Tuesday, May 2, 2000


When the world has begun to spin
and the lines of resolution blur into the horizon of snow - 
the picture will not be adjusted;
and it sometimes becomes necessary to know
    more than your place - 
but a reason for staying put.

Sunday, April 30, 2000


Of all the emptiness and disdain -
    for which I have no explanation
    but the mass consumption of human spirit - 
    the lengths to which man (myself, foremost of the cast)
        will to which
        and find his own destruction;
    the manner in which we cast ourselves the
    fool and the lonely lot of living in open
        graves - 

I have found nothing to prove myself
    holy, nor in that search anything to
    make the days be anything but a
        suffering laid upon the altar for a 
        God who sees me as I truly am.

Pity nihilism does not offer me the fortitude 
of blasphemy.

Thursday, April 27, 2000

on bubbles

How would one justify the extent of the madness - 
    what is the weight, in grams, of the lie for which we
    built the house

- And once the house was built and mortar dry and
    tapestries and paintings clothed the walls
    to end the hollow echoing through empty rooms

- And when children emerged from tiny rooms to play
    and run and roll down stairs and scrape the walls
    and stain the rugs and to let goldfish die

- And when dinner parties lasted late into the evening
    followed by coffee and cigars, and the furniture
    had to be replaced for the sake of social status,
    and the guest rooms torn down to make the library
    of books never opened past their inscriptions on the third page
    and the chipped china of wedding presents thrown out
    rather than given to charity

- And when the children were no longer that but something else
    and rather like a mirror which does not fade in the absence 
    of light, and when they themselves invariably vanished one
    to be replaced by the hand of the postman full of bills
    and blank postcards and the occasional ringing phone

- And when retirement lept out in ambush armed with
    reasons and sensibilities too many and too great to

- And when the thousands of admirers who had once graced
    the presence of the house and worn her into something 
    fashionable suddenly become as mist, and rooms so long
    unused and filled with vague memories of once important things
    become too much to look at

- When the house becomes too much to bear, old and alone,
    and the thought of a quiet townhouse with no yards or maids
    seems as beautiful or tangible as winter roses

-When the time comes to sell and move on:

Does the lie still follow you? Or was it bundled with the mortgage?  

Wednesday, April 26, 2000

time sensitive


    is truth.


At times I wish only that my heart would open inside my mind,
that I might cry with new sorrow and weep new tears of salt and mist.
But I am hard and stubborn and have only a vague idea 
of what beauty may or may not be.

Why write and for what humanity? To be a child...
To be again loved as a child; to again yearn for the self indulgence indulged a child...

    yet more than death waits 
        for those who wait
            for love

Tuesday, April 25, 2000


Where ever shall I go to find myself a drink
    to match my thirst?

I fancy myself a drinker, with a fair grasp of
the chords and melodies - and a spirited dancer.

One should grow new eyes each day - 
and save the old, to constantly remember the world
as it was just five minutes prior.

Sunday, April 23, 2000

in the end

In the last days they will say to him,

    stretching out their hands as if to grab the whole
    of the world,


    "Did we not speak of this to you?
    You stand alone, and when we turn to leave - 
    you will die without even a twitch
        from the nose of God.
    The world moves on, moves on - old man.
    No place remains in the halls of memory
    for you. The world is quick and swift
            to judgement, merciless in her damnation;
    where shall you go - all has gone before you
    for naught..."

but he will hear no more than a few scattered
words of their speech, nor will he pay heed to
their presence.

Sitting on his perch on the edge of the world,
in the last throne room of the last stronghold where
    the earth still ends in a shower of
    mist and foam and power into a 
    dark unknown,
watching the fangs of unnamed leviathans
    gnawing at the surface of the deep - 
he will rise up and set sail from the brink,
    perhaps allowing himself a glance backward
    at a world gone strange,
and, catching the last gust of the North Wind,
allow the abyss to swallow the tail of that impossible
    Sail - for a year or a day
    and find a place fit to sit and think. 

Saturday, April 22, 2000


How can we propose to fashion for ourselves life or livelihood - an attempt to
        order the pieces of a puzzle when we have neither the will nor the 
        ability to see the portrait for what it might have been rather than what
        has been, in so bleak a way, assembled to represent happiness, laughter - 

And at what juncture do we cease the self-proclamation of Godhood and
        admit to ourselves that we have never once given serious attention to
        Truth, but to the rules that define our physical world.

    When I die, I wish to breath my own blood as I scream in agony pure and
    intense. Slowly, slowly that I may earn the breaths that I took in vain.

Friday, April 21, 2000


I didn't touch the coffee;
but, rather, watched it steam
and felt vaguely the heat of it
through; and when I was certain
it had become entirely cold and
useless to anyone of good taste;
I paid my bill and left.

Thursday, April 20, 2000


of all the days of my 
my life, I only truly
regret a moment in
the day I mistook
the look of haste on
her face for a

Tuesday, April 18, 2000


If I leave today I have lost nothing
but my impatience;
if I linger here I gain time to wait,
and linger longer.

Saturday, April 15, 2000


Of the days that dwell within 
    the numbness of my toes
    and the hours spent in 
    concentration quiet and intense -

Blankness in some guise has
     found me with clamped eyes
     and pinched nostrils,
     leaning back into the fall
    and looking only at the 
    retreating face of imagination
    and hope.

I trust that resolves the issue.