Tag Archives: #sadness

HOW YOU FEEL SO ALIVE

HUG me but leave me alone
tonight kiss me but say nothing
harvested feelings come and go as
ghosts weeping for you and me
watching how we changed: smooth skin to lines
firm convictions weakened tells me there is more
i held the hand of failure and watched how love died
like we never had brakes once so alive and now changed
i watched the sun explode like nothing ever before seen
and once so alive — watched it change.
you left me alone / months into years and decades gone \ and its
like you never went away always alive and eating my insides.
watching how we changed ah oh ah i watched the sun explode.

i look at the plot of ground
and the green grass of Earth
tomb stone and words with tears
it is like you never went away
still so alive.

:: 05.03.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


SO NOW

so now

That the Iris opens her eyes upon early morning sun
that the wind dances her showy flowers and is luck
the lost voice of forgotten lovers?

some Not

when wind forgets its dance and green devours
(feelings) by nature’s beauty shall the fisherMen
of hearts sail from continent to unknown places;
their gravely instilled by amorous desire.

some NullAS not would never go there.

:: 01.21.2021 ::


IN THE DARK

LIFE isn’t so easy from the weakest side
somehow it pulls you into the darkest life
and emotions, so hard to hide
and decisions you make are a habit
so hard to break!

Do you need a friend? would you take me
inside, alone in the dark?

Do you read the words you write —
are you sure sometimes the illusions
are not real?

Can you blame away the pain?
Can you leave me alone in the dark?
(in the dark?).

Do you need a friend that tells no lies?
Would you appreciate my words if i never
took a chance with your heart?

Habits, so hard to break.

Love, so hard to hide.\

In the dark.
In the dark.
In the dark.

:: 12.30.2020 ::


SUN AGAINST THE NIGHT

The nasty dark night ate the sun!

The farmers wailed against the dim moon,

“Be sane, or make it otherwise!”

Yesterday i awoke with a torn brain

against lover’s thousand acidic eyes

ripped apart by dying beds.

My screaming wish held but just Ourselves–
and Immortality.

:: 12.21.2020 ::


OH BY THE BY

Oh, by the by — oh my
how i wept upon a sigh
gently flowing on my side/
knowing emptiness within
my mind\  Oh, by the by —
creating worlds within my
lonely mind — never touching
tender female skin:  always
kissing empty spaces and
aching to die.

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep
comfort.

:: 10.14.2020 ::

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep
comfort.

:: 10.14.2020 ::


TO BE SO SAD

TO be so sad that your tears
flee you is the greatest depth
of sadness.

the perfect point to hit upon the
diamond:  shaving off all humanity
and anyone else…
     whoever gave
a damn is not anyone
i ever knew and that tears me apart.
breaks my heart.

I watch from the tiny window of my
decaying Soul.  

::: 08.02.2020 ::


NARCISSUS (An elaborate Dream)

IF YOU HAD A WILL and testament
would it be written and read
within your perfect shapes
of curves and s-plashing reds
and of dying flesh?
AND if everything around you
is not quite as what it seems?
so if everything you ever
knew was just an elaborate
dream? As Narcissus would you
look upon your image and find
yourself afraid to see?
Hunting forever(y)
things that mean nothing at
all but the treasures all always
around you.
ALL CREATIONS OF YOUR PAIN

:: 07.12.2020 ::


NO NEED FOR APOLOGIES

there is no need for apologies
the sun sat melting over
the stubborn day’s edge

as my love does for you

And tonight well this night
a messenger sent her touch
a message ultimately meant
for us

but the nightingale sang its
melodious voice and a
noblest wisdom ate the words

intentions are well meant but
ignorance an obscuring dusty
path

And the moon glow is a blanket for
jilted ghosts who have no
where to sleep
as me.

:: 09-03-2018 ::