As we grow apart,
for the sake of my humanity –
we will watch each other’s faces
constantly change
with tears that carve
a seemingless shape.
but that’s ok –
that’s life, sweetheart,
and you’ll never be ready for life,
and believe that as you believe
that life will one day end
as will you.
In good truth I must tell you:
if you lost your inner child
you’re already dead.
so I saw the future,
or what was left of it
and I was still the same
as yesterday –
I am still the same human being
lost in the childish wonders
of constructed utopias –
a prisoner freed & awaken
by delusional glimpses
of infancy.
I must love life
and be ready to embrace it,
no matter what.
LOVE SONG
There was melancholy enough in her
to seize thrones & queens & drowned ships
& Atlantis would laugh hard
on her knees, under the sea,
knowing she was dead an' all,
where all treasures dwell,
even the El Dorado.
But still,
I'll never understand what she had
that no other woman could ever offer me.
Her poetic hair, poetic eyes, poetic breasts,
poetic legs, poetic ass, poetic hips,
all she became my poetry,
my religion, my favorite
music at night.
I wrote this
one night, on the beach,
waiting for dawn,
watching waves performing their
last dance,
between life & death,
before the sand cut their head off
and seized their
last dance.
I wrote this at night,
when my sanity was at bay
with my inner demons
& their sweet songs
of love.
"She lives in a city
under the sea."
Well, I wrote this
and maybe one day,
she'll say:
"I love it."
and she'll know
I wrote it
while thinking of her.
There's not much about life
that you can't figure out -
it all comes down to this:
either you love
or you're out.
We're not in Kansas anymore.
We never were. In fact,
the only thing real
in my world
are your lips
and them alone
sustain the breath of cities
and their people with their dreams
and the sun with his fever
and the moon lost
between the
stars.
Stars always feel right
in any poem you write.
It must be
because they're dead
but still breathing.
And so your lips
hold the gates to my golden sun.
Anything else is a waste
of reality.
and just as before I was born
so it will be
after I'm gone -
a dream within a dream
within a dream.
and life is but a dream
that only happens while we're at it
and we should kiss
because dusk will fall upon us, someday soon,
and just like a city
buried under the sea,
we too shall
forever be lost in time
but we'll remember
each other's
lips -
maybe not,
I just wanted to kiss you.
BALLAD OF A CITY AT DUSK
the city lives -
bathed by dusk
& strange colors
which my eyes
strive
to compose, such
is the
absence of light.
and there
dwells a city
lost in her own
unaware existence;
and their residents
all aim
for the rightful chance
to bleed
& leave a stain
on the stone floor.
Genius is the recovery
of childhood at will,
said Rimbaud at the
age of seventeen.
He knew it all,
he had life figured out
at the age of seventeen.
And this beggar keeps
staring at the sun –
he lights up a cigar,
next thing you now
he burns a star,
right there,
in the middle of
the sky.
Maybe he deserves
the best place
in the sun;
maybe he deserves
the love a woman,
to wake up with
that beautiful sight
at his side;
maybe he deserves a
poem, this poem;
maybe he deserves a
chance to be looked
in the eye by someone
who hasn’t figured
life yet, who still
is in love with
mystery and wilderness
and all things
unknown.
Perhaps he deserves
the taste of childhood
once again.
Maybe when dawn arises
he may be born again,
different kind of
love, different
shelter.
The gods roll the dice
but we can kill them.
We follow the road –
a place where canyons
dry in the sun, where
dusks try hard to hide
the El Dorado.
And I’m living out of bread.
Queen of teenage velvet balls.
I’ve lost myself in manhood,
as my wonder years slipped away,
and I can’t remember where
my playground dwells anymore.
Do you remember?
We used to write poems
under the starry night,
sleeping beside a shelter
built over
other people’s roof.
But you don’t love
that kind of life anymore –
and I still do.
The moon, who once ejaculated
beams of stars above us,
as grown tired of waiting,
waiting for us.
Now I must leave reality
& find my own place in the sun.
And they keep telling me
I’m bound to stumble upon
the El Dorado.
Uh.
Who knew.