Dear Fantasy, 2010

Dear fantasy
remember me?
our hopes and dreams that died?
the charcoal floor and ink-drop skies
The child a light that never lit
but no eraser can erase it
for its place, behind a face,
across a damsel’s neck;
Lux Aeterna I’ll never forget.

She was a make believe child for us
a surrogate child, I thought it’d be,
another miserable orphan like me,
perchance a real child, with
the listless friend miss make believe
The world was but a wall between us
halfway across the world
I knew some other type of man
had found the only girl
the only girl who understood
who left me in the dark, who would
allow me to learn for myself.

The light of Lux has darkened now,
and left the once fair-flowers, how
met by chance but yet through fate
the connection of a life so intricate
a life with patterns as the seams
moods that idle as the leaves
of August at the end of spring
where sublime angels walk my dreams.
They tell me of a world where there,
Lux is a girl with golden hair,
her father’s eyes and mother’s cheeks.
The vibrant child looked right at me.
You’ll never see me in your life,
a dream too fast to catch.

The face, appeal, intellectual zeal
Perfect for a wannabe
who could not be the slightest reel
a reel of clapping birthday parties,
letters in the mail.
And one from me,
a book colored white.
And I remembered then the night,
I clipped a strand for my fair hair
and sent it out to Cali, where
it wound up in a box of dreams
a box long crushed and lost
When first I heard about the loss,
of the elegant box and strands of hair.

Into the woods behind the house,
I stole away to find the plot,
where had been buried my dear box.
I dug about the cornfields where
I found no luck in the soil, no where
until the thought arose:
The reason for the outfit
is more important than the clothes.
The hair in the box the long frayed lock
sent across the land
For why it went, from the hart it was sent,
two people saying alive you
in gestures with their hands.

The King of Nowhere, 2010

If you’re like me then you’re alone,
staring at the clock, the phone,
one wish the voice might come back on
to say, “Won’t you be with me, today?”
The call will never come.
My heart is on the windowsill
and constant still
hitchhiking like a thumb,
but no one wants to pick it up,
“Too high a cost,” they say.
With their happy smiles they fade away,
a reflection turned down dull a phase
a phase malaise a stage erase and smudge
a burnt cigarette like the day.
Another act our tragic play.

The King of No Where sleeps alone,
no queen, no crown,
an opiate sea he used to drown
the melancholy was his own
his own to fret and pine for days
like the actors in those tragic plays
No queen, no crown
no up, no down
The King of No Where lays.

He’s up, he’s down,
too few the ups around
fleeting vision dreams,
when hope is not at home.
Nobody there picks up the phone
and nobody says you are alone
it echoes back and on the rack
another sad nobody song.

Nobody hears the old king cry,
“This my tired alibi to stay,
to live, too long for light to see,
to touch,
but to embrace,
the glow of once so fair a face
like sun
like the rays of the moon when day is done
There’s redemption, not for some.
The King himself will never pardon.
There is no redemption, not for all,
king and slave messiah falls.
there’s room enough for us below
back to the earth
whose silent birth
we weren’t there to see
no eyes to look up to the sun
the dance as sol’s lone day begun
our blue marble not so far away
in time a line and then inside
one creature comes a thought,
a thought that leads to woe,
can often end as often well,
the mind it’s world rejoice;
to live and die is not our choice.
God gravity our tragedy he cannot see,
controls the silent destiny,
he hums and hums and hums alone
humans the subject of the song
the only song divine the dream
can in the silent tavern ring.
Some don’t even care to hear,
the lonely screams of nowhere’s king
his shouts dissolve and go
where the smoke goes when it blows.

The King without a Castle who
a thousand empty walkways through
on the coat tales of empathy
under a glass eye sympathy
children laugh and merry round
the king again in circles down
whirlwind leaves a shadow show
the children move in circles slow.
“Should I go and just slip through,
to that other country to,
where royal all the roaches go
Kings and clowns the same path down,
where all ends and begins,
no where to nothing once again.
Will the story end
begin again
or go,
across the stage a song, a show,
a bow before the eyes
the kisses blown the judges sighed
the curtain sewn to close.
The actor walks the empty rows
ghosts of cheers and jeers
climb into his hollow ears to speak,
bravo, bravo, t’was quite a show
and now the curtain falls;
when the director curtain calls.

