Timbre.

(This is a piece written with my favorite audio-book narrator Simon Vance as my muse.)

I try to think back to how it began

to the moment I was the putty in his hand

words in a timbre that’s fit to command

I fall down at the sound of a word from this man…

a naturally true spoken certainty

inherent to a Gentleman’s legacy

a smooth tone driving home Life’s mysteries

the drone I’ve come to know so well in my sleep…

at some point, I fell heavily and hit head on

the final moments of my beloved Sydney Carton

my very own Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,

the U.S.S. Terror and the late Sir John Franklin…

The humbled Prince in a Tolstoy tale

the tiny fangs and iridescent fingernails

like a sponge I absorb, until I inevitably swell

the “James Bond accent” that’s got me chasing my tail.

Punchline.

Sick of writing through misery

sick of crying until I fall asleep

I’m pretty damn tired of everything

nothing seems to offer me clarity

 

Spent like the cash from a weathered billfold

content to at last let my veins run ice cold

strung up and paraded for all to behold

banked on the river down which I’ve been sold

 

Talking unfailingly frustrates me

blocking my own thoughts relentlessly

walking into the warmth of a blanket party

balking at the shocking way that others look at me

 

Steady as the tempo of shimmying rainfall

I remain plain and mundane through it all

a statue of concrete built standing up tall

unable to bend at the knees or to crawl

 

Rain or shine this destiny is mine

to stand tall and keep my place in line

never underestimate the enemies of mine

a newly told joke with the same old punchline.

 

 

Broken Be Our Bread.

I’m standing in,
the fading rays,
of your shine,
and, as it fades,
away from me,
into a shade,
of washed out gray,
muted memories,
of brighter days,
a better time,
I can’t rewind,
stuck on auto-play,
the things we said,
promises made,
yours and mine,
fear and dread,

push back instead,
relations forbade,
teardrops cried,
both misty-eyed,
fast-forward to today,
it’s enough, instead,
buck the brick blockade,
as hard as I can bang
with my own head,
cracked opening,
brightest of red,
the blood we bled,
so many times,
yours and mine,
broken be our bread.

Along The Vein.

This perpetual ooze from this wound
always bleeds bright, fresh, and new;
blood seeps and creeps its way into
along the heart of the vein attached to you.

This empty stare I see everything through
these hollowed-out marbles belonging to:
this sad, distrusting, and broken-down fool
see only darkness replenished ever-anew.

This weight of the anchor to my own self-hatred
the fence around the graveyard to hold in the dead;
these bones mark every piece of me already put to rest
retched years – wasted tears – and my own, lone cemetery.

This coldness, so long without the sun’s vitamin D
this turmoil and trauma, these scars they’ve left me;
a good foresight is countered by miles of tragedy
set ahead and left behind by the return of these two feet.

Off-Stage.

How is that we…
are on again suddenly?
Because you’ve heard,
the word…
on the fucking street,
all about my baby,
of all things –
the only thing –
worth anything to me…
I find it infuriating,
that you found the time,
to slither your way,
into my fucked up day,
and presume to take,
any despair of mine…
before my now-grown,
daughter was gone,
you never cared to know,
what was going on;
and now,
that shit’s hit the fan,
you sad excuse,
for a man,
or as a “friend”,
don’t come here,
don’t pretend,
to see the situation,
and POOF!…
you suddenly care,
about what’s false,
or what might be true ,
and the traumas,
she’s running from –
and right back into,
get the fuck away,
from my overwhelming,
world of pain,
you’d never make it,
through a single day…
the shallows seep,
to water the deep,
and keep any,
reality at bay;
don’t talk to me today,
when you have,
nothing real to say,
no questions or inquiries,
of my daughter’s state…
no acting,
no faking,
get your ass off the stage.

An Ode to a Highly Flammable Old Flame.

There you were,
that devilish grin,
after all this time,
say the word – here I am…
got you memorized,
every pore of your skin,
any move that you make,
is pure perfection…
every time I look at you,
it’s the first time all over again,
you’ve always had those steel-toe eyes,
an ability to kick my doors all in…
Here we are,
that same scenery,
the chlorine smell,
your hot tub Jacuzzi…
adorned by rows of salty drops,
crown your brow in liquid beads,
every breathe that I take,
drives me closer to full nudity…
we both know what happens next,
too cross-eyed to find my bikini,
I don’t recall – can you remind me,
my name, address, and DOB.

Measurable.

*|||*

The once-broad spectrum of,

measurable moments in time,

warped and whittled down

by this groggy, sputtering mind,

the bound constraints are fading,

edges increasingly harder to define,

every nano-second feels wasted,

every molecule feels misaligned…

*|||*

Meanwhile everyone else is heartless,

and they all seem to stand happily in line,

they like to say something – do nothing,

flock-life suits every last of them fine,

true – I must say, like I do every day,

career-sheep-existence takes a certain kind,

I can make this statement most certainly,

because believe me when I tell you I’ve tried…

*|||*

Sometimes now, I can’t help but to question,

what I’ve got to show for my independent pride,

for all the times I’d managed to ditch the flock,

perhaps it was I who had always been left behind,

the present is oblivious to choices of the past,

the past looks to a future: no less painful, or unkind,

the future hears only the things it wants to hear,

and all of my measurable moments have slipped on by…

Broken Be Our Bread.

I’m standing in,
the fading rays,
of your shine,
and, as it fades,
away from me,
into a shade,
dulled out gray,
muted memories,
of brighter days,
a better time,
I can’t rewind,
stuck on auto-play,
the things we said,
promises made,
yours and mine,
fear and dread,

push back instead,
relations forbade,
teardrops cried,
both misty-eyed,
fast-forward to today,
it’s enough, instead,
buck the brick blockade,
as hard as I can bang
with my own head,
cracked opening,
brightest of red,
the blood we bled,
so many times,
yours and mine,
broken be our bread.

Ghost Dive.

"In the Fog" Capitola, California 2014

“In the Fog” (Photo taken by Americana Injustica, Capitola, California 2014)

Had not you been stolen
away from its sands,
who knows then, my dear?…
where your feet might let you land,
I can see
your face beneath,
the kelp and reef
quite possibly…
drowning
in old misery;

Were you not whisked away
to a far and foreign place,
how might it have become, I fear…
the smile gone from that face,
I can sense
the elegance,
buckets from whence
you counted
grains
in beach tents;

What if? You had no mother
to make up your little mind?
a different man, you understand…
born of a different experience, unkind,
I can feel
pain: so very real,
it’s deep, it’s instilled
but, you’ve conquered
forgiveness
titanium within thy will;

May your prose always shine
Ever-more than just a shimmer
may your wetsuit ever-protect
skin and bones of its swimmer;
I can dive
right alongside,
deeper than shame or pride
to show you – the faces
ghosts
left far behind.