Sunday, November 30, 2008

From The Blessings of True Fables

Outside the Palace of Fine Arts
the brassy bedouin gifted
this uneasy teen
her guitar.
And as
he slipped beneath
the sassy spell of
crazed voodoo spirits,
wicked fingers blazed
electric on its strings,
and wailed alongside the waif's bluesy
this-is-the-last-song-I-will-ever-sing voice.
A mic in one hand and swigs of
Southern Comfort from her other,
she would dub him "Raoul",
an unsung
sober no longer
in the drunken
of the spring moment
that would never
leave him.

The Bowl

The still air stabbed by foreign words.
"I hate you, daddy."
Its dull thunder rumbled through
his humbled body
and left
as an uninvited guest.

A distant star dimmed.

Feeble eyes darted
to regain
Guilt replaced the drained blood.


The star brightened.

"You know, sweetness,
I would probably hate my daddy too
if he didn't let me have
my fourth bowl of ice cream!"

Their duet of unbridled bouquets
of laughter
squealed from the carpeted floor.

Through A Scratched Sky

Grape squeezed with thumb and finger,
juices lingered on her face,
traced her chin
and fell starkly on pale skin

like souls sliding through a scratched sky
asking "Why, why this madness?
What address is sin?"
then fell deep within

the seams, the screams of insanity,
urgent vanity, unsung stirring,
blurring the real and surreal in,
within ether sweetened wind.

Crisp water erased
in haste, what laced our gruesome feast,
and released the redemptive unseen,
that keen white towels wiped clean.

Having kissed broken glass
we passed hallways of mute nether.
Whether passive souls can weep,
they keep our unfulfilled sleep.