Dandelions

The stale cigarette's earthy aroma,
Battling with the cloying scent of Chinese take-out,
Hung in the air, part gray smoke,
Part intangible presence I knew nothing about.

A single blinking inferno eye,
Winking knowingly through the growing mist,
Gave light and heat to all
But me – I shook, torch in clenched fist.

I dropped the sun, smoking like a funeral pyre
Gathering storms like picking dandelions,
I wrap them around me for warmth in vain,
And hanged beneath the falling rain.

I Dream of Stars

There is no sound, there is no time,
Just a burst of heat and searing light.
The last hurrah of a dying star
Reaches far into infinity,
The glow fades, it remembers:
Planets waltzed, 'round and around,
It smiled and gazed lovingly,
A proud mother when life arose,
A proud father keeping his children,
Grieving when life ended as all life must,
How empty the planets seemed.

It tears itself and everything around it apart,
Collapsing into itself as it dies.
Everything in its proximity shakes
In light of its awesome wake and past-grandeur,
The black hole is born:
The planets descend, one by one,
Following in its deadly stead,
Lost lambs being lead to the slaughter,
Children dying with their innocence,
Wondering what lies beyond,
This is the destruction of worlds.

Nothing can escape its terrible grasp
The black hole grows and grows.
Someone watches and whispers lines from the Bhagavad Gita,
“I am become death,”
But even as the words pass their lips, they wonder:
The star is dead, but does the black hole live,
Does the Destroyer of Worlds remember its past life,
Does it remember giving,
Does it remember shining,
Loving and grieving for its children,
Can what once was ever truly be lost?

Ice Cream

I saw an ice cream cone
In the middle of winter -
In the middle of a blizzard,
Snow settling on the frozen treat,
A thousand crystal sprinkles camouflaged in white
A thousand pinpricks of starlight
Landing on the treasure,
Standing discarded on the sidewalk.
It was pristine, untarnished by man or God,
So I left it there, hoping that no one will eat it,
That its innocence will last,
That it will survive people walking by,
And knowing that if it does,
The ice cream will never melt.

Or in prose:
I saw an ice cream cone on the sidewalk one day, just standing there upright with a beautiful swirl of what appeared to be vanilla. It was one of those cheap flaky cones with a flat bottom and really not enough volume to hold everything it was supposed to and it was standing there in the middle of a blizzard, but still it was a tasty and delicious treat and the child inside me was screaming for me to pick it up. Snow was settling on it, studding the whiteness with glittering stars so that every immaculate curve and line was outlined with incandescent sprinkles. The snow, coupled with the chill of winter, preserved the cone in its pristine state. It was amazing.

As I stood there staring at the heavenly dessert and wondering who would discard something so beautiful without so much as a taste, I realized I had come to a complete stop in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and was quickly becoming a large nuisance to just about everyone. Grumbling loudly and mumbling rudely to themselves, people were stepping around me and by association the ice cream cone as well. I felt slightly proud that I was contributing to its continued existence, a feeling that was quickly erased when I picked up the cone and brought it to my lips.

And stopped. Who was I to destroy this work of art? It had survived man, it had survived the elements, and it had survived god. Who was I to come by now and do what so many before me had avoided out of deference? I put the cone down and stood up slowly, watching it carefully. I kept staring at it as I backed away; I couldn't turn away. A car honked and jolted me out of my reverie. I spun around, looking wildly for the source of the noise and then, remembering the cone, turned back to see it disappear into the crush of pedestrian traffic.

Stolen

The poetry of cigarette smoke in the air
Twirled eloquently, mouthing the words
That between the two of us were left unsaid
To be briefly seen and never heard.

Watching each other amidst the ambient clink
Of aluminum bats and the thud of leather on leather;
The sounds of an America trying not to change,
We smiled at nothing and the unseasonable weather.

Conversation and cigarettes burned and died
I looked off to see barren trees framed before the flaming sky
All I remember is thinking how quickly night descends
And the taste of her lips,
Words and cigarettes and all on mine.

Ding Dong

The blackest magic and eldritch rites
Haunt this idyllic village at night
When the silent stars are rent by screams
That turn fancy into nightmarish dreams.

The demon spawn of hell's hottest flames
Slaughter the harvest and leaves livestock lame
As milk sours and the most innocent die,
Their souls to limbo before they can cry.

In a bitter chill they dragged forth a crone,
Snow melting in the inferno of her home,
The black cat, her familiar, they stoned to death,
The witch left to choke on the winter's breath.

Flowers grew over the grave they never gave her
The most exotic colors, scents, and flavors
The harvest came rich and full the next year
In time they forgot the old women had ever been there.

But the cottage is perfumed with the colors of honey:
The wealth of bees, and the green of money,
No one talks of the riches that came from the ruins -
Besides, there are things still that need doing.

The blackest magic and eldritch rites
Haunt this idyllic village at night
When the silent stars cast their ephemeral gaze
On the demon that kills by fear and malaise.

Karaoke

I remember falling in love with songs
For the first time, sober, drunk, and / or high,
If I get the lyrics from the start,
But more often than not I have them wrong.

I love what I see there of myself
A reflective canvas, a notebook mirror,
With me creating another me
In hopes that another sees my world as well.

But I get the words that mean so much
Completely and utterly wrong so often,
So that all it is to me is music
And cryptic mumbles and gibberish in a brief poetic snatch.

Eventually I'll stumble upon the truth
The words that were meant to be heard
With the music as it was meant to be played
But occasionally I'll secretly wish to never learn what is truly being said.

To Elysium

I've stolen the heart of winter from a forgotten crypt
Watched it glitter like a wish upon dying lips,
Fluttering tremulously and weak for all its brilliance.

I've quelled the swelling of a berzerker's rage,
Imprisoned the spirit that should never be caged
Such that the immortal man never knew old age.

I've claimed whole kingdoms as my own domain
Securing both great riches and undying fame
What other man purloined a nation's purse for his own plaything?

My name and presence has meant pain and death
I've felt the caress of countless last breaths
After a thousand battles I am the only one left.

I am the greatest hero that you will never meet
For having lived this life unfettered and free.
Now I willingly walk to my own defeat.

Ode to the Mud

My fingers are lead, my shoulder is dead,
The palm of my hand is swollen and red.
All of my joints crack in staccato,
Unseen by eyes that need aid to see evil.
My body shivers, weary, in wait,
Of an ankle that pains to keep itself straight.
I suffer to keep a malfunctioning organ
That deigns to leave me dying or broken,
A head of hair that wishes to flee,
Each follicle struggling with esprit
Unlike my belly which grows ever flaccid
Or my libido which was fun while it lasted.
But mind over matter, and that worries me most
What spirit there was long gave up the ghost
There is only silence and thoughts of malaise...
I grow catty now with all these dog days.