lost city
buried in
time
by
jungle
someday
your metropolis
will be
crumbled
&
overgrown
but we’ve
forgotten
how to
forget
all that is known
is locked away
&
shot into space
a call
to the heavens
but forgetting
is a laudable skill
&
therapeutic, too
sniffing mouse
waggles its sniffing nose
turns & retreats
cheep-cheep
baby bird calling
no answer
steaming coffee
lazy tendrils
curl idly
overcast
Prague skies above
faux winter
Chase me down ’round the bend
All great men seek amends
When they’re caught red-handed,
&
their clan is disbanded
They throw into dark tides
time-wrecked, busted past pride
lost to all foreign shores
like
sand-sunk litter of past wars
you’ll some night die
frost in your beard
you’ll some night die
trudging through snow
you’ll some night die
presaging numbness
you’ll some night die
smelling the smoke
of a cabin unseen
wondering where
that heat source lies
you’ll some night die
one winter night
in life’s autumn
subterranean
take a thick slab wall &
bury it deep underground
a tomb smothered by tombs
rat squeak reality check
is the only sound one knows
except… when they come
when they come
there’s the warning squeal
of the rusty hinge of a metal door
faint means it’s another cell
a melange of guilt & relief
tingles about one’s skin & viscera
but when the squeal is
like a plow furrow
rutting up one’s spine
they’ve come for you
bobbing up and down
lulling one to reverie
waves lap sans a sound
ride the wave
float the tide
you’re energy’s slave
til the day you die
The walls throb and gargoyles attack
an hour into midnight climax.
Pipe cleaner Kama Sutra twists
chronicled indiscretion lists.
His hand dissolves into puddle.
Giggling; he’s become befuddled.
She’ll take him for a midnight ride
while with acid he is plied.
A night to remember, he will have lost
until the Polaroids do accost
The residue of an unremembered dream
clings to my consciousness.
Tainting my day in indescribable ways.
These tailings leave a taste.
Indescribable, but if feels a little bit like
a place that I once lived,
mixed with a monsoon rain morning,
and just a hint of angst.
Some books are wings,
lifting one up to see countless things.
Untethered, be your rise,
glimpsing vistas known to the wise.
Some books are blocks,
building up a reader’s bulwark box.
Barring ideas opposed
to a mind certain and closed.
Which books are which?
book’s soar = f (reader’s fears)
Grant me my ignorance.
Don’t encroach on this spinning enigma
with false facts
&
didactic diatribes.
The part I was written was one
naïf & wary.
Let me embrace the grandiosity
of mystery.
Let me stare dumbstruck at
the weight of all
I do not know.
Let me revel in subtle discovery,
leaving findings grand & mythical
to others.
And should I unearth a shard–
a dull and fractured fragment
of truth.
Don’t feel it’s weight puny
&
shuck it into the desert
of the known.
Let me treasure it as a monument,
if simple & unadorned.