Does father time in narrow lines
do a circle on the track
and screaming brings us beings back
Time may fly but does it end
and sometimes then begin again?
Wind the breath of God goes by
tears the angels when they cry
In man’s great songs
those sing along
the beauty is to know
where do our silent moments go?
A bit player on the strange, a sigh,
to talk the human alibi
the infernal why
answer one another rise
answer it another dies.

The saddest line of all is bye,
a second is infernal why.
why be?
to just the show one season see?
turn the page, the volume down,
and let us read in quiet now
about the king the crown and how
he came to wear them well.
He lay to watch the sky
as blue halos in the sun went by
round the sky the windless aisles
up and down just like a frown
under a blanket made of night
through which peers few specks of light,
the holes of light their eye peer through
the veil of darkness and for who?
another implication tossed
another generation crossed.
into songs, our hymns and chants.
Why do we love?
Why do we dance?
Just because we have the chance.

We have the chance to toss the why’s
look at beauty with our eyes
then rest,
out of being to the nest
the mind itself will manifest
the world of present, future, past
as silent figures wave bye pass
the streets of words and tones
under a streetlight, night alone
faces, places, words and things
one act of contemplation brings:
a bus stop and a girl, dark hair
the color copper, umbrella glass,
see through like a mirror cast.
just like another from the past.

Another on a lone bench waits,
for the king to come and take
their tears and pains and make,
all their tears turn to a smile
when the king of nowhere sad walks by
to beguile
with but a smile
one lonely lullaby
Letters in hand walk in a row
side by side and toe to toe
one says yes and one says no.
One says why and one says who
a poem shaped like déjà vu
Lost loves look at when those who
a lullaby languid sang or two
so some words could somehow soothe
and fall like curtains close the show
in sphere shape tendrils in the snow
the dream to be awoken from
further rolls as time is spun
and character’s act their part,
their lines were written
act by act the lines dispersed
after long have been rehearsed
the bouquet to offer who
déjà vu the record stutters
time the bird has hours fluttered
and started to repeat.

Some day the page may write itself
and the pencil might as well
of my grip tell sad a tale
in the end I wish them well.
Wish them well along with you
the king of no where no one knew
it’s been nice alone with you
if my page goes under eyes
if one alone to their surprise
sees a page return a glance
not just empathy, but chance:
to touch another on the soul,
the mind the body and the whole
what disappears the sense fled
these words of mine the heart has bled,
for you to read, for you to see,
the king of nowhere on his knees
saying help me, someone please,
before the king turns off the screen
those colored bars
whose stolen stars
turn silence into screams

Another Yesterday, 2010

A little stroll
another day’s assembly rolled
Off the line for but a time
And La, de, da it goes.
The quilt of day
Under which the children play
A walk
A little talk
It cannot last they say
and our tomorrow will become
another yesterday

Sunshine, the quilt of day,
Under which the flowers lay
Breathing, a walk
Nobody’s talk
It will not last they say.
All tomorrow’s in the end
are our dead yesterdays.

Light in strands bejewel the lawn
The birds red morning’s wake up song
The crickets chirp away
Languid sky the clouds sail by
Around a carousel of why

Laughter, someone’s in the room
Flares through the night like fireflies
Amidst the pearl studded sky .
How long is the song before,
the sojourn life our last detour
The door creaks shut and
there, alone,
Into our silent catacombs
Our Sleeping Chamber just below
To go
The undiscovered country and the row
Turns nothing day is gone
Back where we beings all call home
Those silent dust filled catacombs
Into that category gone
Jump rope and etch a sketch
And songs
Barbershop quartet sing alone’s
Children’s laughter, rum-tum-tum
Daffodils and bubblegum
The flowers fall under the Sun.

Goodbye in Falsetto, 2010

qGoodbye in falsetto,
tempo, tempo:
slow melancholy allegro.
too many times the song has played
over and over they muffled fade
when that dash between the dates
the hyphen of our life relate
Love or hate
but don’t forget.
Not you, my friend, the page,
writes the word farewell and waves
like petals in a dust storm rose
the jasmine lay and jasmine grows
does not compute
Nobody knows.

Does not compute
and that’s not fair,
machine breaks down again in err:
saying error saying error
NO SIGNAL blinks amid the grey
the program loop that syncs to say:
failure window door less caves
golden hair bright eyes the maze
its treasure on it’s bed to throw
another of its kind to grow
The living story incomplete
the hands behind it obsolete
the thoughts and constructs line by line
abode their hour, all their time,
and crept below, nothing to say.
That’s how it goes like wind that blows.
Around again like merry go.
Another goes away.

