Pity the Pupa
Chrysalization civilization
We transform again and again
Do we keep the memories of the past
Or make the mistakes of men?
Butterflies are we; apparently free
We seem to be floating in light
But our wings are all flapping in perilous haste
Then relief when we finish our flight
One more moment to savor the nectar again
Oh the sweetness of moments like this!
Never mind that the predators lurk in the glen
We are driven in ignorant bliss
Do we tell the children, who busily munch
They’re oblivious, chewing away
That the metamorphosis takes away much
And for beauty, the prices they’ll pay?
Hedonism
you know I long for a
new city -
to step her streets with
my soles
to rinse her nights in
my face
to breed new air in
my roles -
new hands - new haze.
new apartment
with wooden windows,
new mascara
painted on my chest
every new morning by a
new girl
and in each bedroom mistletoes hang
apart from here
we turn our cellphones to silence
as we undress
cause I know you long for a
new city -
to step the streets
bare feet
to rinse your face
in nights,
a new chest
to drown with your
mascara
MEMORY BOX - FOR WORLD AIDS DAY 2007 -
Memory Box.
I place you in the fertile soil
of my memory, a stitched quilt
of numbers patterned
with the thread of time
with the days flickering fast
and slow,
the novelty of months
the surprise of years
paraded before us,
and we often forget don’t we
what meant what when it did
and we roll up and down hills
startled by the changes in us.
I carefully cradled you
in the warmth of these palms
immersing you deep in my mind
in the wealth of our shared time
in my memory box, I keep you
out of the noise of the world
in the we, in the silence radiated.
And this is not a box
for forgiveness and loss,
not from the death of parents
by orphaned children bewildered
in the grit-earth of an Africa country.
My memory box is not physical,
not old pressed metal discarded long ago.
In my life I have such wealth and possessions
that I never need to give or sacrifice
the little I have on the path
of future suns and moons
in symbols and objects and magic.
My memories have no consequences
Of pain and poverty of HIV and AIDS
I will not be buried in it in the dry clay
In the infectious glare of the day,
In the swell of tears
after the departed have gone.
My box is an allusion
In the luxury of safety
and support,
here in the thirsty world
of the first world,
in this room abundant,
satiated.
My memory box is rich
in design and affection
and I do not devalue you
by saying so
or use this device used by others
to mourn and remember their beloved,
but this is a private sanctity of love
that we inhabit in this space just for us.
the open door
other peoples lives
sweet beliefs
songs from the deep forest
willow she weeps
crushing love
eyes open, once again
The Subway Giveth and the Subway Taketh Away
No, no, no, no, NO!
Don’t lay your Metro down on your chest.
I was only beginning
To fully discover
The curve of your black brassiere
As it nestled against your white breast.
* * *
Ah well,
another jewel of a moment
been here and gone like a mayfly.
And anyhow
This is my stop
(Chinatown).
The Hidden Shine
The scope of a word is definition
That of the world is measurement:
Weight, the reach of dimension
Set regular in its quadrants
Open to test and to inspections;
Even subtle light and electricity
Can be tagged by qualifications
Known as temperature and energy.
But mind shatters all such convention
Flow occult unseen in life blown
Animating yet outside extension
The hidden shine of a thing unknown
Touched only by its own reflection,
Perhaps boundless as Heraclitus said,
Burning through scientific verification
A vortex spoken but never read.
Sonnet 3
If we could but the summer days recall
Long hours of sun and nights of fireflies,
Our Green Man’s glory before advance of fall
When all his verve in somber colors dies;
They would as coals warm us over again
When Jack Frost mocks us by his touch
Upon the skin and heart of living men
The scars of winter flowing from his clutch.
Heat gives way to cold in cosmic dance
Upon the field of time, endless slumber,
Dreams flicker images of occult anti-chance
Beneath the thin shadows of blank winter.
Yet all things by their endless cycles repeating
Offer hope of some new and different spring.
