Black

 

Between misty twilight
and the cobalt ink of night,
you cunningly slip by veiled.
I sail away on the ship of fools;
forbidden waters are my tremulous haven.

You fathom, having survived
a thousand days of strife.
Your wisdom seduces, guides
me into treacherous tides,
where I survive the crafty undertow.
No one truly comprehends
living in your own steely shadow;
you are obliged to dwell
under the midnight sky,
seek illumination from a burrow of stars,
navigating perplexing, vulnerable paths,
obliterating what was consumed,
because no one can assist
straightaway, except sheer sensibility.

I zealously voyage to fresh continents
governed by fervent faith,
but not out of belligerent blindness,
for you are in my blazing vision.
I feel secure, comforted.
Is that some aberrant crime?
If so, I have committed treason
against my fickle emotions,
retreating, fading into you,
locating a plush landing
in feather beds and azure pillows.

Let's exonerate our stubborn stupor,
never looking back, eliciting distorted
madness. The future has liberated
endless  possibilities, an array of
ruby riches replenishing parched souls.

Our destiny sings gilded psalms:
brittle blackness replaced
by opaque dawn.

Words

Words split like nails,
dividing the page into nonsense,
slick adjectives coveting
somber nouns, as shy similes
compete with mellifluous metaphors,
the distinct alliteration spreading
his azure peacock feathers.
It all amounts to crap.

I sit perched
like a green parrot
stewing with anemic fragments
that I ardently desire to coalesce,
propagate, flourish,
into the Tower of Babel
Winged Victory,
or the Statue of David,
or just sit there and rot,
but instead they ruthlessly smirk
and scowl, exasperated
by my wandering eye,
and lackadaisical ability
to produce a profound poem
for wistful eyes to savor,
devour, and digest.
I am willing to admit,
I am lonesome out here
with just my parchment and quill.

As if in a Fellini film,
abstract shapes and metaphysical concepts
dominate, as my milky thoughts ruminate,
and what materializes from a jumble
of prepositional phrases and onomatopoeia
is something much more surprising,
forgiving, and treasured.
The gibberish that flailed
from my pious pen
is now engaged and humming.

Action verb here. No, there. Check.
Modifier before proper noun. Check.
Adverb in my back pocket. Check.

Sometimes, what is agonizingly valid,
is to patiently wait and acquiesce
to the Mafia bosses that govern
the wonderment of poetics,
to settle in and permit
that silver magic to germinate,
take flight, and soar
over broad oceans
and placid valleys,
finally saturating,
aligning, rearranging,
into a form that is substantial.

And when that finally happens,
then it is time
to feed the cat,
make up the bed,
wash the dishes,
take the dog for a walk.

Now, sit down
and prepare yourself
for the  perpetual
editing process.

Simplicity

Fickle memories unsettle
    causing a stack of dominoes
    to crumble beneath the weight
    of silver gravity: a shimmering
    moment fading, paling,
       the black and white photograph,
       the one where my right leg
       is unconsciously draped
       over your languid left knee,
          while we tremulously pose
          for a succulent kiss,
          your taut frame pinning
          me against the charcoal cushion.

There are no lavish lies here,
     just an unbridled, painted truth.

I was alive; you were alive.
    The fuming fire that penetrated
    was merely reality declared
     in that fervent snap shot,
     sealed for a future remembrance.
          I still embrace you in folded skin
          and raging veins. I still savor
          your butterscotch lips,
          as my tingling tongue caresses
              salty skin.

It is a caramel keepsake,
    a tangy indulgence that reaps
    molten sentiments, a docile souvenir
    from years passed, but the prickly
    present betrays me; I can hear
        saccharine whispers of “I love you”,
        or “It’s going to be okay babe”,
        worst yet, “the doctors have discerned
        the problem”, the sound
             of the perpetual optimist, the court
             jester dancing to his last breath.

“Damn you. You promised. You promised!”

The breakable moment flees
     to just a sore blotch, sinking
     inside the satin stains
     of my hallowed stomach.
           I trudge on, not out of perseverance
           but out of reverence. You completed
           me. I fulfill us by remembering.

Capricious Polaroid. I finally beam,
     inhale a gust of breath, liberate it,
           and tacitly remain satiated.

Domination

Languid sermons streamed from lavender lips,
    hypnotizing, speaking of torrid battles wagered . 
    and banalities anguished by molten lovers
        and extolled victims, controlled by intoxicating demons.

The visions were of his portentous creation;
     he was both malevolent dictator and shrewd conqueror,
        mixing toxic equivocations and perplexing potions,
           spinning fabrications into golden scepters.

It was a blatant sucker punch, the sort that blasted my guts,
    a duplicitous suggestion that I would concede
    to his persuasive sliver tongue, proffering
        my unblemished soul for wicked werewolves to thrash.

I was bamboozled, befuddled, bewildered, as he heartlessly
    maneuvered his ice queen to check my charismatic king,
    beckoning his scrupulous defectors, judicious benefactors
        of my solemn spirit, now employed as brainless pawns,
        soured by tainted complicity, shrouded
            in impervious armor, to brashly overthrow
            the inked baron of embedded emotions.

After the occupation, before my dance with death was consummated,
    I liberated my baby blues, awakening to a blistered world,
    confronting the playground bully aboveboard,
        demanding, commanding, that the briny fear be vanquished,
        given the same insecure foundation, my harkened birthright,
            my baptism, my metamorphosis. And in that brilliant
            moment, I conceded, and shed alabaster skin.