September 12, 2011

Poems from the Absence of Writing.

Ruminations on Stoop Sitting

Can't sleep because there are ladybugs
crawling on the summer ceiling.
There is a fine blue sand on the balcony where
the July winds smashed Christmas lights.
Thought she saw a firefly but it was just the moonlight
breaking the horizon of rooftops to the East.
That chenille bedspread didn't make her feel old,
not like the crickets and the sound
of a distant telephone.
This is the first sober Friday in months
and the cat won't stop eating moths. 

Ruminations on Travel

I didn't write when I was with you,
not because there wasn't anything to say
but because we needed all the time available to live
in this surreality.
For a week we fell in easily,
both acutely aware of the things that could be were
life different
and it was,
for a time.
We spoke of people who defied geography and
personal responsibilities, thinking
that it would be so easy to do,
the same.
Truth be told it wasn't easy,
even if it were,
taking such a chance would ruin this.
You're the postcard left unwritten,
the one I never intended to send.

Rumination on Pedro Paramo 

Faint chords swelling as
throats attempting to mimick
accordions, dispelling
unearthly noises like a crow's call
beneath a cloud-fleeced moon.

The senses belong to a young man,
inhabiting a village of spirits
in search of a father's soul.

When blending past
and future
it's best to use a sharp tongue
and a soft hand.
Other methods tear eyelids,
dislodge incisors or worse,
interfere with the dreams of the undead.

He is confused and using
swift angular motions that
dislocate knuckles and
awaken souls.

Sound and sensation,
shift, slide, schism.

In the void,
Maria Santisima del Refugio sits
striking a toy piano
atop a pile of maize.