Don’t let me write the word
goodbye, to play pretend:
Want to feel?
just make it real;
chamber click
and chamber spin.
don’t let me write that word again,
the final word goodbye.
don’t let the pen commit sin
chamber click and chamber spin
would you like to play again?
gun to the head
let credit go.
buried in a grave called hope.

The words like worms
crawl out and squirm
rotting apple the bouquet
living funeral flowers
for the dead although they die
All the words once spun go bye.
When that bye comes to my life
when I know that I will die
the page whose bars
blot out the stars
are the lines for me,
in a cage no sympathy
shouting at the wall goodbye.
Just relax,
it echoes back
who are you? I called,
and, who are you? I heard.
the echo of some mocking bird

The brain again that tried to cry
to have to tell the body bye,
again only to see:
The bouquet of words like empathy
That is what the Wizard said,
there would be none for me.
so no more doors wait for amours.
the bleeding brain,
it’s tear to cry:
vague the shapes will sail on bye
and now it’s crystal clear:
wave bye they languid go
past the dead who’ve often said,
this is no place for why.
and the whisper of the wind
is the dead who try to cry.
as those who loved them once walk by
is always with them, in their ear,
who walk by wither cannot hear;
don’t forget me, say the dead.
amazing grace I’ve seen the face,
as blood in dropper blooms
sometimes though
why for? don’t know
say goodbye to an empty room
and then I go.
Outside the cage and merry go
to crawl into my room below.

The scroll is written,
outside time
and by the door we wait in line
Don’t forget me said the dead,
amazing grace I’ve seen the face
and sometimes I say goodbye
to empty rooms
a bye will go
again it echoes back
Say hey, alone
a pen at home
again the pen will write along
and ask me to explain
the goodbye song
about the brain that tried to bleed
the blood is what you see and read
brains bleed mutates into a page
behind the line I sign, the slave.
the love bleeds through a pen.
Chamber spin click END.
The Memories That Die

I sat to take some time to write
I don’t know what to say
A flight of fantasy perhaps, some tale,
of angels and demons
of heaven and hell
The heroes, and villains,
the shallow who dwell
the fake birds flutter by
into the pale translucent sky,

Or write about the real world where,
brief memories we strangers share,
the lives we’ve lived,
the dreams we’ve had
the days that woeful silent pass
there’s a crack in the servant’s looking glass
The dreams of Eden, dreams of home.
It’s not too late to die alone.
no need to bring the pen along
just smile and say Goodbye-
Descend into your bed below,
and silent sleep the eons by.
her eyes forgotten
the sins erased
I look forward to my death
more than any other day.
I’ve already arranged a will
and scripted out a play.
I can’t wait to die.
I’ll finally get to meet my maker
and look deep into their eyes
And present my list of whys.

Why do we love?
Why do we pray?
Where we made to act this way?
to fight forever for our lives
If there is no chance of winning
Why should we even try?

I believe when Death sees me
my life will flash before my eyes
I’ll see my father,
and my mother
smiling at his side
my little brother’s drawing
a cake with candles red which read
Happy Birthday, Brandon
Shouts and breaking bottles
ups and down
a set of eyes, a crying clown
A ballerina with a song
all these things that I have known
gather in one second, flash
and are forever gone.

I stood in the door way, and
sobbing held my father’s hand,
I love you too, he said.
I blinked her eyes and he was dead.
I stood there shivering in the room
where shadows from narrow trees eerie loomed.
crossed the body from the blinds
and streaked the dead in narrow lines
I stood there for a moment
and begged and prayed to God,
Keep my love, lest I go too,
I cannot leave my father who,
saved me from the suicide booth.
He did not close his eyes
I held my father’s arm
until my mother stumbled in
smudged make up and mascara drunk again.

I felt the stiffness of the limb
and hummed my father’s favorite hymn:
He used to say soul shine,
Its better than sunshine,
Its better than moonshine,
Damn sure better than rain.
Hey now people don’t mind,
We all get this way sometime,
Got to let your soul shine,
shine till the break of day

The quivering epithet was set
in stone after a day
I sat in the second row
and heard the preacher pray.
The good Lord Lives,
he gives and takes;
and all of us will meet Destiny
that one appointment we can’t break.
I remember the look when his life left his eyes
his muscles eased off and he sighed.
He might have saw the soul shine,
and surely saw the moonshine,
he often saw the rain.
But he never saw the sun again.

