snail's pace

as I wallow

on the seat's

false

leather.

It squeaks

as I attempt

to rise,

late again.

July 1989

****

 

The music:

Austrian

castles

and silk

stocking

buckles,

takes reality,

a pit

of dogs

starving

and rabid,

and throws them

to dream.

 

Notes

hypnotic

resound

from the

marble,

polished

and cold

under the

blue

and yellow

panes

of cathedral

light.

 

A frenzy

of contentment

unleashed

to the air

drives

mundanity

before it.

It ends

as it began,

in the

silence

of violin

strings.

 

August 1989

****

 

I am haunted

by her

face.

A smokey

whisp

of apparition

in a book

filed

deep behind

today's

thoughts.

The drawn

face

once angelic

and

smooth

now waits

for the

sting

of death.

 

I wonder

if her

eyes were

blue.

Or maybe

they were

green

like jade.

In those

eyes

I feel

the cold

scrape

of metal

upon metal.

 

For a

moment

I wish

that

I

could have

been there,

a knight

in mail

to save

her life.

But I

was not even

born yet.

And maybe

if

I had

been alive

I would

have been

the apparition

in black;

the man

of skulls

with the

pistol

in his hand

and a smile

on his

face.

 

August 1989

End of Page 2

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