On the elevator to the lobby
I knew what I called God forgot me.
Then I understood the fall
Our only God forgot us all.
I look at people
cats and dogs
I look at them and sigh
as beautiful as they might be
someday they had to die

Some for crimes and some by chance
some for money and romance
but they all walk the way
in a singing row
they listless go
to dim when dies the day.

A thousand tragedy’s a day,
Romeo wasn’t the only man
who had to die that way
For Juliette’s whose auburn hair
stole Romeo’s soul as would a snare
on time the hour came:
Their words of beauty
languid lines
fell to pieces and with time
withered away with the page.

My romance has been a dance
with words and tones and rhyme
I’ve lived more on the page
than I have outside the lines.
All of my skies are ink drop lies

The gravel roads when young were long
Hank William sang we sang along
then later in my life I roamed
the dirt roads in the night alone
when he was almost five years gone

I ride those dirt-roads still
and play
Mad Season, Long Gone Day
We fall with the rain and wash away
to a place where all who go
never return and never know

will they blink out like a light
a lightning bug on a summer night
or leave the confines of the mind
leave the body out of time
into a golden field to find
the faces of the deathless still alive.

I thought of my childhood when
in vain I tried to find
The holy grail, some peace of mind
some genuine happy memory
a joy filled day of mine.
When I was young, when life was fun,
but when I ended up alone,
twenty and on my own
Between the needles in the silence
a voice inside came on:
and in my ears, I heard the song
that once with my father I sang along
The song had faded with the time
and turned into the sound of Mozart
as heard by a mannequin mind.

On that obsolete 8 track
a lilting requiem came back
in the song the old man sang
a simple and elegant melancholy refrain
The tape slowed to a stop.
I looked at the hourglass
prepared another shot.

The face comes back, the day he died,
I sat in my room and cried,
and felt an empty, vacant spot
like a man whom God forgot
The day he passed brought up the past
The same old man, whose loving hands
had saved me from an orphanage
I vowed that day to prove
to my acting family
they didn’t adopt a fool.

The hollow spot
filled with a shot
fake happiness and then
nodded off and often thought
of loves who cared who often shared
their laughter and their fears
who with the leaves of time,
they change
they ran together in the rain
and passed in but a breath
and left
naught but an urn upon the shelf.

A Song for the Forgotten, 2010

On a little ride in Caroline
a dead cat lies in dead grass high
as knees
and soon too cold without
the chance to die too old.
And sad it is a story told.

Sad it is a story where
There is no pen to show.
No little bird in all the world,
could dispel death with just a word,
So fray the strands of hair.

She cannot save
or take them there,
To show them care,
Forever, where,
They run and sing and play;
With kids and cats
both night and day,
Forever’s way,
There’s nothing left to say,

And no one will ever know.
Nameless, spectral, no one goes..
No tragedy,
Like those we see,
are worse than all the words,
which be,
For glitz and fortunes rare.

The ones which are with unknown star
out of hand and long too far,
is too strong and rare.
She’ll walk alone until she’s gone
And no one will even care.

No one will look—
Or read or that book,
No one alive but me.
And that would take
My heart and break it,
like a piece of stone.

The tragedies,
the kind which be,
are different and played on;
the screens, the stage,
from quill to page,
Where go:
The role they know,
The dice to show,
Their fate before our stare.

the ones not seen,
Where no one seems to care.
Those true to life,
outside the page,
where no one stands
no actors played,
those are the worse there are,
worse than those in fancy clothes,
And far off places, where—
In the sky some sing, some cry;
Some bend with ages, tear.

Tragedies when make-believe,
have a bright shining star.
Tragedies, the ones unseen,
By no one, all they go.
Without a star to go too far,
No one will get to know—
The nameless ones
Who sing, who sung,
And crept back down below.

No one alive will get to know,
the nameless ones who stole the show.
And brought down all the house.
Sometimes will glow a picture show,
With Golden lights and Romeo.
Juliette in the window all day;
she waits and waits,
and combs her hair,
Looks in the distance
with a stare
and pines the day away.

The sun goes down without a sound,
the curtain closed the page.
The sun goes down,
the moon runs ‘round,
and so has died the day.
The light inside the lover’s eyes,
who kissed the lips of Suicide,
Will wait until too late to die.
Sadder still are those who will,
Sing along the tragic song—
Of those once lived now gone.

The car arrived with death inside,
The Maiden left her ring;
to cross and ride the great divide,
and in the unknown sing.
Where kids long gone,
who died along
the road with cats will play:
deathless in the sun all day.
Nobody walks and no one talks.
There’s nothing left to say.

The dead there now just look, just nod,
and watch the children play;
They bide their time, pull in the line,
The dream will fade by day.
The song plays on, in silence on,
The Channel just to say:
Goodbye, goodbye.
No reason why,
the song will end someday.

Desolation Dr., 2010

A short detour one might suggest,
the poor and sorrowful know best.
It’s always raining there,
and grey,
endless lifeless pale grey days.
There is no sun to shine upon
the body shape that’s penciled on
the sidewalk where one fell.
Where endless are the pointless days,
live all time’s slave in great malaise,
with a blank stare on their face,
and waiting for the sun.
One minus one,
and then they’re done.
the figures fall like figs and plums,
on Desolation Drive.

All of those alone in pain,
call it that unfriendly name,
the Desolation Drive.
There long gone drones blow out their minds
queens live alone in broken hives.
Abandoned houses, empty lots,
cracking sidewalks, needles shot,
a place the word spelled hope forgot.

Yawning houses, knob-less doors,
empty crawling corridors,
hallways lead to dark rooms more,
unmade beds and tattered sheets,
crumpled paper roaches eat.
Empty plates and vials around.
An empty fridge, nothing inside,
turned yellow like the Queen Bee’s hive
where she mourns alone.
on a black board through a cello,
handprints in the dust.
Crayon paintings, postcards,
yesterdays now needed gone away.
Forgotten in the cigarette haze.

Silent empty corridors
identical catacomb rooms
Dirty towels on the floor
used jeans fraying used no more
a dropper in one pocket
love letter in the other
a burnt bottom rusted spoon
they fit so well together.

Clotted blood in droppers turn,
spread rose shapes in the grey.
No time and nothing left to do
like all the other days.

Hope is down.
The chips are low.
Looking for an exit-
and there is nowhere to go.
No signal.
No way to call.
“No refills,” says it all.
Empty bottles, no medicine now–
the Letter is unread;
in empty clothes where once was froze
another of the dead.
Spent and yellow cigarette butts
human stumps fall in the tray.
Broken clocks and broken robots,
the ones who love and break a lot,
they sing those sad old lines:
“Wrong place, wrong time,”
their lonely little nursery rhyme.
There is no fix for them.

There is no fix for those who lie
alone and look up at the sky
numb and dumb the day is done
and for them there is no why-
just how:
to get the fix that they need now
their only little fix to be
A normal person, to love, to hold,
like they do on other roads,
by desolation drive.
Where happy people live and smile
their dreams fulfilled the Miracle Mile.

Another day, the same old song,
chocolate wrappers on the lawn,
burnt up spoons and bodies gone.
Coffee cups long drained have cast
a stagnant halo on the glass.
Another day to waste away
puppets for the monkey play
Their tragedies and pass.

when Hope is gone.
The Chips are thrown,
across dirty tables slow.
They load the gun,
the barrel, spun,
gunshot silhouette shadow show.
No song, no mass,
no life, no past,
one lullaby they go.

Two Tragedies, 2009

There was a tale about a Queen–
Whose real name was Kathryn.
She was a broken flower,
Unable to be picked, or helped,
And by her dead king lay;
And one day, walking,
Came a talking,
Peasant and he said:
“I could take your pain away.”
Queen Kathryn turned her head.
By her King’s old grave,
chained like a slave,
she wished to wake the dead,
though restless silent as she lay.
she saw him in her head.
the king, once spurned,
his body burned,
Now dust and ashes out his mouth.


There was a tale about a King–
a Noble man for sure;
A bit eccentric, strange indeed,
Though held a strange allure:
He drank some wine,
Smoked Chinese pipes,
And chased the dragon’s tail.
He lost his mind,
and lost his chips,
and the King was thrown in jail,
pale bars of the mind and looking out,
for a broken flower by his cage to sprout.
The poor King was locked behind,
The bars he called himself–
his body detached,
a ventriloquist act.
And as he suffered,
locked inside,
He ran from dragons in his mind.